“Warm work, indeed, sir,” Warburton commented, then went to his work.

“Mister Westcott, let’s see to collecting those canteens from the Dutch prisoners,” Lewrie ordered.

“Aye, sir,” his First Officer replied.

Minutes later, and Westcott was back, to whisper, “Trouble’s coming, sir,” as General Baird, Brigadier Beresford, and their staff came over. Lewrie tried not to wince, for that supercilious officer they’d met by the baggage train was with them, as was Colonel Laird.

He set his shoulders, un-slung his champagne bottle canteen, and took a sip to moisten his suddenly dry mouth, wondering if he really was “in the quag” up to his neck, this time.

“He’s drunk, by God!” Colonel Laird exclaimed. “That explains his actions, Sir David! Just as Mortimer here saw earlier. They all are! See those wine bottles, sir?”

“Good morning, sir,” Lewrie said, ignoring that rant, doffing his hat to the senior officers with more deference. “I would offer you some of our water, General Baird, but I fear it comes from our butts aboard Reliant, and is rather stale, by now,” and went to explain again how they had had to improvise before coming ashore.

General Baird took the offered bottle just long enough for a quick sniff, wrinkling his nose. “Well, I do remember how foul water becomes, after a few months in cask, Captain Lewrie,” he said in a rather kindly way. “What happened up here? Colonel Laird seems to think that you have acted rashly with some of his troops.”

“In point of fact, sir, it was a co-operative endeavour that could not have succeeded without the participation of the Thirty-fourth, and the skill and experience of Leftenant Strickland and his half-troop,” Lewrie replied.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lewrie saw disaster looming, of a sudden, and he tried not to quail. His sailors had approached the Dutch prisoners and had gotten their wood canteens, here and there in exchange, but mostly by appropriation by the victors. Patrick Furfy and a few others were looking just too damned sly-boots as they took sips, sniffed with sudden delight, and tipped the canteens back for deeper quaffs. It wasn’t just British soldiers and sailors who were mad for drink, any sort of alcoholic guzzle; the Dutch soldiers were just as guilty, and had filled their canteens with rum, brandy, or the national “treasure”, gin!

Trust Furfy t’find it, and get howlin’ drunk! Lewrie winced.

Ignoring that, while twitching the fingers of his left hand to Westcott to see to the problem, he genially laid out the situation, the possibilities, and what actions they had taken.

“Just as the shrapnel shells began to burst over ’em, sir,” he related, “we opened upon ’em. They had about five or six hundred men in all, and they pulled one infantry company out of line, and a troop of dis-mounted cavalry, t’deal with us, weakening the line. You can see the results, sir.”

“So, you did not play too high a hand, Captain Lewrie?” Baird asked, nodding his head in appreciation.

“Captain Veasey let Leftenant Strickland take half a troop, sir, and it was he who led the way and set us in our defensive positions, and instructed us both in how to receive cavalry and in how to deliver rolling volley fire, sir. In point of fact, it was more my lending him my men to his command than t’other way round.”

“Well, he is to be commended, then,” General Baird decided, “as is your regiment, Colonel Laird.”

“But, Sir David—!” Laird spluttered, red in the face, nigh puce with indignation.

General Baird grimaced at Laird’s overly-familiar use of his Christian name. “Sir Alan is to be commended, as well, Laird,” he said, stiffening his back, and making it quite clear that Laird was over-reaching. “Rest assured that your regiment, your junior officers, and Sir Alan will be mentioned favourably in my reports to Horse Guards, and Admiralty,” he added, with a brief grin and nod in Lewrie’s direction. “Will that be all, Laird?”

“Uhm, well…,” the deflated, frustrated Colonel managed to gravel out.

“Then do you take your regiment forward of the Heavy Brigade and scout by troops for the main Dutch force, sir,” General Baird ordered. “Find them, and report back, leaving a screen.”

“Yes, sir, at once,” Laird said, his chin tucked hard into his stiff collars, and spurred away.

“Just what are you doing so far forward, Captain Lewrie?” the General enquired once Laird was gone.

“Guarding the baggage train, sir, and getting shoved out of the line of march,” Lewrie explained with a shrug, “and made our own way.”

“Then do you wait ’til the baggage train is over the Blaauwberg and fall in with it,” Baird directed. “It may be best did you remain with it, the rest of the way, you know. I expect a hard battle with the Dutch before the day is out, and your wee lot would be of little help. You were lucky once,” Baird said, with a brow up.

“Once is quite enough, thankee, sir,” Lewrie replied, feeling sheepish.

Baird and his party wheeled away and clopped off, over the crest and downhill to the East, leaving Lewrie to finally let out a long-pent whoosh of relief.

Hah! Cheated Death, and Ruin, again! he told himself.

“Furfy!” he called out. “You men with him? The First Officer will be smellin’ those canteens ye pilfered. If there’s spirits in ’em, best pour it out, now. The Bosun’s Mate brought a ‘cat’ ashore with him, don’t ye know.”

“Breakin’ me heart, arrah,” Furfy muttered, sorrowfully turning his new Dutch canteen bung-down and spilling its contents on the dust of Africa.

“When the waggon’s up, we’ll re-fill with water,” Lewrie told them all, “but, we’ll also break open the cask of small beer.”

“Huzzah!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“Hoy, the boat!” Midshipman Munsell hailed the barge as it approached.

“Reliant!” Cox’n Liam Desmond shouted back from the bows and showed four fingers to indicate the size of the side-party required to receive the frigate’s commanding officer back aboard. Sailors scrambled to toe the line of deck planks, and Bosun Sprague piped a long call as the barge came alongside and Captain Lewrie ascended the boarding battens to the entry-port, still laden with weapons. Once at the top and in-board on the starboard gangway, Lewrie doffed his hat to one and all, beaming fit to bust. Lt. Spendlove was his usual rather serious self, but could not hide a grin. Lt. Merriman, of a more cheerful nature, was almost chortling.

“Welcome back aboard, sir,” Spendlove intoned. “And, might I enquire how things went ashore, sir?”

“Just topping bloody capital, Mister Spendlove!” Lewrie said in high spirits. “Mister Merriman? Did things go well aboard? I see the French didn’t turn up. Well, hallo, Bisquit!” he cried, kneeling down as the ship’s dog pranced about in tail-wagging glee. “Here, I brought ye a fine new bone, and some biltong, to boot! It’s a stout impala bone, and the biltong’s hartebeest. Ain’t that tasty? Aye! No fear, there’s two hundredweight comin’ aboard.”

He got back to his feet and began to shed his Ferguson and the Girandoni air-rifle, and his pistols, piling all that ironmongery on the binnacle cabinet.

“Things went very well, sir,” Lt. Spendlove reported. “We’ve been anchored here in Table Bay two days now, ever since word came of the Dutch surrender. I saw to our old water butts getting emptied and scrubbed out, and fresh shore water taken aboard.”

“Very good, sir,” Lewrie said with a glad nod. “We were told of one Dutch warship, over in False Bay. What of her?”

“The Bato, sir, sixty-eight,” Lt. Merriman said. “Commodore Popham sent one of the other frigates round to see to her, but the Dutch burned her to the waterline before she could be made prize. We heard there was a battle, but so far no one’s told us anything. May we prevail upon you—?”