“Really? Hmm,” Lewrie exclaimed in surprise, beginning to scheme. “They’d go dear in the local market, hey? Hmm,” he pondered.

Admiralty’d have my hide, he thought; Breakin’ bulk, stealin’ from a prize’s value for private gain ’fore submission to the Prize Court? How many of the Articles of War does that violate?

So far, this year of 1806, Reliant had had no opportunity to earn a single penny in prize-money, and what captures they had made in the Bahamas and off the coast of Spanish Florida in the previous year were still in the hands of the Admiralty Court in Nassau. When their judgements would be announced, and in what amounts, might not come ’til 1810! And, as was the case with the takings of enemy privateers, the net sums after all those deliberations might not cover the Proctor’s fees, once all was said and done.

I s’pose I’ll just have t’hope that the Argentine produces a few decent wines, Lewrie consoled himself; A ten-gallon anker for instant salvation for the vintner and his family, perhaps? Maybe the dispensations’d serve for paper money!

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

They entered the outer-most reaches of the Plate Estuary on the 27th of May, arriving in a thick and dense fog that took half the day to burn off, groping their way slowly West under greatly reduced sail and sounding with the short leads, already in shoal water. It was, to Lewrie’s lights, an ignominious beginning to the invasion of an enemy country. If the lookouts aboard Commodore Popham’s flagship, Diadem, had been able to see a signal, Lewrie would have hoisted the suggestion that they come to anchor for a time before they all took the ground far short of the actual mouth of the Plate. They sailed on nothing but Dead Reckoning, already encountering shoal waters, with the leadsmen in the fore chains calling out soundings that ranged from ten fathoms to a mere six, at times. The deck lookouts in the eyes of the bow could barely see their hands in front of their faces, much less a disturbance in the waters ahead, or a change of colour that might indicate peril. The lookouts high aloft at the cross-trees could only now and then make out the top-most trucks and commissioning pendants of the other ships, either.

It ain’t as if the Spanish know we’re comin’, or can even see us if they knew t’look out for us, Lewrie groused to himself, pacing the deck and wincing at each leadsman’s call; so what’s his bloody urgency? It’s like Popham’s runnin’ from his creditors!

Poor Mr. Caldwell, the Sailing Master, looked as if he would fret himself to an early grave, breaking out in a fine sweat despite the coolness of early morning as he was reduced to tracing his index finger round his much-pawed charts each time a new sounding was called out, as if to divine their exact position by the procession of indicated fathom markers. Lewrie noted that that index finger shook at times, and that Caldwell was actually mouthing silent words; curses or prayers, no one could say.

*   *   *

The fogs did burn off by mid-morning, relieving one and all. As soon as it did, though, the flagship was hoisting a flurry of signals. The first was a “General” to all ships, announcing that the Commodore would shift his flag to the Narcissus frigate and proceed up the Plate Estuary to gather the latest local information. In his absence, his Flag-Captain, Downman, would command the squadron and the troop transports. They should look for him off Flores Island on the North shore of the estuary, near Montevideo. The second hoist summoned Narcissus alongside Diadem, so the Commodore and his entourage could be barged over to her to arrive in state, break out his broad pendant, and scamper away at a rate of knots, leaving the rest of the ships to wallow along as best they could.

“Wants t’beat us to the loot, does he?” Lewrie speculated to Lt. Westcott in a low voice. “Ah, Mister Caldwell! My congratulations on seein’ us through. I am sending down for a pot of cold tea. Might I offer you a glass?”

“Thankee, but no, sir,” Caldwell said, mopping his face with a red calico handkerchief after he had gathered up his personal navigation aids and rolled up the large scale chart. “If I may have your leave to go below for a bit, I had something stronger in mind. This morning has taken its toll upon me, I do confess.”

“Nice enough, now, though,” Lewrie made note, pausing for a moment to hear one of the leadsmen call out, “Eighteen fathom! Eighteen fathom t’this line!”

“A pretty morning, aye, sir,” Caldwell agreed, looking out and up at the skies and clouds and the state of the glittering seas as if seeing them for the first time in his life, blinking in amazement.

“Do you reckon that the ship is in no danger for the moment, sir, you have leave to go below,” Lewrie allowed.

“Thank you, sir, and I shall return shortly,” Caldwell vowed.

“After all this fog and uncertainty, I feel in need of a stiff ‘Nor’wester’ myself, sir,” Lt. Westcott stated.

“Should I send down for rum, instead?” Lewrie teased.

“Cold tea’s fine, sir,” Westcott said with a twinkle.

Lewrie left the windward bulwarks and went to the binnacle cabinet to look over the other chart that Caldwell had left behind for their use, the one which showed the Plate Estuary all the way beyond Buenos Aires to the mangrove swamps and jungles on the North bank of the estuary, where the great river spilled out from the interior. He found Flores Island, still hundreds of miles away, and heaved a sigh.

“Pass word for the Purser if you will, Mister Westcott,” he reluctantly said. “It’ll be days ’til we come to anchor off Flores, and we’ll have to wait for the Commodore’s return. In the meantime, it will be necessary to reduce the bread and water rations to three in four, unless God grants us a deluge. Perhaps we can make up the lack with small beer, or try to bake fresh bread, if the wind and sea state allows.”

“Just slipped his mind, did it, sir?” Westcott whispered with a savage, knowing look on his face.

“Perhaps he’ll find a fresh-water stream far out of the way of any watchers,” Lewrie sneered. “Or, meet up with some Spanish bum-boat traders.”

“Lashings of water, wine, and charming señoritas,” Westcott wistfully said. “Ah, the possibilities!”

“You quite forgot the chance they’d have fresh fruit,” Lewrie reminded him.

“Hmm … mangoes … coconuts … or even … melons!” Westcott japed, raising cupped hands to his chest as if weighing the mentioned delights, widening his palms at each in lustful anticipation for the young women of the Argentine.

“You’re bloody hopeless, ye know that,” Lewrie told him.

*   *   *

It was the 13th of June before all ships were together, again, off Flores, where they did find fresh water, and dead-calm waters which allowed them to bake bread. Commodore Popham was off again almost at once, shifting his flag to the Encounter brig, which drew even less water than Narcissus. Before departing, though, he took the time to hold a quick conference aboard Diadem.

“My initial reconnaissance went well, sirs,” Popham energetically told them with a smile. “In Encounter, I intend to scout as far as Buenos Aires. Colonel Miranda, when I met him in London, told me that Buenos Aires has never felt the need for defensive walls, or any fortifications beyond some harbourside batteries. The fortified town is Montevideo, much closer to the open ocean, and is garrisoned more strongly to protect Buenos Aires from invasion … hah! We shall deal with Montevideo last.

“In the meantime, Captain Downman, and Acting-Captain King, I wish you place Diadem so as to keep a close eye upon Montevideo,” Popham continued, “and prevent any of its garrison from crossing over to the South bank of the estuary to re-enforce Buenos Aires before we may pluck it, ha ha!”