ready to sail, while others – some battered by war or the elements - moved toward Portsmouth’s massive dry docks. A crane close to the slip where Mercury usually tied up swung a cannon from the wharf to a frigate. Soon it would be settled in place to join its fellows, ready to deal in death across the Channel, where her husband, if it pleased God, still lived.
She stared at the ships. Was he safe? Was he dead? Would he return?
Ben tugged on her hand. “Mama, don’t worry.”
How did he know?
Chapter Fourteen
On July 18, the Mercury joined Admiral Calder’s blockading fleet flanking the broad river that flowed past the inland harbor of Rochefort, on the coast of France. Four days later they sailed into battle with Calder at Cape Finisterre, land’s end of Spain.
They went to the blockade with full and settled stomachs, courtesy of a Spanish fishing smack they hailed and boarded. Perhaps to say that they boarded the San Pedro would have been stretching the matter, and so Able informed Smitty, who, as sailing master, kept the official ship’s log.
They discussed the matter when both of them were groaning from the delight of too much hake fried in olive oil, both acquisitions paid for by Angus Ogilvie. Avon March must have been sent from heaven to prepare meals. Able knew he would owe the prescient Grace St. Anthony forever, by suggesting that her little fellow in lower mathematics come aboard.
“As tempting as the matter might seem to you, Smitty, we didn’t really board the San Pedro screaming foul oaths and wielding cutlasses,” Able said as Smitty sat, poised, read to write. “They welcomed us and sold us fish and olive oil.”
And information. “Sí señores, we saw a huge fleet only days ago, closer to Finistierra,” the captain of the San Pedro said, as he happily clinked the coins Ogilvie gave him for one dozen of his freshest merluzas. He shook his head. “They looked as if they had been on the sea for many weeks.”
Able stretched for more information. He knew his Spanish was far better than Ogilvie’s. “Did you get the feeling they were waiting for something?”
The captain shrugged and waggled his hand, palm down. “Asi asi. By the way, sir, your Spanish is excellent.” He glanced at Ogilvie, who glared back. Even Spanish fishermen were polite and diplomatic, to Able’s amusement. “But you, sir, perhaps you should let this tall one do the talking?” He bowed to Ogilvie. “It is merely a suggestion.”
“Spanish is a language I enjoy,” Able replied with haste. “I have another favor to ask. Could you sell me una capa y sombrero?”
That request brought a frown, and Able wondered if he had overplayed his hand. He waited, unwilling to say too much. Experience, or maybe that suspicious fellow Copernicus, had taught him that too much explanation sounded like the lie it generally was.
“I have a cloak, señor.” El pescador held up two fingers. “Dos pesos.”
It was highway robbery for the ragged, smelly cloak the fisherman produced. “Thank you no, but I’ll wait until I can get a better one back home.” Able rubbed at nonexistent pain in his shoulder. “Un dolor pequeño, nada más.”
The fisherman clucked his tongue in sympathy. “Rain and fog are enemies to shoulders, are they not?” He held up one finger, Able nodded, and the matter was concluded. The San Pedro went on its way.
“Very well, Captain Six, no boarding,” Smitty said, recalling Able to the moment. “May I at least write that we hailed them and they complied quickly?”
“Aye. Mention the information we gathered, too.”
Smitty bent to his task. He looked up. “What is… is…Villy…”
“Villeneuve planning?”
“It’s a deep game.” Angus Ogilvie joined them in the cramped sitting area below deck and looked at the others, laid out in varying degrees of stupefaction after that meal. Whitticombe helmed the Mercury. “Aye or nay, Captain Six?” he asked. “It’s your crew.”
“Aye, Angus,” Able said immediately. “We’re all sharing the danger. Might as well share the news.” He put a finger to his lips. “Pain of death, of course.”
The Gunwharf Rats nodded, faces serious, even in their comatose state.
He was still their teacher. Why not make a teaching moment? “Why would Villeneuve of the French fleet and Gravina of the Spanish fleet linger at Finisterre, if the Combined Fleet is as tired as we think it is, and probably still carrying men ill with fever from the Caribbean?”
Silence, then Davey Ten’s hand went up. Slowly to be sure, but Able