“Alright, alright,” Lewrie said, ruffling the dog’s fur, and taking the damned thing from his mouth, which set Bisquit to prancing. He threw it aft, and off the dog dashed to pounce on it, give it some shakes, then trotted back to drop it at Lewrie’s feet. A feint left and right, and Lewrie hurled it again, right to the taffrail flag lockers, resulting in another mad dash. That game went on for five minutes before Bisquit’s tongue was lolling.

At least somebody’s gettin’ some exercise, Lewrie thought, glad that the game was over. He wiped his hands on a handkerchief and left the toy on the deck. “Thirsty, Bisquit? I’ll bet you are. Let’s go down to the scuttle-butt.”

Bisquit followed Lewrie down to the quarterdeck, then to the waist, where Lewrie used the long dipper to pour water into his hand so the dog could lap. He knew he was making a comical spectacle of himself, but he didn’t care; Bisquit needed a drink.

*   *   *

Sapphire rounded Ceuta and the fortress’s guns by four miles, just out of gun-range, to frustrate the Spaniards, then shaped course for Tetuán. She came to anchor a mile off the mouth of the inlet in six fathoms of water. Bosun Terrell took one cutter to row round the ship to see that all the yards were squared, and all the running rigging was set at the right angles, with no lubberly slackness. The other cutter set out for the inlet, first under a single lugs’l, and later oars once they entered the long slash of an inlet, hacked out of the dry hills to either side by centuries of fresh water from some inland river. Just off Tetuán’s quays, the waters would be brackish, but that small stream of fresh water had guaranteed Tetuán’s existence for all those centuries.

“It seems we have the anchorage to ourselves, sir,” Westcott idly commented as they strolled the quarterdeck. “There’s no one else in sight. No Spanish merchantmen, certainly.”

“They need grain, they get it smuggled out of Gibraltar by any number of traders who’d oblige ’em,” Lewrie cynically said. “Spies on the side, who knows? Sir Hew Dalrymple has a bee under his bonnet, sure that there’s mutiny or civilian revolt just waitin’ to explode. For all I know, he may be right. Keeps him up, nights.”

“Like a Trojan Horse?” Lt. Westcott scoffed. “Up against the Rock’s garrison? Sounds iffy to me.”

Lewrie picked up a telescope from the binnacle cabinet rack and went to the quarterdeck’s landward side to peer shoreward. “Hmm, there’s some shallow-draught boats of decent size up the inlet, just off the quays, it appears. Arabic, I think. Lots of lateen sails furled up round their booms. Feluccas, or dhows? Here, have a look for yourself, Mister Westcott.”

“Hmm,” Westcott dared to speculate after a good, long look of his own. “There’s one almost big enough to make me suspect that it’s a Barbary Corsair’s pirate craft. It’s hard to tell any more, they’ve so many captured brigs, schooners, and such, but a big lateener would be fast enough to run down a prize. The rest? We’ll know once the cutter’s back. If she is a Corsair, we should keep an eye on her, too, sir. Just ’cause we pay tribute for safe passage doesn’t mean we can’t have a go at one of them if we catch them red-handed.”

“At least the Americans had the will to take them on and end their paying tribute,” Lewrie said, enviously. “Christ, one’d think that with our Navy so big, we could spare a squadron of brig-sloops to put an end to North African piracy, once and for all.”

“Now, there’s a duty I’d relish,” Westcott said with some heat. He bared his teeth briefly in one of his quick, savage grins, looking positively wolfish.

“I think I’ll go aft and have a well-needed nap, perhaps play with Chalky,” Lewrie decided aloud. “The weather’s fair, there’s no threat in sight, and the Mids of the Harbour Watch can cope.”

“I may emulate you, sir,” Westcott said.

“Later, Mister Westcott. Alert me when the cutter’s back.”

“Aye, sir.”

*   *   *

His cat had been in need of a bout of play, too, a full half-hour of chasing and pouncing and leaping after a champagne cork on a length of twine, ’til he was panting. And when Lewrie stretched out on the settee, Chalky settled down on his chest for pets and praise ’til he slunk down to one side of Lewrie’s leg for a well-earned nap of his own. Pettus, his cabin steward, and Jessop, the cabin servant, did their puttering about the cabins quietly, to allow Lewrie perfect rest, at least an hour’s worth before there was the rap and shout from the Marine sentry.

“Midshipman Harvey, SAH!” the sentry bawled.

“Uhmph … enter!” Lewrie called back, sitting up and getting to his feet.

“The First Officer’s duty, sir, and I am to inform you that the cutter is returning,” Harvey reported.

“My compliments to Mister Westcott, and I will be on deck, directly,” Lewrie replied. A quick trip to his wash-hand stand for some splashes of water on his face, and a quick drink and rinse, and he was awake and headed for the quarterdeck, impatiently waiting for the boat to come alongside, and for Lieutenant Harcourt and Midshipman Fywell to come and report.

“Let’s go aft,” Lewrie suggested to them.

Fywell had made a rough chart of Tetuán’s docks, with pointed ovals to represent the vessels in port. “Here, sir,” Lt. Harcourt said, tapping the biggest with a forefinger. “That’s an armed ship, a Barbary Corsair, sure as Fate. I counted at least eight gun-ports, and a crew of at least sixty. Dirty looks they gave us, from one and all.”

“And a flood of threats and curses in their tongue, too, sir,” Midshipman Fywell stuck in.

“Along here and here, the vessels are mostly feluccas, lateen-rigged, filthy, and begging for paint, crewed by locals, or traders from Tangier,” Harcourt went on. “Further up the inlet beyond the quays, there are some clutches of much smaller boats, all drying their fishing nets. But over here, though … there are two good-sized lateeners, but, they’ve European crews, not a Arab in sight aboard them.”

“And they were very shy of the sight of us, sir,” Fywell said with a laugh. “They must be Spaniards.”

“Were they taking on cargo?” Lewrie asked.

“Sacks of grain, sheep and goats, dried fruit, and sugar, is what it looked like, sir,” Harcourt said, sounding very sure. “They may even grow coffee round here, so they may have bought that, too.”

“Some bigger slabs of meat, wrapped in cloth, don’t forget, Mister Harcourt,” Fywell said. “If they had no room aboard for live cattle, it looked like they were taking on whole sides of beef.”

“I need no prompting, Mister Fywell,” Harcourt snapped. “I was about to mention them.”

“Aye, sir,” Fywell replied, blushing and shrugging into his coat to be chid before Lewrie.

“Two of ’em,” Lewrie said. “Makin’ a weekly run? Or, do the Dons have four or more, alternating supply runs, not wishing to risk all of ’em bein’ snapped up in one go, I wonder? Hmm.”

“We could take them, sir, soon as the sun’s down,” Lt. Harcourt eagerly suggested.

“Not in a sovereign, foreign port, no,” Lewrie dis-agreed. “Not if Dalrymple needs friendship with the Sultan at Tangier. Why, he’d have our heads on pikes if we upset the Moroccans! No, we’ll wait ’til they’re at sea, no matter how close they hug the coast. And they won’t dare sail ’til we’re gone and out of sight. Mister Fywell, did you go to the markets with the Purser?”

“No sir, I kept a close eye on our hands, at the cutter,” Fywell replied. “Mister Harcourt told me to keep them out of trouble.”

“I’d admire did you pass word for the Purser to come to see me, at once,” Lewrie urged the Midshipman. “Off you go!”

“The Purser, sir?” Lt. Harcourt questioned.

“Well, he obviously bought the ship something whilst ashore, Mister Harcourt,” Lewrie said in a biting drawl. “How much, and when it is to be delivered will depend on how long we must stay at anchor.”