Kings and Emperors (17 page)

“I stand warned, Mister Westcott, though … I'd give a month's pay to hear the whole story,” Elmes said with a wistful note to his voice.

“I'll tell you of the fight off Louisiana,” Westcott offered. “The French were taking over Louisiana, and were rumoured to be sending a large squadron to New Orleans for the hand-over, and we were ordered to pursue and stop them if we could, just four ships, three frigates, and a sixty-four…”

*   *   *

Late in the afternoon, the winds dropped and the seas calmed, just after lookouts aloft spotted strange sails on the Northern horizon, quickly identified as British ships.
Sapphire
made her number to them once within five miles of them, and the towering First Rate flagship hoisted Captain Repair On Board. The salute to Admiral Purvis was fired off, the cutter was drawn up to the entry-port battens, and Lewrie was over the side and into his boat at once, dressed in his best, with the sash and star over his waist-coat and pinned to his coat, with his longer, slimmer presentation sword at his waist instead of his favourite, everyday, hanger.

“With luck, they'll sport me supper, Mister Westcott. Keep things in order 'til I get back,” Lewrie shouted up in parting, and the cutter began its long row to the flagship. Another boat set out from one of the transports; General Sir Brent Spencer would attend the meeting, whether he'd been summoned or not.

It was a long climb from his boat to the quarterdeck of the flagship, past three decks of guns and a closed entry-port on its middle gun deck, one surrounded by overly ornate gilt scrollwork. He was panting, and his wounded left arm and right leg were making sore threats by the time he heaved himself in-board to the trilling Bosuns' calls, the stamp of Marines' boots, and the slap of hands on wooden stocks as arms were presented. He took a deep breath, made sure he was two steps inward from the lip of the entry-port, and doffed his hat in a replying salute.

“Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, of the
Sapphire,
coming aboard to report to the Admiral,” Lewrie told the immaculately turned-out Lieutenant.

“If you will come this way, sir,” the officer bade, motioning towards the stern, and the Admiral's cabins. “Ehm … who is that coming alongside, sir?”

“That'll be General Sir Brent Spencer, who's been sent to land near Cádiz.”

“Oh. I
see,
sir!”

*   *   *

He was announced to Admiral John Childs Purvis, though taking a moment to gawk over Purvis's great-cabins' spaciousness and elegant
decor.
He had come to think his own cabins were a tad grand, but the Admiral's were magnificent.

“Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, sir, of the
Sapphire,
” the Lieutenant said, doing the honours.

“Sir Alan,” Purvis replied, slowly rising from the desk in his day-cabin, looking worn and tired, and just a bit leery whether this un-looked-for newcomer might be yet another onerous burden to be borne. “I take it that your convoy bears General Sir Brent Spencer and his troops? I received a letter from General Dalrymple two days ago, but I had not expected the force to be assembled, yet, much less sent on. How many troops does Spencer have?”

“Nigh five thousand, sir,” Lewrie crisply replied. “Sir Hew Dalrymple added the Sixth Foot, and some artillery from Gibraltar's garrison. There are more being ordered from Sicily, to come later. Sir Hew sent these latest appreciations for you, sir, and all the intelligence he could gather up.”

“Ah, thank you, sir,” Purvis said, sitting back down to open the thick packet and scan through them. “Do sit, Sir Alan. Wine?”

“Please, sir,” Lewrie replied.

“Hah!” the Admiral scoffed after reading through the gist of Dalrymple's packet. “Dalrymple is rather precipitate to send along the troops so soon. Land in, or near, Cádiz? At present, the place is firmly in the hands of the French, and a pro-French lackey government. I see that he is aware of the French brigade under General Avril, though
not
of the division at Córdoba under a General L'Étang, who could march to re-enforce Avril rather quickly, should Spencer land.”

“Perhaps it was General Dalrymple's intent to
precipitate,
to goad the Spanish into action, sir,” Lewrie suggested as his wine came. “As you can see, sir, the Spanish have already rebelled in several cities besides Madrid. Their General Castaños is almost ready to act, if he can get the garrison from Ceuta into Algeciras or Tarifa to re-enforce—”

“I am aware of those developments,” Purvis peevishly cut him off, “but Cádiz has
not
rebelled, and until it does—”

He was cut off, himself, by a rap on the doors to the cabins. The same Lieutenant stepped in. “Admiral, sir, General Sir Brent Spencer is come aboard, and wishes to speak with you.”

“He has, has he?” Purvis snapped, scowling heavily, then let out a much-put-upon sigh. “Very well, very well, have him come in.”

Purvis and Lewrie shot to their feet as General Spencer blew in, beaming. “Admiral Purvis!” Spencer bellowed.

“Sir Brent,” Purvis replied, rather laconically. “Wine, sir?”

“
Relish
a glass, thankee!” Spencer answered, coming to the desk with a glad hand out. Purvis waved both of his guests to sit, then plopped himself down behind his desk, again.

“B'lieve Sir Hew Dalrymple wrote you of our coming, and what my little army's to do, hah?” Spencer began.

“He has, sir, but, as I was just explaining to Captain Lewrie, here, that until the situation in Cádiz changes, there is no chance of that,” Admiral Purvis declared.

“But, my men are cooped up, elbow-to-elbow, and as crop-sick as so many dogs, sir!” Spencer protested. “I must get them off those damned ships soon! If we land somewhere near Cádiz, surely the Dons would rise up and welcome us, and kick the French out!”

“Well, I will allow that I've gotten word from sources ashore that the city's taken on a distinctly anti-French mood, of late,” the Admiral cautiously said, “so much so that the French consul has abandoned his residence and offices, and taken refuge aboard one of the French warships anchored in the sheltered bay behind the peninsula on which the city, and the fortifications, sit.”

“You have agents in Cádiz, sir?” Lewrie asked, amazed. “That would be welcome news to Mister Thomas Mountjoy, at Gibraltar. He's tried to place agents inside, so far with poor results.”

“Mister Mountjoy would be one of Foreign Office's …
shadier
sorts, hey?” Purvis asked with faint amusement.

“He is, sir,” Lewrie admitted.

“As I say, 'til the Spanish rise up, I fear your troops must stay aboard their transports, Sir Brent,” Admiral Purvis repeated. “And, even if they do, and declare themselves allies of Great Britain, you would not be allowed in the city, or the forts.”

“Captain Lewrie, here, mentioned some alternatives, sir,” Spencer blustered on, fidgeting where to place his ornately egret-featherd bicorne hat as a cabin steward fetched him a glass of wine. “Somewhere near Cádiz? What were they, Lewrie? Porto-something, or … started with an
R
?”

“Puerto de Santa María, or Rota, sir,” Lewrie supplied. “But, with the French warships, there'd be no safe way to enter the Bay of Cádiz. Same for Puerto Real, on the same bay. There's San Fernando, South of the city, but quite close. Rota is North of the city by some eight to ten miles.”

“Oh, totally unsuitable, then,” Spencer quibbled. “But, there must be
some
place. God knows
I'm
fed up with ships, already. Even getting aboard this one, brr! Being slung up and over like a cask of salt-meat? Mean to say!”

General Spencer meant that he'd not tried to scale the battens and man-ropes, but had been hoisted aboard the flagship in a lubberly Bosun's chair, like a cripple, or drunk. Admiral Purvis and Lewrie shared a brief smirk of amusement.

“San Fernando is near the base of the peninsula, and landing there
might
cut off the land route to the city,” Admiral Purvis said, “but, that would be up to the Spanish, once they
do
rebel, and manage to oust the French on their own. At any rate, the situation may not be my responsibility much longer. My active commission is coming to an end, and Admiralty has informed me that Admiral Cuthbert Collingwood is to relieve me on this station.”

“Admiral Collingwood, sir? I'd dearly love to meet
him
!” Lewrie gushed out with boyish enthusiasm.

“What, Captain Lewrie, am I not famous enough for you?” the Admiral rejoined with a peevish look.

“Oh, I didn't mean
that,
sir!” Lewrie gasped. “Perish the idea! I merely meant, ehm…!”

“It is of no matter,” Purvis said, waving a hand to dismiss any thought of being insulted. “Perhaps General Dalrymple, being an Army man, has not enlightened you, Sir Brent, on Sir Alan's adventurous accomplishments at sea. He's reckoned as one of our most daring frigate captains, and even saddled with command of a poor older ‘fifty,' he's still raising devilment. The
Naval Chronicle
featured action reports of his doings along the Andalusian coast last Summer, which were bold.”

“You do me too much credit, sir,” Lewrie replied, putting on his modest face. “Just raising some mischief.”

Ye going t'fill Spencer in on some, or will I have t'dine him aboard and do my own braggin'?
Lewrie thought.

“I dearly wish that I could have remained on-station just long enough to see Cádiz fall to us,” Purvis said with a weary sigh. “And sail in and make prize of those damned French ships that escaped us at Trafalgar.”

“That'd be grand, sir,” Lewrie told him. “Though, after anchored idle so long, they might not be in good material condition, and there's little the Spanish yards could do to keep them up.”

“Even so, it's more the satisfaction than the price a Prize-Court places upon them,” Purvis countered. “Claim them, and rub the Corsican Ogre's nose in it one more time, remind Bonaparte of his worst defeat at sea, in a long string of them. Know what he is rumoured to have said when he heard about Trafalgar? ‘I cannot be everywhere,' hah! As if that lubber would be a better Admiral than any of his!”

“Well, if he had been, sir,” Lewrie slyly replied, “we'd have bagged the lot of 'em, French
and
Spanish, captured ‘Boney,' and hung him in chains at Execution Dock!”

“Hear, hear!” General Spencer crowed.

“I had planned to dine my officers in this evening,” Purvis said, as if quibbling. “If you gentlemen would care to join them?”

He sounded as if he'd rather not, but could be gracious.

“Topping!” Spencer cried. “Sure to be better than the swill I get aboard my transport, what? I accept with pleasure, sir.”

“I'd thought to return to
Sapphire,
sir,” Lewrie begged off, sure that that was the right thing to do. Any time with General Sir Brent Spencer was too much time, he was learning.

“Oh, if you insist, Sir Alan,” Purvis replied, much too quickly, and with a relieved grin.

“I am certain that you may regale Sir Brent,” Lewrie said.

“Oh … indeed,” Purvis said, almost pulling a face.

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The last days of May, and the first days of June of 1808 were spent sailing off-and-on under reduced sail, a bit out to sea of Rear-Admiral Purvis's ten sail of the line, waiting for word from shore, or further orders from Gibraltar. Aboard HMS
Sapphire,
live gun drill was held, cutlass drill, pike drill, and the striking and hoisting of top-masts, just to keep the ship's people's skills from going rusty. The weather was fairly decent, the convoy was well-protected by the ships that Purvis led, and it could almost be termed “cruising and claret.”

Lewrie was bored, of course.

He
tried
to bear boredom stoically, with much play with Bisquit and Chalky, and with sword-play with his officers and senior Midshipmen. He'd fetch a chair from the dining-coach and sit out on his stern gallery, with the improvised screen door secured so that Chalky could not dash out, leap onto a cap-rail, and go overboard, and practice on his penny-whistle, quite ignoring the whines and howls from the poop deck above from Bisquit, who was either greatly distressed, or trying to sing along; it was hard to tell which.

In private, stripped to the waist so he wouldn't sweat up one of his linen shirts, he would exercise with wooden pails with various weights of swivel gun roundshot, lifting, swinging, and grunting with effort, to the amusement (well-concealed, of course) of his steward, Pettus, and cabin-servant, Jessop.

He'd been skewered in the left thigh by a Spanish bayonet up the Appalachicola River during the tail-end of the American Revolution, had had his left arm shot at the Battle of Camperdown, and had been shot in the right thigh off Buenos Aires two years before, and his workouts made them all let him know that he was getting older, and that he was not the hale and hearty fellow he'd been before, but he persisted. Fourty-five was not
that
old, after all; was it?

“Cool tea, sir?” Pettus asked after his last efforts.

“Christ yes, thankee,” Lewrie eagerly said, sponging himself off then towelling, and flinging himself into a comfortable padded chair. “With lots of sugar. Whew … woof!”

“Keeps you a fine figure of a man, sir,” Pettus commented.

“Lotta work, if yer askin' me,” Jessop muttered.

“I don't do half what you do, Jessop,” Lewrie reminded him. “Ye wished t'be more of a sailor, servin' a carronade, climbin' the masts, tailin' on sheets, halliards, and gun-tackle. That's
your
exercise.”