Kings and Emperors (21 page)

“As we speak, sir,” the Lieutenant happily told him. “He wishes to be away in three days, weather permitting.”

“I can't wait t'shake the dust of Ayamonte from my boots, either,” Lewrie told him, feeling like breaking out in a hornpipe dance of glee, “not that I
gathered
much dust in the bloody place. Assure the General that the transports await, and we'll be ready to sail as soon as he's got all his force off. And, inform him how delighted that every hand is t'hear of it, me included.”

“I shall relate that to him, sir,” the Army officer promised, equally pleased that they would go.

“Pettus,” Lewrie called, spotting his cabin-steward idling on the larboard gangway and fiddling with a fishing line, “do you fetch this officer a glass of wine before he returns ashore. We'll liquour his boots for his ride.”

“Thank you, sir!” the Lieutenant exclaimed.

Word quickly spread, as it usually did aboard ship, fetching off-watch officers from below, with Westcott in the lead, even before Pettus could pour that glass of wine.

“Do I hear right, sir?” Westcott asked, looking hopeful.

“Hear what, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie could not help teasing.

“Why, that we're out of this flea-ridden hovel!” Westcott replied.

“We are,” Lewrie assured him. “Off for Puerto de Santa María on the Bay of Cádiz, as soon as the Army can be got off.”

“I hope you pack quickly, sir,” Westcott said to the stranger.

“Closer to a larger city, your odds'll be better,” Lewrie japed. “For your … hunting?”

“Perhaps the ladies of Cádiz bathe more often than the women of Ayamonte, aye,” Westcott said, sniggering.

“Oh, Lord,” Lt. Harcourt said, shaking his head, for Harcourt was a man who could be described as a Decent Sort, one more prone to seek a wife, should he ever get a command of his own and more pay.

As the army officer drank his wine, Lewrie could hear a stir among the crew. Off-watch men were coming on deck, people were whispering behind their hands, breaking out in grins, and looking aft for confirmation of the “scuttle-butt.” A fiddler even struck up “One Misty, Moisty Morning”!

Aye, they're ready t'sail away,
Lewrie thought; more
than ready t'go somewhere else!

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Cádiz had fallen, the French were ousted, and the important naval port was back in the hands of the Spanish, and the Supreme
Junta
in Seville. The Bay of Cádiz, sheltered and protected by the peninsula on which sat the old city and the fortresses, was crowded with ships. There were Spanish Navy ships of war, too-long blockaded in port and neglected for lack of supplies and money, looking positively dowdy by then. In only slightly better condition were the French navy warships which had survived the Battle of Trafalgar, their Tricolour national flags drooping low on their sterns, with Spanish royal colours flying atop them to show just who had forced them to strike.

Spanish merchantmen, also trapped in harbour and unable to make a profit, were hastily being fitted out for voyages to Spain's colonies in the Americas to re-assert Spain's complete dominance of trade 'twixt them and the home country. When ready for sea, they would most likely bear officials and royal orders to colonial goverors to bar any intra-colonial trade except for Spanish ships, and stop mercantile activities with anyone else.

The revolution against French conquest had arisen so quickly that British, or other neutral European, merchants might take months to make their appearance at Cádiz with valuable, greatly desired, cargoes, but they would come later. For now, it was only the hired transports and troopers of General Spencer's little army which were present.

With the need for blockade over, several Britsh warships from Rear-Admiral Purvis's squadron had been allowed into harbour, mostly for firewood and water. There would be no shore liberty here either, though, for the Spanish were still touchy upon the presence of too many
ingleses
in town, sure that there was still a plot by the perfidious British to take the place by force and turn it into a second Gibraltar, then keep it forever!

Lewrie got his wish to meet Vice-Admiral Cuthbert, Baron Collingwood, but that resulted in a very brief encounter, a nod of a head and a gruff “Ahd ye do, sir?”, and Lewrie would not gush like a schoolboy a second time.

“Happy now, sir?” Purvis asked with a wry expression.

“Sorry 'bout that,” Lewrie replied, ducking his head and turning red to be reminded of his embarrassment. Up close, Collingwood was a tall and lean old stick, morose and tired-looking, and going bald.

“Well, he was one of Nelson's ‘band of brothers,' but I'd have rather known Nelson,” Purvis idly said.

“Might I ask, sir, what's to become of
Sapphire,
now that the army is landed?” Lewrie had to ask. “I've been on Independent Orders at Gibraltar for the last year and a half, but with the Spanish up in arms 'gainst the French, my presence there may not be necessary.”

“Hmm,” Purvis mused aloud, pondering. “I could order you to join my squadron, Collingwood's now, really, but with Cádiz ours, the need for another blockader is gone.”

“I might be better employed up North with Sir Charles Cotton's squadron blockading Lisbon, d'ye imagine, sir?” Lewrie wondered. “If General Wellesley's army is to land in Portugal soon…?”

“Aye, you might be more useful with him, but, Dalrymple, and those furtive Foreign Office gentlemen might not be through with you yet. Best sail for Gibraltar and see. Upon that head, you can carry despatches from Collingwood and me on the way,” Purvis told him.

“Capital!” Lewrie exclaimed. “I can give my people shore liberty somewhere they're welcome, where most people speak English!”

“Aye, join the Navy, see the world, and be gobbled at by foreigners,” Purvis said with a rare laugh. “We'll have our despatches in your hands soon, Captain Lewrie, then you can be off.”

“Thank you, sir,” Lewrie replied, doffed his hat, and took his leave.

*   *   *

Free of plodding transports at last,
Sapphire
made a fast passage back to Gibraltar, almost racing through the Strait with currents and wind combining to speed her along, daring to skate past the guns at Tarifa and Cape Carnero, reducing sail and speed as she rounded Pigeon Island into the bay. The Spanish gunners, who normally would have taken any British ship in range under fire, were silent. And at Algeciras, and in the mouths of the Palmones and Guadarranque Rivers, the hordes of Spanish gunboats lay idle. There were more Spanish merchant ships at Algeciras, but no more warships.

Sapphire
rounded up into the wind and dropped anchor off the Old Mole, took in sail, and came to rest. Even as that evolution was going on, one of the cutters was brought up from being towed astern, manned, and Lewrie was down the ship's side and into it in a trice, with a canvas satchel full of mail and despatches slung from one shoulder. As he was rowed to the landing stage along the quay, he could cast an eager look lower down the town, and was delighted to see Maddalena on her balcony, waving a towel at him.

Soon, girl,
he thought;
soon as I'm done with the Dowager!

*   *   *

He was shown into General Sir Hew Dalrymple's offices immediately, where the Dowager shot to his feet and almost
dashed
to take hold of the despatches, idly ordering wine for Lewrie.

“Ayamonte first? Quite a long way from Cádiz,” Dalrymple commented after he'd read the first one. “God above, the Spanish!”

“They only allowed us into port for firewood and water, sir,” Lewrie told him, thanking God for the Convent's deep cellars, where wine could almost chill, as he took a long sip. “General Spencer has built defences round Puerto de Santa María, but he's also despatched four battalions and some artillery to Xeres, further inland, to buck up the Spanish army.”

“He's aware that under no circumstances is he to march along with Castaños when he moves? I'll not trust the fighting prowess of the Spanish against the French, and risk losing a sizable body of ours in the process,” Dalrymple grumped.

“He is, sir,” Lewrie assured him. “I was told that there's yet a French brigade under Avril, lurkin' somewhere between Seville and Cádiz, if it hasn't gone off to join L'Étang there, or Dupont at Córdoba. I gather that General Spencer will remain near Cádiz 'til he knows whether General Avril will march upon him.”

Lewrie took note that Sir Hew's map stand no longer featured Ceuta and the fortress, but now displayed a large map of the entire Iberian Peninsula, with bits of ribbon pinned to various Portuguese or Spanish cities. He assumed that the blue'uns represented French-held cities, and the gold'uns stood for places where the Spanish had risen up. Sir Hew set aside the next letter for a moment, rose from his desk more slowly than before, crossed to his map, and stuck a gold ribbon on Cádiz, then stepped back to admire his map with a satisfied sigh.

“What's the red ribbon for, sir?” Lewrie asked. It was stuck in the ocean, not the land, up near Corunna in Northwest Spain.

“It represents General Sir Arthur Wellesley, Sir Alan,” Sir Hew told him as he returned to his desk, and his despatches. “London sent me a letter that he might land there, first. I eagerly await news of that.”

“Rather a long march to Lisbon, ain't it?” Lewrie asked. “Even the roads close to the coast are sure t'be bad. But, if the French confront him in force, he could always be taken off by sea, from Vigo or Oporto, if need be. Wellesley's idea, that?”

“Lord Castlereagh's, most likely,” Dalrymple said, frowning and stroking his chin. “I know of the Wellesleys, but little of Sir Arthur, but for his reputation gained in India. I do not know his fighting qualities, or whether he is a cautious man or an audacious one. Flighty Hindoos are one thing; the French are quite another. I'm not aware of any ‘Sepoy' generals of note who have fought well against the French.” He almost sneered.

“Well, so far, Sir Hew,” Lewrie drawled, “our Army's not done all that well against them, no matter their generals'
bona fides.
”

“Think so, do you?” Dalrymple snapped, coming to the defence of his service, but he could not deny the truth. “I see that the French fleet in Cádiz is neutralised, with the honours going to the Spanish? No prize money in it for the Navy? How sad.”

That was a definite sneer. Lewrie shrugged it off, sure that the interview would soon be over.

“Any ideas of how you might employ my ship, given the change in circumstances, Sir Hew?” he asked anyway. “She's too slow for a despatch vessel. Ye need frigates and such for that.”

“An orphan, are you?” Dalrymple posed, sounding as if he was still nettled by Lewrie's comments about the Army and its generals. “If Admirals Collingwood and Purvis found no use for your services, perhaps you might call upon your Mister Mountjoy. You were sent here partially under his auspices, were you not? You still operate under Independent Orders.”

“I shall do that, Sir Hew,” Lewrie replied, shifting in his chair, prepared to rise and depart. “Anything else you need from me regarding the situation at Cádiz?”

“No, I believe the despatches speak for them,” Sir Hew said. “You may go, and good luck to you finding employment.” He shooed Lewrie off as he would a fly.

“Very good, Sir Hew. I'll take my leave,” Lewrie said, and rose to deliver a brief bow. When he looked back for a second, he caught Sir Hew Dalrymple gazing at his maps with a contemplative grin on his face, and his eyes alight with
some
scheme.

There was nothing for it. As much as he wished
rencontre
with Maddalena, he would have to go speak with Mountjoy first.

*   *   *

“Is he in, Mister Deacon?” Lewrie asked at the ground-floor entrance to Mountjoy's lodgings.

“He is, sir, and was just about to send me to find you,” that craggy-faced, grim, and ever-vigilant worthy replied with a taut grin. “Go right on up. There's wondrous news to be shared.”

The interior rooms were empty, but there were some plunking noises coming from the rooftop gallery that overlooked the bay, and the Lines, and that was where Mountjoy could be found. Lewrie walked out under the canvas awnings to find the local chief of Secret Branch seated on the settee, with a book of musical notes on the table in front of him.

“Good God, what's that?” Lewrie asked.

“This,” Mountjoy happily told him, “is what the Spanish call a guitar. I got it down at the markets, once free trade was opened cross the Lines.” He moved the fingers of his left hand and strummed some chords with his right, tapping a foot to keep time, and screwing up his face in concentration. “Haven't gotten good at it, yet.”

“Aye, so I
hear,
” Lewrie gybed, sweeping off his hat and going for a comfortable chair. “You've been out-done, ye know. Purvis, off Cádiz, and Cotton off Lisbon, have gotten agents of some kind ashore, where you couldn't.”

“Ah, but in the meantime, I've discovered hundreds of patriotic Spaniards, just eager to send letters down, telling me of French movements, and towns that have risen up,” Mountjoy countered, laying his guitar aside. “Almost
weekly
reports from Marsh in Madrid, and from others at Seville, Córdoba, Málaga, and Granada. It's definite. Napoleon's deposed the old king, the new king, and put them under a rather comfortable house arrest in France. I'm told that the Foreign Minister, Talleyrand, is saddled with them at his estate, and is not happy with the arrangement. Joseph Bonaparte is on his way to Madrid to be crowned the newest King of Spain, and all's right with the world, as the old saying goes. There are rebel
juntas
springing up all over Spain, and there's been fighting 'twixt the Spanish Army and the Frogs. I've gotten reports of victories, though I'll take those with a grain of salt 'til truthful results are in.