Kings and Emperors (23 page)

He got
“muchas gracias,
” but the rest was nonsense sounds.

“He expresses his thanks, sir,” Deacon translated.

“Got that part,” Lewrie said, wishing the oaf would let go.

“How grateful all Spain will be … how grand it is to be allies … how despicable the French … their cruelties and depredations,” Deacon said, hitting only the high points. At least Major Azcárte
had
let him go, and was now stamping a booted foot, gesticulating wildly with his hands, and even going so far as to spit dramatically, fortunately far away. “If you make some agreeing noises, I'll lay it on as thick as he likes, sir,” Deacon said, sounding as if he found this most amusing.

I'm a Punch and Judy puppet, by God!
Lewrie told himself, but he expressed how much he had always hated and distrusted the filthy French, that English people called them Frogs, that the invasion of Spain was outright thievery, and he was more than glad to help the “brave people” of Spain fight them and throw them back across the Pyrenees, killing as many as they could in the process. All of that was just “the nuts” to Azcárte, who was practically cooing by then.

“He invites us to a tavern, sir, for wine and something to eat,” Deacon said at last.

“Hell, yes, let's go,” Lewrie was more than happy to say.

That, however, involved meeting more of Major Azcárte's junior officers, all of whom looked to be idling and cooling their heels at the tavern, and may have been for some time, given the sleepy, drunk looks on their faces. Slurred Castilian Spanish with its lisping was hard enough to decypher, and drunk Castilian gave Deacon a trial.

“Boasting of what they'll do to the French, now they have weapons,” Deacon idly translated as some rough, raw local red wine showed up, and toasts were given. “Major Azcárte suggests that the next time your ship comes, you could bring blankets, boots or shoes, and food. I gather they're short of everything.”

“Tell him that Great Britain will do what we can, but that all depends on how quickly our Government can gather up the goods and get 'em here,” Lewrie responded. “Don't promise him the moon.”

“Yes, sir. He apologises for the wine, which even he deems as swill, and suggests we switch to brandy,” Deacon said.

“Tell him I think I'll go see how the un-loading is going,” Lewrie replied, “and if he has his waggons and such handy. Bad as the wine is, I can't imagine the local brandy bein' a whit better.”

He rose, clapped on his hat, and went outside. Between the local boatmen and his sailors, quite a lot of the weapons had gotten ashore already, crate after crate of muskets, of bayonets, of cartridges, and leather accoutrements in bundles were already piled high on the quays. Yellow-jacketed Spanish cavalry were coming down the road from Órgiva, alongside slow, creaking, and squealing ox-drawn waggons.

Another party of cavalry in different-coloured uniforms were clattering into Salobreña from the West on tired-looking horses wet with ammoniac white-foam sweat, shouting something in alert, or joy to find a tavern, it was hard for Lewrie to tell which.

“What're they sayin', Mister Deacon?” he asked.

“Ehm, they say the French are coming, sir!” Deacon said with gravel in his throat. “Fifteen miles back, near Almuñécar, at least a demi-brigade. That'd be about two thousand men. Infantry, thank the Lord, so they won't be here anytime soon. Uhm … they saw no cavalry, and that's a blessing.”

That news stirred Major Azcárte into a frenzy of shouting and windmilling his arms, sending his junior officers scurrying to leave the tavern, retrieve their shakoes or cocked hats, arm themselves, and disperse to their waiting, drowzing soldiers. Locals began to dart about, some helping to load the waggons, and some to begin hitching up their own waggons so they could flee.

“Major Azcárte says the French garrison at Málaga has been re-enforced, and is sending troops out along the coast roads,” Deacon managed to pick up from Azcárte's ravings. “He apologises for haste, but he must get the waggons loaded and up into the mountains before they arrive, and God help the people of Salobreña for what the French will do to them when they get here. Tell him
Vaya con Dios,
sir, and bid him goodbye,” Deacon added in a harsh whisper.

Lewrie did as Deacon bade, doffing his hat and bowing again, then turned to see to his men in the pinnace. The 29-foot launch and both 25-foot cutters were alongside the quays, un-loading the last of the boxed cartridges, under Midshipman Hillhouse.

“That the last of it, Mister Hillhouse?” Lewrie demanded.

“Aye, sir, the very last scrap. What's the trouble?” the senior Mid asked, looking round at the seeming panic.

“French troops coming from Málaga, in strength,” Lewrie told him, on his way to the waiting pinnace. “Let's get our people back to the ship.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

“You, there!” someone was bellowing in English. “British officer! Don't leave without me, for Christ's sake!”

Lewrie turned about to see a party of armed civilian men, some of the
guerrilleros,
come clopping into Salobreña. With them on a weary-looking poor prad of a horse was a British Army officer, red in the face, and his elegantly tailored uniform much the worse for wear.

“Mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie spat in shock.

“Escaped before the French slung me in prison,” the man babbled as he almost fell off the horse in his haste. “Was on my parole at Málaga, got helped out of the city … Captain
Lewrie
?”

“Aye, Major Hughes,” Lewrie replied. “Get your arse in the boat.”

It would have been a toss-up, in point of fact, which of the men was more shocked by the other's appearance, Brevet-Major Hughes, or Alan Lewrie.

Thought we'd seen the last o' that bastard fool when the Dons captured him last Summer!
Lewrie thought in disgust;
Right here up by the semaphore tower!

Hughes had been appointed to command the landing force for the raids along the coast, and a fine muddle he'd made of it once ashore.

Oh God, what'll Maddalena make of his resurrection?
Lewrie had to wonder.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Need a Bosun's chair?” Lewrie asked Hughes as the pinnace came alongside the starboard boarding battens.

“Not a bit of it, Lewrie,” Major Hughes said with a
harumph
of dis-pleasure. “I've been up the side of your ship before. After you, sir.”

“Senior officers are first in, last out, sir,” Lewrie corrected. “Up ye get, then.”

Hughes looked as if he would argue the point, going squinty-eyed, but stood, teetered on the gunn'l, made his leap and grab, and began to scale the battens. Lewrie looked up and smiled a bit at the sight of Hughes's breeches; elegant white had turned a pale shit-brown round the rump, most-like from a saddle's badly cured leather. Hughes was not aware of it, but Lewrie thought it a good excuse for a ribbing, for later.

“Major Hughes!” Lewrie heard Westcott say above as he climbed aboard. “Look what the cat dragged in, I must say! Wherever have you been?”

Marines stamped their boots and slapped muskets as Lewrie got to the main deck amid the piping of Bosun's calls, and hats were doffed by all hands as Lewrie raised his in salute.

“All boats secured for towing, all hands back aboard, sir, and ready for orders,” Lt. Westcott said to Lewrie.

“Very good, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie replied. “Stations to up-anchor and make sail.”

“Aye aye, sir! Bosun Terrell, pipe Stations to Hoist Anchor!” Westcott bellowed, turning away.

“Might I prevail upon your hospitality, Captain Lewrie? I find myself in great thirst,” Hughes said.

“But of course, sir,” Lewrie offered, whether he cared to or not. “Let's go aft, but only briefly. We'll be under way in a bit.”

Once in the great-cabins, Lewrie requested Pettus to fetch out some Rhenish, then satisfied his curiosity. “Whatever
did
happen to you, sir? How the Devil did ye get captured? Once the Dons ran off, we couldn't find hide nor hair of you.”

“Utter confusion was the cause of it, sir!” Hughes said with a dismissive snort. “Three detachments separated too far, not in one organised line. I had to dash over to the left to see to one of them, rein them in before they got too far away, and tripped over a rock in the dark. Next thing I knew, five or six foul-looking Spanish soldiers were all over me, seized my sword and pistols, gave me a bash on the head with a musket butt, and dragged me away. They took me to their cantonment at Órgiva, first, slung me in their gaol for a few days, then got word to fetch me to the fort at Málaga, where there
finally
was someone who could speak passable English, and put me on my parole. Ah, a decent Rhenish, at last! 'Til I got my pay sent on from Gibraltar, I was ‘skint,' hardly had tuppence upon me, and had to drink the
vilest
peasant reds.” Hughes polished off his glass of wine in four swift gulps and held out his glass for a re-fill. “You sail without the transport, sir? What of our amphibious unit?”

“Dis-banded last Fall, when the French invaded Portugal and Spain, and the Spanish began t'make nice with us,” Lewrie told him, taking a few sips from his own glass. “Dalrymple thought it better that we did not make war on the Dons after that.”

“Pity, we were just getting good at it,” Hughes said.

Did better after we lost
you
!
Lewrie thought.

“You still have that damned cat, I see,” Hughes said with a scowl as he espied Chalky, who was hunkered into a defensive lump on the day-cabin desk. The cat had never taken to Hughes, perhaps sensing Lewrie's feelings. “Once I got settled in passable lodgings in the town,” Hughes went on, “it wasn't so bad, but for the fact that Spain doesn't feature much roast beef on their tables, not where I ate. It was pork, pork, pork, in one form or another, breakfast to supper, and it got tiresome. Then, when Marshal Murat marched into Madrid, and the Dons got so angry, they let me go, just shooed me off to make my own way to Gibraltar.”

“Went the wrong way for that,” Lewrie commented.

“The French were in Córdoba and Seville, by then, and marching down to Gibraltar, so heading East and hoping to throw in with armed irregulars or the Spanish army was my best bet,” Hughes said, shrugging it off. “You're bound for Gibraltar?”

“Aye, after droppin' off arms and ammunition for the
junta
in Granada, a quick out-and-back,” Lewrie replied, setting his half-empty wine down on the brass Hindoo tray table.

“Your turning up was a miracle, sir!” Hughes exclaimed, taking his ease in one of the chairs with his legs stretched out. “I'm damned glad you did, and can't wait to get back to Gibraltar, let me tell you! Back in my regiment's mess, clean clothing, decent food, and a romp or two.”

“I must return to the deck,” Lewrie said as he heard calls for “short stays,” and Westcott shouting for topmen to “trice up and lay out” to make sail. “Take your ease here, whilst we get under way, then come join us when you feel like it. There's a spare cabin in the officers' wardroom that you can use, and 'twixt the three officers' servants, I'm sure they can see to your needs.”

“Maddalena, recall her, do you?” Hughes speculated with a grin. “Ever run into her when you were ashore? Poor chit's probably taken up with another who would keep her. Well, soon as I'm back, I'll
see
about
that
! And, by God, he better
not
be anyone I know, hah hah!”

“Seen her around,” Lewrie lied, then picked up his hat and left the cabins. That was a conversation for later.

*   *   *

Once
Sapphire
was free of the ground and fully under sail, Mr. Deacon sidled over near Lewrie on the windward side of the quarterdeck, something that anyone in the Navy would not dare do unless delivering information.

“Bit of a wrench, his turning up again, sir?” Deacon asked in a low voice. “An
efficient
fellow, a grand organiser right down to the number of cork musket tompions, but the very worst sort of parade ground officer, as Mister Mountjoy and I agreed.”

“I'll get it settled,” Lewrie replied, sure that Deacon was talking about Maddalena Covilh
ā
, since both he and Mountjoy had been aware of Lewrie's taking up with her, and being smitten by her long before Hughes had disappeared.

“Settled, sir?” Deacon said, befuddled. “I was talking of his military qualities, and pitying the rankers of his company after he rejoins his regiment. Oh …
that
settled!” he went on with a knowing smile.

Lewrie was looking upon Deacon with new eyes. When they were first introduced the Summer before, he had taken Mr. Deacon as just one more of Secret Branch's hired muscle, a very dangerous and menacing sort who'd do the skulking, house-breaking,
head
-breaking, and elimination of the King's enemies. He certainly looked the part; wide-shouldered and slim-hipped, with big, strong hands just made for strangling, and a harsh, craggy face. After this jaunt to deliver arms, though, Lewrie found that Deacon was more than bodyguard or errand-runner. For an ex-Sergeant in the Household Guards, he possessed a brain, and a fine, clever wit, with linguistic skills far better than Lewrie's own.

“Mountjoy once warned me off her,” Lewrie admitted, “so long as we needed Hughes. Now he's lazing round my settee, sure that he'll only have to whistle t'get her back, with an idea to thrash whoever's taken up with her.”

“Remember the old adage, though, sir, ‘Great talkers do the least, we see,'” Deacon said with a grin that could turn most men's blood cold. “I doubt
his
sort will even sulk for more than a day or two, then drop the matter. And, if he
doesn't,
” Deacon imparted with a bit of threat in his voice, “he can always be quietly done away with, hmm?”