Kings and Emperors (32 page)

“No idea who she is, sir?” Midshipman Ward asked at his elbow.

“No, Mister Ward,” Lewrie told him, raising his telescope to an eye again. “Run aft. My respects to the officer of the watch, and he is to hoist our colours and make the Interrogative signal. If she's one of ours, she'll make her number in reply. If she's an enemy, then we'll see. Off ye go, scamper!”

“Aye, sir!” the lad said, and turned to make haste astern.

The sight of the Captain on the forecastle, the report of a strange sail on the horizon, and Ward's rapid run aft stopped the men of the watch at their various duties, forcing some to lean far over the bulwarks for a look, others to ascend the shrouds for a view of that strange sail, and caused still others to gather in knots to talk it over and speculate. When Lewrie turned about to look aft to see if their national ensign and signal flag had been hoisted, he was pleased to see how many of the crew were looking eager for action. After the boresome escort-work
Sapphire
had done under her old Captain in the Baltic, her people had come to expect a good fight, and lashings of prize-money to follow another prideful victory. Lewrie's mouth curled into a wee smile as he made his return to the quarterdeck down the larboard sail-tending gangway, nodding confidently to the sailors and Marines he met, acknowledging some by name with a cheery “good morning” but not answering any questions, yet. He felt a spurt of pride as he considered that he'd created a happy, confident ship and a crew that knew its business when called to Quarters.

“Any reply?” Lewrie asked Lt. Elmes.

“Not yet, sir,” Elmes replied, casting a quick look aloft to the signal hoist to reassure himself that it was not masked by the sails and upper-works.

“Deck, there!” the lookout shouted. “She makes her number, and shows British colours!”

“Four … Two … Four,” Midshipman Griffin slowly read out as he clung to the mizen's larboard shrouds, half-way to the cat-harpings.

“Ehm…,” Midshipman Ward said, fumbling this month's secret signals code book until he'd found a match. “She's the
Sabine,
Sixth Rate frigate. Captain … Artemis Fleet.”

“Another hoist, then,” Lewrie said, feeling a little disappointed that they wouldn't have a fight. “Ask her where we can find the army.”

“Aye, sir,” Ward said, going to the poop deck and the taffrail flag lockers.

“One of ours, then?” Mountjoy asked. “Perhaps she's standing guard over the army's latest access to the sea.”

“Might very well be, Mister Mountjoy,” Lewrie agreed. “Useful, the Interrogative flag,” he mused aloud. “We once spoke one of our ships near the Greater Antilles. Neither of us had seen the sun for nigh a week, and we'd both been runnin' on Dead Reckoning. She showed the Church flag, the one ordering to hold services, spelled out Where, and the Interrogative. The up-shot? Oh God, Where Are We? Hah hah!”

“That's much like the one I saw done when I was Fifth Officer in a seventy-four, sir,” Lt. Elmes reminisced with a grin. “We were alongside Gun Wharf, and another ship was waiting to tie up where we were. Her Captain hoists How Long Will You Be, spelled it all out, and
our
Captain replied with numerals and spelled out Foot. One hundred eighty feet!”

“Good one!” Lewrie chortled.

“Naval humour,” Mountjoy bemoaned. “Like sailors' slang, it's indecypherable.”

“Reply, sir!” Midshipman Griffin shouted down to them. “
M
 …
A
 …
C
 …
I
 …
E
 …
R
 …
A
 … Bay! Maciera Bay!”

“Mister Yelland? I'd admire a look at the charts, if you please,” Lewrie asked, steeling himself to be in the cramped chart room on the larboard side of the quarterdeck, and hoping that Yelland had sponged off in the last week.

“Ah, here, sir,” Yelland said, tapping an ink-stained forefinger on the rolled-out chart of the coast of Portugal. “It's not much of a bay, though. There's a wee river, or large creek, that runs down to the sea 'twixt these steep, rocky hills. There isn't much of a beach to speak of, and ah … aye, we'd have to anchor far out, since the chart shows that the bay approaches are shallow and sandy. Maybe not the best holding ground, either. Do you wish a safe five or six fathoms, we'd be at least a mile or better offshore.”

“We'll go in sounding the leads, and I will feel better if we anchor in six or
seven
fathoms,” Lewrie decided, not liking the sketchiness of the chart's information. “We're about here, now?” he asked as he tapped the chart near Praia de Ariea Branca.

“Uhm, I'd say near level with Lourinhã, sir, a bit further on than that,” Yelland corrected. “Still about twenty miles seaward of the coast.”

“Very well, sir,” Lewrie said, “we'll alter course to the Southeast 'til we strike this twenty-fathom line, come level with Maciera Bay, then alter course again Due East and find safe anchorage.”

“Aye, sir,” Yelland said, pinning the ends of the chart down with books so he could duck in and out of the chart space to reference it as often as needed in the next few hours. They then both left the chart space and returned to the quarterdeck, with Lewrie wishing that he could fan away Mr. Yelland's sour, stale aromas.

Captain Hughes, who had been lounging in the officers' wardroom, came up from the upper gun-deck to peer about, and see what all the excitement had been. He had taken time to dress properly, and now was slowly pacing with his hands in the small of his back, as if it was just not done to appear too curious, or alarmed.

“I heard some shouting,” he said at last. “‘Sail ho,' what?”

“We've spotted one of our ships down South of us,” Mountjoy told him. “We've found General Wellesley's army, and we're making our way there.”

“Have we? Capital!” Hughes said with a bark of delight. “Then I shall tell my man to pack my traps. It will be good to dine ashore this evening, even if Sir Arthur's officers' mess will most-like serve salt-beef and such. Field rations, ah!”

“They've been marching through country un-disturbed by the enemy, in high Summer,” Mountjoy supposed, “so they've surely managed to buy or forage the best of the local crops. Portugal is known for its own style of bullfighting. Perhaps they've found some fresh beef?”

“If they have, I'd relish it,” Hughes declared. “
Relish
it, I tell you. I've been bilious ever since I set foot aboard this ship.”

“Oh, my dear fellow!” Mountjoy pretended to sympathise. “You found naval fare distressing? My condolences.”

Lewrie bent over to give Bisquit some “wubbies” to hide his delight. When he stood back up, his expression was bland again.

“Mister Elmes, we will alter course to the Sou'east and close the shore,” he directed. “Hands to the braces, ready to ease the set.”

“Wasn't Navy victuals,” Hughes carped, stifling a left-over breakfast belch. “Not actually.” He threw a frown at Lewrie.

“I found them quite toothsome and delightful,” Mountjoy said. “Captain Lewrie sets a fine table.”

“If you say so, Mister Mountjoy,” Captain Hughes leerily said. “Well, I shall get out from under-foot of the sailors, and see to my despatches.” And with that, he descended to the weather deck and went down the steep ladderway below.

Lewrie shared a look with Mountjoy, quite satisfied with the exchange, and with Mountjoy's sly wit.

*   *   *

By sundown, HMS
Sapphire
was safely anchored bow and stern in about fourty feet of water. Hughes; his batman, a long-suffering Private from Hughes's old regiment; and Mr. Mountjoy had gone ashore in the launch, and Lewrie was shot of both of them for a time, able to take the evening air on the poop deck in peace. There were several supply ships and troop transports closer to the shore, ships of less than half of
Sapphire
's burthen which drew less water. Beyond them, past the two high headlands which framed the Maceira River, the night was aglow with campfires, where half-dressed soldiers took their ease by pale tan tents and cooked their rations with their arms stacked close by. It all looked quite peaceful, but once Lewrie employed his telescope, he could make out a chain of torches snaking down to the sea, and the rowing boats drawn up on the banks of the river and beach. There were even some carts trundling along, slowly and carefully. A closer look showed litter-bearers, and men on those litters.

“Permission to come up, sir?” Lt. Westcott said at the base of the larboard ladderway.

“Aye, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie allowed. “What the Devil?”

Westcott had stopped at the glim which lit the compass binnacle, to ignite a Spanish
cigarro,
and was puffing away.

“Thought I would indulge, before Lights Out is ordered,” Westcott explained.

“When did you develop the habit?” Lewrie asked.

“A week ago, on a run ashore at Gibraltar,” Westcott told him. “I find tobacco … restful, especially after a good shore supper, and with the trade cross the Lines so open, now, they're damned near five pence for a dozen.”

“Those torches,” Lewrie pointed out to him, handing Westcott his telescope, “they look like wounded, bein' rowed out to the ships for care. What does it look like to you?”

“I'd say you're right, sir,” Westcott said after a long minute. “There's been a battle, it looks like.”

“Beyond, the army's camped in what looks t'be good order, so … dare we imagine that Wellesley's met the French and beaten them?” Lewrie wondered aloud.

“Hmm, high Summer, bad food or water,” Lt. Westcott mused, “it may be sick men coming off the shore, not wounded. Disease will kill quicker than a bullet. Happens to every army that takes the field.”

“I think I'll go ashore tomorrow morning,” Lewrie decided. “I want to know, either way.”

“And I must remain aboard to keep an eye on things,
again,
sir?” Westcott said in mock distress. “Damme, but you have all the fun.”

“If you made Commander and had a ship of your own, you could go play silly buggers, too, Geoffrey. I keep throwin' opportunities at you,” Lewrie told him with a grin.

“When
Sapphire
's active commission is up, I
will
pursue such,” Westcott vowed, “though it'll be a wrench to part us, at last.”

“Aye, we've become good friends since we got
Reliant
in Oh-Three,” Lewrie agreed, “and I trust we will always be, no matter where the Navy sends us. If I can, I'll even dance at your wedding.”

“
My
wedding!” Westcott suddenly hooted with mirth. “
That'll
be a cold day in Hell. Ain't in my nature, no. I'd put that off 'til I make ‘Post,' and find a sweet little ‘batter pudding' half my age like Hyde Parker did. Or
less
than half my age. Yum yum.”

“You're incorrigible,” Lewrie chuckled.

“Said the pot to the kettle,” Westcott happily rejoined.

“Well, I'll leave you to your ‘Devil's Weed,' and go prepare for supper,” Lewrie said. “Don't go settin' the bloody ship on fire.”

“Good night, then, Alan sir,” Westcott bade him, his harsh, brief smile baring his teeth which showed stark white in the glow of the taffrail lanthorns.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Lewrie had a change of heart and told Lieutenant Westcott to arm himself and go ashore with him, at the last moment. But when the cutter landed them on the North bank of the Maceira River, they had to wander about for a time to find the means to go further. At last, a young infantry officer on a nondescript horse accosted them with a shout and a laugh.

“Halt, who goes there, sirs!” he hoorawed. “What do we have here? Two French officers in blue, and under arms? Never
do,
sirs!”

“And who might you be, young sir?” Lewrie replied in a like manner, with a grin on his face. “We've come ashore from our ship to see what's happening. Are there any mounts available?”

“Allow me to name myself to you, sirs, Leftenant John Beauchamp, of the First Battalion of the Ninth Foot,” the young officer gaily said, and doffing his bicorne with a bow from the saddle.

“Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, and my First Officer, Lieutenant Geoffrey Westcott,” Lewrie replied, doffing his cocked hat in kind.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintances, sirs,” Beauchamp said. “Horses? Only if you will settle for poor local ‘bone-setters' like mine, sirs, but I can round a couple up. We're damned short on cavalry remounts. Follow me, if you will.”

Lewrie and Westcott took station to Beauchamp's larboard side and strolled along up the river-bank into the draw between the headlands. “We saw wounded coming off last night, sir.” Lewrie asked, “Has there been a fight?”

“Indeed there
was,
sir, and we sent the French packing in short order!” Beauchamp boasted. “We marched down to a fortified town by name of Óbidos, the French general, Delaborde, didn't like the odds, and retreated to a line of steep hills South of the town. You'll see them in a bit, once we're further inland. Here's our remount service, such as it is,” he said, making a face and leading them to where some locally commandeered Portuguese saddle horses waited, their forelegs hobbled to keep them from grazing or running off. Several were already saddled, and Beauchamp breezily ordered the grooms to lead out a pair.

“I assume that sailors know
how
to ride, sirs?” he teased.

“It'll come back to me,” Lewrie replied as he took the reins of a plain brown horse, hiked a booted leg, and swung up into the saddle.