Kings and Emperors (43 page)

“Damn my eyes, Mister Mountjoy, but you must stop,” Westcott insisted. “No more thrilling descriptions. You're making me hungry!”

“Well, it ain't as if we've an
appointment
with Beresford,” Lewrie pointed out, coming to a full stop. “Why
not
have a bite or two? Look, we're almost to the Castelo, and there's a tavern there, where the square opens up, right near one of the gates.”

“You're
still
buying the wine,” Mountjoy insisted, this time in wry humour as they entered, took off their hats, and adjusted their eyes to the sudden dimness. The windows were few and small, though the double doors of the entry were as broad as the kind found in a barn. There were tables scattered about, a brace of opposing fireplaces for Winter days, a fair number of candles lit, and several Portuguese scattered about at their sublime ease, or indolence, listening to a musician; sipping wine, snacking on what fare the tavern offered. They found an empty table and sat down.

“That's a
fado
he's singing, by George,” Mountjoy said with a broad grin on his face.

“What, that caterwaulin'?” Lewrie scoffed.

It was in Portuguese, of course, slow for the most part, veering into a minor key, and both ineffably sad and haunting, then suddenly forceful and urgent, with many flourishes on the singer's guitar.

“Sorrowful as all Hell, but most engrossing.
Fados
are a fascinating part of the country's culture,” Mountjoy praised on.

“Then God help the Portuguese,” Westcott said, chuckling.

“Bom dia, senhores,”
a waiter said as he came over.

“Ehm,
bom dia,
” Lewrie ventured, “ah …
alguem aqui fala inglese
?”

“Speak
inglese, senhor
?” the waiter puzzled over Lewrie's horrid accent. “
Sim,
I do,
falo um pouco
 … the little?” He launched into a lengthy explanation of how he'd become bilingual, all in fast Portuguese, of course, which went right over everyone's heads. “
Ja decidiram
 … what I get for you?” which sounded very much like
zha-dee-see-dee-rowng,
he asked at last.

The guitarist must have completed the long, long
fado,
for the locals in the tavern wearily clapped and whistled their appreciation. He began another tune, much faster paced, with many strums, plucks, and finger-drums against his instrument, head down in deep concentration, with a wide-brimmed country hat hiding his face.

“What the Devil?” Mountjoy asked as the musician began “Rule, Brittania!”

“Somebody likes us,” Lewrie said, turning to the waiter to ask for
vinho verde.

“Viva Inglaterra!”
the musician shouted, still head down.
“Viva las inglese!
”, and the local patrons raised a mild cheer to that, too.

“Maybe it'll be their treat, hey?” Lewrie said, with a wink.

The guitarist suddenly looked up, then stopped playing, sprang off the tabletop to his feet, and swept off his hat. “Hallo, Mountjoy, and how d'ye keep, my good man?”

“Marsh?”
Mountjoy blurted, stumbling to his feet and over-turning his chair in his astonishment. “How did you…?”

Knows how t'make the grand entrance, damn him,
Lewrie thought as he stood as well.

“Have my ways, don't ye know,” Romney Marsh/The Multitude said as he came over to shake hands, unable to help himself from dropping into his various guises as he explained himself. “
Primero,
I left Madrid as ze
pobre musico,
joos me an' my
guitarra,
then from Seville to Ayamonte, I played ze
gran caballero,
wees deespatches from ze Seville
junta.
A fisherman, to cross the river and row up the marshes to Portugal … the French pay well for fresh eels and sardines, ye know … switched from Spanish to Portuguese, grounded the boat and walked off homeward with my nets and oars over my shoulder, and just kept on 'til I could steal a cassock and hat, some sandals, and became a Romish priest for most of the way, beggin' my way, no problems at all, 'til I got close to Sentubal and the French patrols.

“Then, I made myself into a French cavalry officer from near Sentubal to the Tagus,” Marsh preened, changing his accent.

“You
what
?” Mountjoy exclaimed again.

“Well, the damned fool was just ambling along without a care in the world, looking for old Roman or Moorish ruins to sketch, and with an eye for available young women, too, I expect, as if he was in a park in Paris, not a hostile country. An
extreme
young'un, no error,” Romney Marsh said with a laugh as he sat down at the table with them and claimed a wineglass and the fresh-fetched bottle. After a deep sip, and an appreciative sigh, he continued his tale.

“I passed myself off to him as a Jesuit who had studied in Paris,” Marsh went on with a sly grin, “which explained my perfect French. There
were
some ruins, a mile or so off the main road, so I spun him a tale of their antiquity. He on his fine charger, me on my humble donkey, we rode up there. I
warned
him that what he was doing was dangerous, so … after he hopped about, sketching like mad, and we shared some bread, cheese, and wine, I fulfilled my warning.

“'Twas a warm day, so he'd taken off his coat, laid aside his sword,” Marsh said with a titter, “and I slit his throat and became …
him,
hah hah! Didn't even get any gore on his trousers!”

“You got into Lisbon as an enemy officer?” Mountjoy gasped in shock. “Just … killed the bastard and…?”

Good thing he works for us,
Lewrie thought, astonished by the callous way that Marsh described his murder;
Was he back in London, there'd be
nobody
safe! He's
seriously
twisted!

“No no, old fellow, I couldn't do that,” Marsh pooh-poohed. “But I could make faster progress on a good horse than I could with a burro. There was a spot of bother when I came across a French cavalry patrol, but I had his sketch pad case, and claimed that I was going to Lisbon with despatches to report the presence of those evil British at Ayamonte, and we rode along together for a bit, and a grand time it was, too, for their officer and his troopers were jolly sorts, and we all knew the same French tavern songs, as it turned out. I got to Montijo, got a remount, and headed for Sentubal, their lodgement South of the Tagus. Around dark, I ran into some armed Portuguese patriots, sold them the horse and the whole uniform kit, got some peasant clothing and this fine new
guitarra
from them, and took the Lisbon ferry as an itinerant musician, serenading the locals, and the French garrison, for my up-keep, 'til the bastards left and our army marched in. Ah, Alfonso,” he called to the waiter, “another bottle of this excellent
vinho verde,
and these gentlemen will have…” He ordered for them in fluent Portuguese, which resulted in a pot of sardines, shrimp, and mussels in wine sauce, with crisp bread and smooth cheese.

“Well, I never heard the like,” Mountjoy marvelled, between bites of food. “You astound me, Marsh, you really do. But, how did you manage to turn up at this very tavern the same time as us?”

“Serendipity, Mountjoy,” Marsh told him with a sly grin. “I've been haunting Beresford's garrison headquarters, and Sir John Moore's outside town, for nigh a fortnight, trying to get someone to listen. The Castelo's not a hop, skip, or jump from here, you were obviously on your way there, and the rest was fortunate happenstance. What say we order more grilled shrimp, hey?”

“Listen to what?” Lewrie asked, still puzzled. “Now the Frogs have gone, what information do you have for them?”

“Yes, what you learned was most useful, and allowed us to keep the French from making off with
all
their loot,” Mountjoy praised, “but, now they've gone, I'd think you of more use back in Madrid.”

“Madrid, hah!” Marsh objected. “There's nothing but a circus going on there, full of boasting and self-congratulatory blather! We need solid information for Moore's thrust into Spain, assurances of Spanish support, and we have neither.”

“You don't intend to ride into Spain ahead of the army and do a scout, do you?” Lt. Westcott asked.

“No, sir, I'll leave that to our army to do,” Marsh dismissed the notion with a hoot of mirth. “But, someone should, and soon, but that fact doesn't strike our generals as important, and what they've gotten from Hookham Frere is so much moonshine.”

“Who the Devil's Hookham Frere?” Lewrie said, scowling.

“John Hookham Frere,” Marsh said with the sarcasm dripping, “is a clueless, inexperienced, fool who believes everything the
juntas
tell him, and passes it on to Moore. Lord Canning sent him to Madrid to be Ambassador, and a worst choice I can't imagine. One just
can't
believe a word the Spanish promise, but
he
does. Except for General Castaños at Bailén, the Spanish armies have been beaten like whipped dogs, and the posturing, braggart idiots in fine uniforms claim that they'll do just as well, when their soldiers are without shoes, shot, powder, weapons, horses, and bread. Frere promises them all they lack, then promises Moore that he'll find proper allies over the border.

“They can't arm, feed, or train their own troops, but swear that our army will be amply supplied in Spain,” Marsh sneered, “and on the strength of those empty promises, Frere is urging Moore to get going as soon as dammit, and all is in place, just waiting for him, when nothing has been done to
begin
to gather any supplies!”

“I cannot believe that Sir John Moore will assume that his march into Spain will be that easy, or so well assisted,” Mountjoy said with a dis-believing shake of his head. “He, and we, well know not to put so much trust into our allies, by now. His Commissariat, his baggage train—”

“Inherited from General Wellesley,” Lewrie interrupted.

“Yes, very well thought out,” Mountjoy quickly agreed. “He's the best we have, is Moore, the chief reformer of our armies into the modern age. Why, I should think that he has cavalry vedettes out in the field this instant, scouting the roads, making maps…”

“Ever
seen
Spanish maps, of their
own
bloody country, sir?” Marsh sneered some more. “Even
they
don't trust them, and they show nothing of how passable the roads are, how steep the elevations and descents are, whether the bridges are wide enough to take wheeled waggons or guns, or if they're even still standing! Cattle paths one steer wide they
call
roads!”

“You say you've tried to speak with Beresford and Moore, sir?” Lewrie asked him, beginning to get a bad feeling.

“I have, Captain Lewrie,” Marsh archly and sarcastically told him, “but, I am a
spy,
sir … a despicable, sneaking, lying hound not worthy of
associating
with proper English gentlemen, or of being given the
slightest
note. Their aides openly sneer at my arrival.”

“Perhaps if you changed your clothes…,” Westcott suggested, a bit tongue-in-cheek, which earned him a sudden squint of anger and warning. Romney Marsh was not quite the half-mad theatrical
poseur
living out a great game of intrigue; he was murderously dangerous.

“Perhaps if I spoke with our generals of this matter, along with the other topics I came to Lisbon to discuss with them, I might make them see reason,” Mountjoy supposed.

“Someone must, sir,” Marsh agreed, settling back and making free with the wine bottle again, turning in an eye-blink to a mild and reasonable fellow. “You know that General Sir David Baird is to land eight or nine thousand men at Corunna, in Northwest Spain, and is to march to collaborate with Moore's army? I gather from what I have picked up at headquarters,
despite
my shunning by one and all, that both armies are to meet at Salamanca, cut the French lines of supply, co-operate with Spanish armies, and drive the French out of Spain altogether.

“Hah!” Marsh erupted in sour mirth, loud enough to startle even a few sleepy whores in the tavern. “With no aid or support from the Spanish, with poor, or only imagined roads to march on, campaigning into Mid-winter … in the mountains of Spain in Midwinter? My
Lord
! They've no idea where the remaining French armies are, and how they might move against them. It's daft, daft as March hares … as daft as I am!”

“That's assumin' that Napoleon'll let Spain go without a fight,” Lewrie stuck in, feeling even more gloom and trepidation. “He can't hold his empire if he's seen bein' defeated.”

“That's right, sir,” Mountjoy agreed. “We in the Foreign Office are aware of growing dis-content in his possessions already, nationalist movements growing. Why, he'd have riot and revolution facing him from here to the Russian borders!”

“The French will be back in strength in the Spring, is that what you're saying?” Westcott asked, equally gloomy. “‘Boney' has untold thousands of fresh troops available, his own, and thousands of troops from the other countries he's conquered. He
has
to come back and finish off the Spanish for good.”

“Then, God help the Spanish,” Lewrie gravelled, “even if they can't seem t'help themselves.”

“And God help
our
armies, if they cross the border, trusting the Spanish,” Westcott sorrowfully agreed.

“Hmm, well,” Lewrie summed up, pushing his empty plate aside. “What's it t'be, Mountjoy? A tour of fabled Lisbon, or will you go see General Beresford or Moore?”