Kings and Emperors (46 page)

“One would hope that Sir John
is
in contact with the Spanish at Lugo and Léon, then,” Deacon said, “and has been informed that the French are in force, and hunting him, before he blunders into them.”

“Amen,” Lewrie seconded. “Ehm, given all this new information, why am I here, then?”

“If given sufficient warning, there is a possibility that Sir John won't have to retreat over the mountains back into Portugal, but may be able to move from Salamanca, where he expected to link up with General Baird, to Valladolid before the French get there, and get on some halfway passable roads to the Galician ports of either Vigo or Corunna, and be extracted by sea, Captain Lewrie,” General Drummond told him. “I am formulating orders for General Fox on Sicily, and to our garrison at Malta, to send as many troop transports as they have to Gibraltar. I am also sending requests to Admiral Cotton, and Admiral de Courcy off Galicia, to ready themselves for an evacuation. As soon as we have a reasonable number of transports assembled here, along with sufficient escorts, I would wish that you take charge of them and sail to join Admiral deCourcy and place yourself and your transports at his disposal.”

“Aha?” Lewrie said, startled. “Well, there goes our plans for Christmas geese,” which comment forced General Drummond to peer at him in intense scrutiny, as if Lewrie was not of sound mind.

“Game for it, are you, Captain Lewrie?” Drummond demanded.

“At your complete disposal, sir,” Lewrie insisted. “And I shall begin provisioning for a lengthy time at sea, at once.”

And a miserable time it'll be,
Lewrie grimly told himself, for this time of year there would be strong Westerly gales and high seas along the Portuguese and Spanish Western shores, which could drive any number of struggling ships onto the rocks. He recalled a peek he'd had at the sea charts, just a casual glance, really, in quieter times; from Cape Fisterre to Corunna and Ferrol the Spanish called it the
Costa da Morte,
the Coast of Death! He assumed that the Dons knew what they were talking about!

“Sir Alan won't let the Army down, sir,” Mountjoy felt need to declare. “He's game, and more than game, for anything.”

So long as I don't drown myself, yes,
Lewrie thought.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

There had been four “troopers” in port at Gibraltar when Lewrie had gotten his initial orders from General Drummond, and over the next week, a dozen more had come in in answer to Drummond's urgent summons, all of which needed victualling, for Lewrie was certain that the army would be desperately short of rations when, or if, it managed to make its way to Corunna or Vigo to be evacuated.

For once, Captain Middleton, the Dockyard Commissioner, was all open co-operation, throwing open his warehouses and fulfilling every request, though his insistence on strict accounting for each jot and tittle could almost drive everyone involved mad. Captain Middleton also fretted over whether the one-thousand-bed naval hospital would be called upon to tend to God only knew how many injured and sick soldiers, sure that his small medical staff would be swamped.

Drummond did receive assurances from London that the Government was at last aware of the pending disaster, and was also assembling a large fleet of transports in British ports to take off the army, but no one could say just when that fleet would sail, or arrive, making the departure of Lewrie's small contingent even more vital, no matter how few soldiers could be rescued by a mere sixteen ships. He would be lucky to take off a little more than 2,100, if the usual loading of 150 soldiers to each transport was followed, the equivalent of a three-regiment brigade!

Escorts, though, were another matter. There was a brig-sloop from Admiral Cotton's squadron that had come in with sprung masts in need of repair, the
Blaze,
under a Commander Teague who was working his crew day-and-night to set her to rights. There was another brig-sloop belonging to the Mediterranean Fleet that had come to Gibraltar from the Toulon blockade; unfortunately, the
Peregrine
had not come in response to Drummond's requests, but to repair storm damage she'd suffered off Cape Sepet, and had been looking forward to a spell of shore liberty after making her own repairs. Commander Blamey had been stunned by the news, and his new duties, but had also pitched in to ready his ship for departure.

Lewrie was sure that he needed more, for the Nor'west coast of Spain was uncomfortably close to the French ports of Bayonne and Bordeaux, the safe anchorages up the Gironde River, where privateers and French warships were based. If word got out that Sir John Moore's army was counting on a transport fleet for their salvation, it would draw them out like a disturbed swarm of bees. The weather would be abysmal, the Winter Westerlies might be “dead muzzlers” to pen them in port, but, if they did get out somehow…?

On top of all his frets, there was Maddalena, too.

*   *   *

He had been ashore to deal with the Dockyards for extra blankets and hammocks, just in case
Sapphire, Blaze,
and
Peregrine
had to take soldiers aboard and quarter them any-old-how, arseholes to elbows. He had reported to Drummond at the Convent to fill that worthy in on his progress, and how soon his escorts could be ready to sail. And, he had gone to Maddalena's lodgings to speak with her, perhaps for the very last time.

“If I don't return for some time, dear girl, or … don't return at all…,” he had said as calmly and logically as he could.

“Don't
say
that, Alan!” she had countered, tears already coursing her cheeks, and laying a finger on his mouth to shush him. “You
will
come back, you always come back!”

“I'll do everything in my power to do so,
querida,
but, if the sea goes against me…,” he had cautioned, shrugging off the possibilities, “it's a foul Winter, full of storms, and a lee shore all the way there and back. If something
does
happen, the branch of Coutts' Bank here has a tidy sum for you, and if you need any help in the matter, go see Thomas Mountjoy and Daniel Deacon. I've spoken with them, and they'll see you right. Your lodgings are paid for through next year, and—”

“I do not care for lodgings, or sums, or…!” Maddalena had rejoined with a visible shudder. “I only care about
you, meu querido! Meu amor!
You are so good … you have been so good to me, I cannot think of life without you.”

“I've been my happiest with you, too, Maddalena,” he assured her, embracing her more snugly and burying his face in her sweet-smelling hair. “We both know, though, that I wouldn't be at Gibraltar forever. My Navy has a way of callin' people away, just when they feel happy, or comfortable, or … snug, I s'pose. We both knew it, goin' in … didn't we?” he had tried to tease. “That we could make the best of it 'til that happened, or…”

I don't much care for thinkin' of my own death, either,
he had thought, pressing even closer to her body, as if the physical act of moving was proof against that.

“How many days do we have, Alan?” she had whispered against his bare shoulder. “You will be busy? Too busy for me?” she had said, making it sound like a plea, not an accusation.

“A day or two, at most,” he had to confess. “Once the other escorts are repaired, I'll
have
t'sail with what little I have got. I can't wait for late arrivals. Duty's a demandin' bitch, but there it is.”

“This may be our last time?” Maddalena had whimpered, and he had to nod yes, and she had peered him right in the eyes, so gravely, and had whispered “Then, make love to me, one last time,
meu amor.
”

And that had been frantic, thrashing, panting, and
searingly
passionate. There was no bed, no tangled sheets, nothing in this world but the sensation that they floated on a supportive and ephemeral cloud, all of Lewrie's senses tunnelled down to his member, her sweet, hot wetness and her tightening, 'til he had exploded in her, so pleasurably that it almost hurt, and seemed to last forever, each after-thrust a re-awakening. Maddalena had cried out and had clawed at him at that same moment, wrapping her legs about him, seizing his buttocks to drive him deeper and keep him there to savour every last wave, rolling her head from side to side and gasping for air.

That's one for the memoirs,
he told himself as he lay spent, at last, slowly going flaccid and hating the moment to come when he would have to withdraw.

“My Lord, girl!” he croaked,
“Foi extraordinário!”

“Sim, selvagem,”
she agreed as he slid to her side to hold her, and rained slow, lazy, lingering kisses on him.

Boom!
from the harbour, beyond the balcony, then
Boom!
again, as steady as a metronome.

“What the Devil?” he had groused, sitting upright and grabbing his discarded shirt to hold before his groin to go see what the noise was all about. He flung one of the double doors open. “Hell, yes!”

There was a frigate standing into port, firing her salute to the garrison commander, announcing her presence, wreathing herself in powder smoke.

“If she isn't comin' in on purpose, then I'll have her, no matter!” Lewrie had exclaimed, going back inside to hunt up his clothing. “I'm sorry, Maddalena, but I have t'speak with her Captain. I need her for my escort force, just
perishin
' bad!”

“I go with you, Alan,” she had replied, though looking so very sad and disappointed. “I walk you to the landing.”

“I'd love it if you would,” he had told her.

*   *   *

By the time they were both properly dressed and presentable in public, the arriving frigate had come to anchor and had handed all of her sails up in harbour gaskets. Lewrie could see that she had two of her boats down, a small jolly boat for her Bosun to row about the ship to assure himself that all her yards were squared, and a gig that was headed for the main landing stage, and by the look of her passengers, bearing that frigate's captain ashore to report to General Drummond.

“She may have come under orders t'join me,” Lewrie eagerly said, increasing their pace, “and if Middleton has the other two set to rights, I could be out to sea and on my way by dawn tomorrow!”

He spared a bit of his attention to glance at Maddalena, who was practically trotting to keep up with him, and noted her stricken expression.

“Sorry, my dear,” he told her, “but events are bigger than we are. I
have
to—”

“I understand, Alan,” she replied, “but I do not have to like it.” She flashed him a brave smile that both knew was a sham.

Lewrie made it to the top of the quay and the head of the landing stage ramp just as the newly-arrived frigate's gig came alongside the lower stage. He felt a sudden qualm as he clapped eyes on the Post-Captain in the boat, and suddenly wished that he had left Maddalena at her lodgings.

This could be awkward,
he thought;
I wonder what he thinks of mistresses?

The officer in the boat was getting to his feet and about to step ashore. He was a striking fellow, slim, tall, broad-shouldered, and rather handsome, nigh-dashing it could be said. He paused to exchange words with a Midshipman in the boat's sternsheets, who pointed at Lewrie as if to make his superior aware of Lewrie's presence.…

What the Devil?
Lewrie thought;
Is that…?
Can't
be
!

The Midshipman dared wave to him, beaming fit to bust.

Awkward, mine arse!
Lewrie quailed;
It
is
Hugh! How's
he
vote on kept women?
This'll
be embarrassin'
!

His youngest son, Mr. Midshipman Hugh Lewrie, exited the boat first, following naval protocol; senior officers were first in to boats, but last out. But Hugh didn't wait for his Captain to step ashore, but came dashing up the ramp from the landing stage shouting “Father, at last!” bubbling over with joy of their
rencontre.

“Well, hallo, son, where did you spring from?” Lewrie cried, glad to see him, of course, but caught in a cleft stick. He flung his arms wide in welcome, anyway. “Damn my eyes, but you've grown! I almost didn't recognise ye!”

And that was certainly true, for when he'd seen Hugh off into his first ship in 1803, the lad had been a thirteen-year-old stripling, and here he was five years later, eighteen now, and damned near a man grown, taller and filled out, sun-bronzed and tarry-handed. Hugh had inherited his mother's hair colour, but years of ocean sun had turned his light brown hair almost blond. He'd gotten his father's eyes, though, stark grey-blue against a seaman's tan.

Hugh didn't come to his embrace, though, but doffed his hat in salute first, to which Lewrie responded in kind,
then
they met close, heartily shaking hands. If he could not hug him, then at least Lewrie could thump him on the shoulder.

“It's been too damned long, Hugh, a dog's age and more,” Lewrie told him, smiling widely, even as he dreaded the consequences to come.

“Aye, it has, sir,” Hugh eagerly agreed, then turned serious as he sensed his Captain behind him. “Ahem, my pardons, Father, but, do you allow me to name to you my Captain … Captain Richard Chalmers of the
Undaunted
frigate. Captain Chalmers, sir, allow me to name to you my father, Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, of HMS
Sapphire
.”

At least he sounded proud to do so.

“Honoured to make your acquaintance, Captain Lewrie, and the very man I was ordered to seek out,” Chalmers said in a forceful baritone, chin up, and doffing his hat in salute.