Kings and Emperors (51 page)

“It'd take some crafty ship-handlin', aye,” Lewrie said, standing erect from leaning over the inclined chart table, and tossing the pencil into a low shelf on the back edge. “But, if the army runs into trouble, I'll not have it said that the Navy let 'em down. That's what they pay us for … crafty ship-handlin', right?”

“Right, sir,” Mr. Yelland said, looking as if he had been ordered to thread 'twixt Scylla and Charybdis, hunt up the fabled Northwest Passage through Midwinter icebergs, or sell his first-born son; that glint in his eyes, and the way he licked his lips, told Lewrie that Mr. Yelland was badly in need of a stiff “Norwester” glass of grog.

Lewrie stepped back out onto the quarterdeck, took a deep and refreshing breath of clean air, then trotted up the ladderway to the poop deck for a better vantage point. The cannonading was continuing, with no sign of a French breakthrough … yet. When he swivelled to look to the West, where Percy Stangbourne's cavalry guarded the road from Vigo, he could not spot any sign of a French attack. Whoever was in command of the French troops looked as if he was throwing all he had at the Monte Mero, so far.

Can't be Napoleon himself, then,
Lewrie thought; that
bastard would be sneaky enough t'feint an attack where Moore's strongest, and hit him where he's weakest.

*   *   *

Lewrie returned to the quarterdeck after a break to warm up in his great-cabins, and have Yeovill fetch a pot of hot tea from the galley, and, admittedly, to visit his quarter-gallery toilet. He saw his crew gathered all down the bulwarks facing the shore, half-way up the shrouds, in the fighting tops to watch what was happening ashore. Some men of the off-watch division had eschewed four hours of sleep below, and were on deck in their warmest clothing, with their blankets wrapped round them.

“Any change?” Lewrie asked the First Officer, who was sipping a cup of tea himself, with his own boat cloak wrapped round him for warmth.

“It gets louder, now and then, sir, then fades out a bit,” Lt. Westcott said with a bored expression on his face. “Every now and then I
think
I can hear musketry, but, who knows?” he said with a shrug. “We
seem
to be holding them in check.”

Lewrie pulled out his pocket watch to note that it was a little past 10 in the morning of the 16th of January, and the fighting had begun just round 9
A.M.
He looked shoreward with his telescope for a long minute, then lowered it and looked round his own decks. Hands were looking aft at the quarterdeck, now that he was back.

Lewrie made up his mind with a firm nod, then went to the edge of the quarterdeck to lean on the cross-deck hammock stanchions.

“Lads!” he called out loudly, drawing everyone's attention to him. “The Army's holding the damned Frogs, so far! I'll tell you what I know from when I was ashore at Vimeiro!”

He described the French column formations, and how they marched shoulder to shoulder like a massive blue carpet, how the British Army kept their men safe behind the ridges yonder 'til it was time to come up and shoot those columns to a bloody standstill; how the exploding Shrapnel shells would burst over them and scatter bodies about; how a reef of dead and wounded would pile up knee or thigh high, when the French would stall, unable to step over those reefs, even though the drums and the officers would still urge them forward; and he told them how the French had broken and run, at last, and how vain those shouts of
“Vive l'Empereur!”
would be.

“Long live the Emperor,” he said in a comically shaky voice, “and let
me
live t'get
outa
this place!
Mon Dieu, Mort de ma vie!
I am
running
now,
toot sweet!
”

That had them roaring with laughter.

“I was told that those ridges yonder, the Monte Mero, are steep, and so full of boulders, it might as well be a stone fort,” he went on. “The Frogs'll be out of breath by the time they're halfway up, and dyin' by the dozens at every step. All the gun-smoke is over on the
other
side, so far, so…'til we see red coats fallin' back, and blue carpets on this side of the ridges, all's well. If we
do
see that, then we'll sail over to that inlet, yonder,” he said with one arm pointing towards the foot of Santa Lucía Hill, “and use our cannon t'slaughter 'em by the hundreds!

“Our first year in the Med,” he exhorted, “you shot the Devil out of forts and batteries … this Summer, we took on that column of Frogs marchin' along the coast road from Málaga, you shot the
guts
out of two Spanish frigates. You're the best set of gunners ever I did see in the King's Navy. If called to do it, can ye shoot Hell out of a French
army
?”

Eager cries of agreement and cheering greeted his exortations, and he waited 'til it died down before continuing. “For now, we will wait t'see what happens. You off-watch men, you really
should
go below and get some sleep, but I can't
order
ye to. So…'til the rum issue and dinner, let's have a Make and Mend, and stand easy.”

They cheered that, too. The keenly curious could stay by the bulwarks and up the masts, while others could read, write letters, or mend their clothing, fiddle with their craftwork and carvings, whilst a fair number would indeed nap on deck wrapped in their blankets, or go below to turn into their hammocks.

*   *   *

The rum issue at Seven Bells of the Forenoon came and went, as did the hands' mid-day meal, the change of watch from Noon to four, the change of watch at the start of the First Dog, and even the approach of the Second Dog at 6
P.M.
The army was holding, it seemed, as the sun sank low and dusk began to dull the view of the shore. Lewrie had been aft in his cabins, catching up on the never-ending paperwork associated with a ship in active commission, when he took note that Pettus and Jessop were lighting more lanthorns.

And the sudden silence.

“What the Devil?” he asked himself as he rose from his desk, cocking his head to listen more closely.

“Think it stopped, sir,” Jessop commented. “Quiet-like.”

Wonder if that's good, or bad,
Lewrie asked himself as he went for his hat and boat cloak, and hastened out to the quarterdeck, where he found his officers gathered in puzzlement, up from the wardroom in curiosity, instead of preparing for their own suppers.

“There are boats coming off from the quays, sir,” Lt. Westcott pointed out. “More wounded men, it looks like.”

“Any summons from the flag for us to send in boats?” Lewrie demanded.

“Not yet, sir, no,” Westcott answered, totally mystified.

“I can't see any French infantry on the ridges, sir,” Harcourt, the Second Officer, reported. “Ours, mostly, some hand lanthorns, and litter parties, I think. The light's going.”

Boom-Boom!
There were two guns fired aboard Admiral Hood's flagship, the General Signal to all naval ships present to watch for a hoist of signal flags, which would be hard to make out in the gloom of dusk.

“I can make out … Send Boats,” Midshipman Hillhouse slowly read off with a telescope, “and Wounded, spelled out, sir.”

“Let's be at it, then, gentlemen,” Lewrie snapped, “man all boats and get them on their way. See which transport shows a night signal that she's to receive wounded. Bosun Terrell? Muster all boat crews!”

“What of the hands' supper, sir?” Westcott asked. “What should Mister Tanner do, hold off serving out, or—?”

“Damn,” Lewrie spat. “He's to serve those men still aboard, and let the meat simmer awhile longer for the rest.”

He dearly wished that he could hop into the pinnace or the launch and go ashore to discover what had happened, but, for once he held himself to a tighter rein. He would have to be
patient
!

“Mister Hillhouse, still here?” he called out.

“Aye, sir?” the Midshipman replied.

“Take charge of one of the cutters, get ashore, ferry wounded men out to the transports ready to receive them, but … report back to me as soon as you can as to what's happened ashore,” Lewrie ordered.

“Aye aye, sir!” Hillhouse said, doffing his hat before dashing off, eager to shine, happy to be singled out, and just as curious as his Captain in that regard.

Who the Hell am I dinin' in t'night?
he had to remind himself;
Sailin' Master, Marine officers, Purser, and Mister Elmes, and two of the Mids? Well, the Mids are out, they'll all be busy.

He thought better of that.

“Gentlemen, I will be dinin' later than normal,” he announced. “We'll put it off 'til the Mids invited are back aboard. I will be aft.”

As soon as he was in the privacy of his cabins, he tossed off his hat and boat cloak and cried for whisky, listening to the clack of his chronometer as it measured the un-ending minutes that he had to bide.

*   *   *

“Midshipman Hillhouse t'see the Cap'm, SAH!” the Marine at his door shouted.

“Enter!” Lewrie barked back, much too loud and eagerly.

Mister Yelland the Sailing Master, Marine Lieutenants Keane and Roe, Mister Cadrick the Purser, and Lieutenant Elmes were already in the great-cabins, sitting or standing round the starboard side settee with wineglasses in their hands. Their already-muted conversations were hushed as Hillhouse entered, hat under his arm.

“Well, Mister Hillhouse?” Lewrie demanded.

“Beg to report, sir, all wounded are now aboard the transports, and our boats are returning,” Hillhouse began, very aware that all eyes were upon him. “The army beat off every French attack, and hold the same positions that they did this morning. I was told it was touch and go round some village called Elvina, the French would take it and we would shove them back out, several times. I was told that they're fought out … the French, I mean, sir. Shot their bolt, was the way an officer described it. We've
won,
sir!”

Sapphire
's officers began to cheer at that news, but Hillhouse was holding up a hand to indicate that there was more to be imparted.

“It was dearly won, sir,” he said at last when the din had subsided. “General Sir David Baird is among the wounded, had his right arm shattered, and General Sir John Moore, sir … he was hit by a cannonball, and he passed over, just after the French retired from the field. General Hope is now in command of the army, and he wishes the army evacuated, now the French are so badly mauled. I am told that we should begin just after first light, tomorrow, sir.”

“Baird, good God!” Lewrie gasped. “I knew him, from Cape Town. Poor fellow! I hope he survives his wounds.”

“And, we all met Sir John last year, sir,” Lt. Elmes lamented. “A Devil of a fine fellow, a gentleman, and a soldier.”

“Amen t'that,” Lewrie agreed, taking a sip of his wine that had suddenly lost its sprightly lustre. “Hope is sure that the French are done, they've shot their bolt, and can't interfere with the evacuation?”

“I gathered that they were in very poor shape when they arrived, and fought out of sheer desperation for our rations, sir,” Hillhouse told him, “much as you speculated this morning, that they were fighting for a spoonful of food!”

“Well, then, sirs, let 'em starve some more round their cheerless campfires tonight,” Lewrie said with a grin, “and let
us
make a point to dine exceeding
well
! You'll join us, of course, Mister Hillhouse?” And the Midshipman nodded his thanks, Lewrie raised his glass and proposed a toast; “To Victory, gentlemen!”

“Victory!” his officers shouted back.

“And Confusion, and Famine, to the French!” Marine Lieutenant Roe added on, crowing with glee.

“Ah, supper is laid and ready, sir,” Pettus reported.

“Good! Let's dine, then, sirs,” Lewrie bade them, waving them to the dining-coach and their places at the table.

Some victory, though,
he thought as he took his seat at the head of the table;
too dearly won, and we're
still
slinkin' off like thieves in the night. And, there's still tomorrow. The army ain't away Scot free, yet!

 

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The 17th of January dawned cold, mockingly clear, but with boisterous seas out beyond the harbour. It appeared almost too cheerful and sunny, as the day progressed, to shine so on the scene of such a dreadful and desperate battle. Upon mounting the poop deck for his first look-round with a telescope, Lewrie discovered that the number of transports huddled in Corunna's harbour had been reduced. During the night, those ships with the sick and wounded, and the remnants of the army's wives, children, and camp-followers, had departed.

Word had come during their supper the night before that all of the evacuated troops would not be returned to Lisbon, where they had started, but would be borne back to English ports, as if the entire expedition had been given up as a failure. That prompted speculation that the ten-thousand-man garrison left in Portugal might be withdrawn, as well. “Keep it to yourselves,” Lewrie had cautioned, though “scuttle-butt” would spread, as it usually did, to every man and boy aboard as if he had stood on the quarterdeck and bellowed the news to one and all!

Make the best of your way to English ports, is it?
Lewrie reminded himself as he scanned the fleet, and gave out a derisive snort;
Well,
which
bloody ports, hey? Regimental sick, wounded, wives, and kiddies end up at Falmouth, and their men end up at Sheerness? What idiot decided
that,
I wonder? England, well! It
would
be grand to be home for a while.