Kings and Emperors

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Might not have good holding ground, the same as Gibraltar,” Lewrie agreed.

  “And, if the mountain, and the fortress, disturb the winds as badly as Gibraltar does, sir, anyone anchored there for any time may suffer a clear-weather gust and end on their beam-ends, the same as happens at the Rock!” Westcott exclaimed.

  Gibraltar Bay, from the Old Mole to the New Mole, was littered with the wrecks of ships caught un-awares, and driven ashore onto the rocks as their anchors dragged due to the strong, fluky winds.

  “Ah, Mister Hillhouse,” Lewrie said, acknowledging the Mids as they came to the quarterdeck. “What’s the count?”

  “Formidable, sir,” Hillhouse reported; there was the word, again. “We counted over one hundred fifty guns, altogether, those that fired upon us, and lighter twenty-four-pounders on the upper parapets that could not range us. Fywell’s made a sketch—”

  “I draw quite well, sir,” Fywell piped up, “or so my tutors told me,” he added with a blush.

  “Indeed you do, young sir,” Lewrie congratulated him as he was handed a set of sketches of all three sides of the fortress which had engaged them, and a fourth—sideways view—of the West face and entry gates and the ground at the neck of the peninsula where an army would have to camp, along with the structures along the landing place.

  “Sir Hew Dalrymple will be happy to have these, Mister Fywell, and if you hope to advance, would you please put your name on them in a prominent manner? Good,” Lewrie bade him. “He might mention you in despatches. I don’t know how many guns Ceuta had before, but we have rumours that it’s been re-enforced, and someone will know the original number. Thank you both, you’ve done good service.”

  “Ehm, thank you, sir!”

  “We won’t be going back to harbour, will we, sir?” Fywell had to ask. “Not right away?”

  “Been anchored so long, sir, we’ve nigh lost our ‘sea legs,’” Hillhouse added.

  “No,” Lewrie decided of a sudden. “We’ll stand off-and-on for the night, and see what the morrow brings. Carry on, sirs.”

  “Enjoy,” Lt. Westcott added.

  “Mister Yelland?” Lewrie called out.

  “Still here, sir,” that worthy grunted in reply.

  “Let’s take a look at your charts, sir,” Lewrie said. “Let’s see if we can discover where our soldiers could land and encamp.”

  “Aye, sir,” Yelland said, heading for the larboard chart room.

  Lewrie steeled himself for the stink.

  It was late in the day, in the middle of the First Dog Watch, and Yelland lit a candle to see by. They pored over the chart for some time, but neither of them could admit to the slightest clue as to where Dalrymple thought to land his army.

  “It looks to me, sir, that the coast is too much bluffs and too little beach,” Yelland said, scratching his chin. “The North shore is too open to weather, and the South’s not much better. Maybe they could go ashore far South of Ceuta, and march there.”

  “What’s this little place?” Lewrie asked, pointing to a mote on the chart. “The Isla de … Perejil. What’s a perejil? It’s Spanish, but I wonder if it means something in Arabic.”

  “I think it means ‘Parsley,’ sir,” Yelland supplied. “Parsley Island. Spanish, for certain.”

  “D’ye think parsley really grows there?” Lewrie asked.

  “Haven’t a clue, sir. If it does, some fresh, green parsley would be welcome,” Yelland said with a deep chuckle.

  “We’ll stand off-and-on through the night, but in the morning, I want to take a look at Parsley Island before we head back to Gibraltar.”

  “Very good, sir,” Yelland said, blowing out the candle.

  Being out in the fresh, cool air again was very welcome, as was Lewrie’s joyful greeting from Bisquit, who’d been down on the orlop and shivering in fear. Whenever Sapphire went to Quarters, the poor dog no longer needed someone to lead him below to dubious safety; he dashed down the steep ladderways on his own. Now he was prancing on his hind legs, front paws and head on Lewrie’s chest, and his bushy tail a’wag, making happy little whines.

  “Good boy! Want a sausage?” Lewrie cooed. Bisquit did!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HMS Sapphire ghosted her way to Parsley Island just after dawn the next morning under tops’ls and jibs, with leadsmen in the foremast chain platforms sounding for the shallows. The only charts available were copies of very old Spanish charts—make that ancient Spanish charts—borrowed from the dockyard superintendent. Certainly, no Arabic seamen had made surveys or soundings in the time when the Moors held Spain, Portugal, or North Africa, and made their corsair voyages on “fishermen’s lore.” To make sure that the ship did not strike some submerged rock or shoal, one of the twenty-five-foot cutters led Sapphire by several hundred yards, under a lugsail, with two leadsmen in her bows, as well, and armed with a swivel gun to be fired should they run into any measure less than five fathoms. So far all was well.

  “We’re really looking for parsley, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked between yawns. “It looks a damned dry place, to me.”

  “I did a little fiddling over the charts last night,” Lewrie told him, “and it appears that this little island might not be visible from Ceuta … straight-line ruler, bulge of the mountains ’twixt here and there? But, still close enough to Ceuta to be able to take any approaching Spanish or French ship under fire, if there’s any way t’mount guns ashore.”

  “If there’s any way to get guns ashore, sir,” Westcott countered. “It looks damned steep.”

  The island was not all that big, really, and it put Lewrie in mind of a half-sunk scone, with bald rock cliffs all across the side that they were approaching. Atop of its ragged, erose surface there were hints of desert-like scrub and sere grass, but there didn’t seem a way up to the top. Africa, North Africa, he thought; who’d want it?

  “Eight fathom! Eight fathom t’this line!” a leadsman wailed.

  Sapphire drew nigh twenty feet right aft, slightly less at the bows, so he considered the going safe for a time more, but the best bower anchor was ready to be let go should the men in the chains call out five fathoms, crewmen stood by to seize upon the sheets and braces, and a pair of experienced helmsmen were prepared to put the ship about into the wind in a twinkling.

  “The cutter is showing numeral flag Six, sir!” Midshipman Griffin shouted aft from the forecastle.

  “We’re about half a mile off the island now, sir,” the Sailing Master, Mister Yelland, reported, after a quick peek with his sextant and some figuring on a chalk slate.

  “Seven fathom! Seven fathom t’this line!” a leadsman called.

  “Put the ship about, Mister Westcott, and prepare to let go the best bower,” Lewrie decided.

  “Aye, sir. Hard down your helm, there! Topmen, trice up and lay out to take in sail!” Lt. Westcott ordered in his best quarterdeck shout. “Ready brace-tenders to back the fore tops’l!”

  Sapphire slowly wheeled about to turn up into the wind, barely making four knots in the beginning, and starting to sag slower as the rudder was put over at such a great angle. The jibs began to flutter as the wind came right down the boom and bowsprit, the fore tops’l pressed back against the foremast, and the ship almost came to rest.

  “Let go the bower!” Lewrie ordered, and the large larboard anchor dropped free from the cat-heads to splash into the sea, and the thigh-thick cable rumbled and roared out the hawsehole. Sapphire drifted shoreward for a time, ’til the anchor hit bottom and a five-to-one scope had paid out. Then she snubbed, groaned, and was still.

  “We’ll take the second cutter and the launch,” Lewrie told his assembled officers. “Mister Roe, ten Marines into the launch, and I’ll take the cutter.” Lieutenants Westcott, Harcourt, and Elmes all peered at him, evidently disappointed. “What? D’ye think you’re to have all the fun? Pass word to my steward that I’ll need my brace of pistols, my Ferguson rifled musket, and all accoutrements. Crawley and his old boat crew to man t
he launch, and my boat crew to man the cutter. And Mister Fywell…”

  “Sir?” the lad piped up.

  “Go fetch your drawing materials and join me in the cutter,” Lewrie ordered. “We may have need of some more sketches.”

  “Aye aye, sir!” Fywell said with a face-splitting grin before doffing his hat and dashing off below to the orlop cockpit.

  “Permission to go ashore, sir?” Lewrie’s cook, Yeovill, asked from the foot of the ladder in the ship’s waist. He held up a woven basket. “If there is parsley growing there, I could pick some, or a batch of wild bird eggs.”

  “Permission granted,” Lewrie said with a nod.

  “It looks deserted, sir,” Marine Lieutenant Roe commented. “Do you think the Spanish might have troops there, anyway?”

  “We saw no campfires, no lanthorns or glims during the night, so I rather doubt it,” Lewrie told him, shrugging. “We might run into a Robinson Crusoe, or some Arab fishermen, but—”

  “The boats are coming alongside, sir,” Lt. Westcott announced. “Bring me back a mermaid.”

  “Right up to an Arabic country, I’d have thought you’d ask for a hareem, or a genie in a bottle,” Lewrie teased, for Westcott was a fellow madder for quim than any he’d ever seen.

  “Oh, one or two jewels from some sultan’s hareem would suit me just as well,” Westcott allowed, pulling a face.

  * * *

  “Reminds me of Malta, sir,” Marine Lieutenant Roe commented as the cutter was slowly stroked towards the shore of Perejil Island, “a vertical rock wall everywhere you look but for Valletta Harbour.”

  “You’ve been there, sir?” Lewrie asked, wondering how a young Roe could have served in the Med before, aboard another warship.

  “Oh no, sir,” Roe said with a chuckle, “but my uncle has been, and he had an illustrated book about the Turk siege of 1565. That’s how I formed my view of it. A rather fanciful book.”

  “Can’t see that fort no more, sor,” Patrick Furfy, stroke oar and long a member of Lewrie’s small entourage, pointed out with a jut of his chin to the East. “They’s tall bluffs in th’ way.”

  “No, you can’t,” Lewrie realised, taking a look for himself. “Thankee, Furfy.”

  “No place t’land, sor,” Cox’n Liam Desmond said.

  “Let’s go round the East end of it, then,” Lewrie decided.

  Close in, within a long musket-shot of the shore, the island’s bluffs looked to be as tall as the masthead of a ship of the line and just as hard to scale. There might be hand-holds for anyone determined to climb, but sea birds of a myriad of sorts had built nests where one could put a hand or foot, and the narrow ledges would be slick with guano, making that approach almost impossible, if not suicidal.

  The two boats rowed round the Eastern end of Perejil, looking for a landing place, but it was much the same there, too, but—

  “Damn my eyes, will ye just look at that!” Lewrie exclaimed as he beheld a wide, sheltered bay on the South side of the island, and a jutting headland that daggered at the African mainland, a headland with a pronounced slope. A few more minutes of rowing on calmer waters took them towards the tip of the headland, and Lewrie was even more pleased to see that the headland separated one bay from another to the West, just as spacious and sheltered from strong winds.

  “We’ll have to take soundings, but each one looks as if more than ten transport ships and smaller warships could anchor in each bay!” Lewrie crowed, clapping his hands together.

  The cutter and launch steered into the second wide bay, and Lieutenant Roe raised an arm to point. “There, sir. There’s a notch in the West side of the headland, like someone took an axe to it … and I think there’s a way up.”

  “Take us over to it, Desmond, and let’s see,” Lewrie said.

  “There is a landing!” Midshipman Fywell exulted.

  Sure enough, the split notch began at the foot of the bluffs, by a small patch of gravelly, shingly “beach” littered with rocks the size of cobblestones, and a path led up from that spot to the top of the bluff. Low wind-shaped scrub bush and stunted trees grew in that shelter, here and there.

  “Mister Roe, land your Marines from the launch, first, and go scout your way to the top,” Lewrie ordered, turning on his thwart to wave the launch ahead of his own boat.

  “Fix bayonets and prime your pieces!” Roe shouted over to the Marines in the launch. “We’ll be going up first, Sar’nt Clapper.”

  “Roight, sir!” Sergeant Clapper acknowledged.

  “Think there’s enough room for two boats, sir?” Roe asked, anxious that he not be separated from his men.

  “Take us in, Desmond, soon as Crawley’s hands have boated their oars,” Lewrie ordered. “We don’t want t’snap any more of the things.”

  At least Midshipman Fywell found it funny.

  First the launch, then half a minute later the cutter, ground their bows on the beach, and bow men leapt out with painters to find some place to lash their lines to keep the boats ashore. Marines filed forward to the launch’s bows and jumped overside into shallow water, not up to their shins. Lieutenant Roe leapt out of the cutter, drew one of his double-barrelled pistols, and joined them, leading them up the notch.

  “Leave four hands from each boat, Crawley.… Desmond, the rest follow the Marines,” Lewrie said, stumbling forward over thwarts and stowed oars to the cutter’s bow to step ashore himself.

  Stealth, should any Spanish soldiers be on the island, was out of the question. Issue boots slipped and slid on rocks and hard, dry soil, and their presence stirred up several hundred sea birds to caw and mew in protest and take wing with the sound of flapping canvas.

  Have to exercise more, Lewrie told himself as he scrambled up, grasping on to the thin, stunted trees and shrub branches that were so thinly rooted that they could not be trusted, head up and ears cocked for danger. The notch was wider than it had first appeared, but deeper, and steeper a climb, deep enough to cast them all into shade from the rising sun.

  “Hold it up, hold it up,” Sgt. Clapper was warning in a growl of caution, waving sailors and Marines to hunker down as Lieutenant Roe knelt at the very top of the notch with a Private Marine to each side of him, and was slowly raising his head for a wary look-see.

  “Come on up, lads, there’s no one here,” Roe called down the notch to the shore party. He and his brace of Marines scrambled up to the top of the island and stood, looking round.

  “Un-inhabited?” Lewrie asked Roe once he was up.

  “Well, sir, there’s a rock circle where someone camped out not a stone’s throw from the top of the notch, some broken crockery, and a cast-off blanket,” Roe told him. “If anyone lit a cookfire, it’s been ages since.”

  “Wild bird eggs, hmm,” Yeovill mused, looking about. “A dozen might make a regular-sized omelet. Tiny. But, there’s nests everywhere you look.”

  “An’ bird shite,” Furfy said with a snort.

  “Let’s spread out and look around,” Lewrie ordered. “If you run into anything interesting, give a shout. If we must run back to the boats, Mister Roe will blow on his whistle.”

  “That notch, sir,” Lt. Roe said, pointing downward. “If that’s the only way to get up here, fifty Marines could defend it against hundreds. Fifty men, with a pair of swivel guns, or boat guns?”

  “Desmond, you and Furfy scout the top of the bluffs Westward, to the tip of the island, to see if there’s another way up,” Lewrie told them. “And, if you find a source of water, that’d be welcome.”

  “Aye, sor,” Desmond said, knuckling his brow in salute. “Come on, Pat. We’ll work some of our fat off.”

  Lewrie walked off North, making a bee-line for his ship, which was anchored off and in plain sight from anywhere on the island. He discovered that the roughly flat surface of Perejil was not so flat as it had first appeared. There were rocky outcroppings here and there, and some depressions in which rainwater might gather, where the plant life was a shade greener and health
ier than the dried grasses and shrubbery, which were so wind-shaped that they put him in mind of the miniature trees or stylised representations of trees that he’d seen at Canton, China, long ago. There were some wildflowers here and there, wilted by a Summer of Mediterranean heat and a lack of rain, poking up among what he could only call weeds. His late wife had been the one with a green thumb, lovingly tending the back garden of their old house, and the large circular plot before it where carriages could turn around.

  “Whoo!” Yeovill shouted, some hundred yards away. “Parsley!”

  At least someone’s pleased, Lewrie sourly thought.

  He turned about to see Midshipman Fywell sketching madly away, unsure what he’d depict first, but eager to limn it all.

  Close to the North bluffs, Lewrie stopped and looked right and left, speculating on how much loose rock, some of it large slabs or boulders, there was, and how hard and dense was the soil. A sly grin arose on his face as he imagined several gun emplacements dug into the edge of the bluffs, screened with piles of rock before each for make-shift parapets. He drew his hanger and probed the ground, bringing up little mounds of gravel, sand, and dirt, and smiled some more.

  “It’s a stone ship of the line,” he whispered. “Half a mile long, un-assailable, and the Dons can’t see it from Ceuta. Hah!”

  He walked back towards the top of the notch, found Lt. Roe, and had him blow the recall signal. “Back to the ship, lads! Rally here!”

  Desmond and Furfy were the last stragglers to return, blowing with their exertions. “They’s no other way up, sor,” Desmond said. “It’s nigh vertical bluffs right down t’th’ tip of th’ island.”

  “Anybody wish t’live here, they’d best bring a water hoy, for they’s no water anywheres, sor,” Furfy added, licking his lips.

  “We’ve five-gallon barricoes in both boats?” Lewrie asked, and looked at Desmond and Crawley for confirmation. “Good. As soon as we’re at the boats, we’ll all have a ‘wet.’ Careful where ye place your feet on the way down, lads, and don’t trust the hand-holds. I’d not like any broken bones or heads.”