Kings and Emperors

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Admiral Collingwood, sir? I’d dearly love to meet him!” Lewrie gushed out with boyish enthusiasm.

  “What, Captain Lewrie, am I not famous enough for you?” the Admiral rejoined with a peevish look.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that, sir!” Lewrie gasped. “Perish the idea! I merely meant, ehm…!”

  “It is of no matter,” Purvis said, waving a hand to dismiss any thought of being insulted. “Perhaps General Dalrymple, being an Army man, has not enlightened you, Sir Brent, on Sir Alan’s adventurous accomplishments at sea. He’s reckoned as one of our most daring frigate captains, and even saddled with command of a poor older ‘fifty,’ he’s still raising devilment. The Naval Chronicle featured action reports of his doings along the Andalusian coast last Summer, which were bold.”

  “You do me too much credit, sir,” Lewrie replied, putting on his modest face. “Just raising some mischief.”

  Ye going t’fill Spencer in on some, or will I have t’dine him aboard and do my own braggin’? Lewrie thought.

  “I dearly wish that I could have remained on-station just long enough to see Cádiz fall to us,” Purvis said with a weary sigh. “And sail in and make prize of those damned French ships that escaped us at Trafalgar.”

  “That’d be grand, sir,” Lewrie told him. “Though, after anchored idle so long, they might not be in good material condition, and there’s little the Spanish yards could do to keep them up.”

  “Even so, it’s more the satisfaction than the price a Prize-Court places upon them,” Purvis countered. “Claim them, and rub the Corsican Ogre’s nose in it one more time, remind Bonaparte of his worst defeat at sea, in a long string of them. Know what he is rumoured to have said when he heard about Trafalgar? ‘I cannot be everywhere,’ hah! As if that lubber would be a better Admiral than any of his!”

  “Well, if he had been, sir,” Lewrie slyly replied, “we’d have bagged the lot of ’em, French and Spanish, captured ‘Boney,’ and hung him in chains at Execution Dock!”

  “Hear, hear!” General Spencer crowed.

  “I had planned to dine my officers in this evening,” Purvis said, as if quibbling. “If you gentlemen would care to join them?”

  He sounded as if he’d rather not, but could be gracious.

  “Topping!” Spencer cried. “Sure to be better than the swill I get aboard my transport, what? I accept with pleasure, sir.”

  “I’d thought to return to Sapphire, sir,” Lewrie begged off, sure that that was the right thing to do. Any time with General Sir Brent Spencer was too much time, he was learning.

  “Oh, if you insist, Sir Alan,” Purvis replied, much too quickly, and with a relieved grin.

  “I am certain that you may regale Sir Brent,” Lewrie said.

  “Oh … indeed,” Purvis said, almost pulling a face.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The last days of May, and the first days of June of 1808 were spent sailing off-and-on under reduced sail, a bit out to sea of Rear-Admiral Purvis’s ten sail of the line, waiting for word from shore, or further orders from Gibraltar. Aboard HMS Sapphire, live gun drill was held, cutlass drill, pike drill, and the striking and hoisting of top-masts, just to keep the ship’s people’s skills from going rusty. The weather was fairly decent, the convoy was well-protected by the ships that Purvis led, and it could almost be termed “cruising and claret.”

  Lewrie was bored, of course.

  He tried to bear boredom stoically, with much play with Bisquit and Chalky, and with sword-play with his officers and senior Midshipmen. He’d fetch a chair from the dining-coach and sit out on his stern gallery, with the improvised screen door secured so that Chalky could not dash out, leap onto a cap-rail, and go overboard, and practice on his penny-whistle, quite ignoring the whines and howls from the poop deck above from Bisquit, who was either greatly distressed, or trying to sing along; it was hard to tell which.

  In private, stripped to the waist so he wouldn’t sweat up one of his linen shirts, he would exercise with wooden pails with various weights of swivel gun roundshot, lifting, swinging, and grunting with effort, to the amusement (well-concealed, of course) of his steward, Pettus, and cabin-servant, Jessop.

  He’d been skewered in the left thigh by a Spanish bayonet up the Appalachicola River during the tail-end of the American Revolution, had had his left arm shot at the Battle of Camperdown, and had been shot in the right thigh off Buenos Aires two years before, and his workouts made them all let him know that he was getting older, and that he was not the hale and hearty fellow he’d been before, but he persisted. Fourty-five was not that old, after all; was it?

  “Cool tea, sir?” Pettus asked after his last efforts.

  “Christ yes, thankee,” Lewrie eagerly said, sponging himself off then towelling, and flinging himself into a comfortable padded chair. “With lots of sugar. Whew … woof!”

  “Keeps you a fine figure of a man, sir,” Pettus commented.

  “Lotta work, if yer askin’ me,” Jessop muttered.

  “I don’t do half what you do, Jessop,” Lewrie reminded him. “Ye wished t’be more of a sailor, servin’ a carronade, climbin’ the masts, tailin’ on sheets, halliards, and gun-tackle. That’s your exercise.”

  “’At’s just work, sir, wot I’m s’posed t’do,” Jessop rejoined.

  “Ages ago, aboard my first ship, the Ariadne, there was a Marine officer,” Lewrie told him, “who suggested that the ladies prefer a fit man over a gotch-gut, one who’s light on his feet and can dance well, not thunder round like ‘John Bull.’ All that exercisin’ I did at my father’s farm t’heal up from gettin’ shot two years ago, t’make myself fit for command, again … ye took part in that, and you’re a fit and spry young fellow, yourself. Ain’t he, Pettus?”

  “He is, yes, sir,” Pettus agreed as he fetched a tall, cool glass of lemoned and sugared tea, “the delight of all the girls at Gibraltar, the young rogue.”

  “All ’at heavin’ an’ liftin’ beat muckin’ out th’ stables an’ barns, sir,” Jessop said with an impish grin. “I wasn’t havin’ any o’ that. I ain’t a farmer, nor wish t’be. Gimme Portsmouth or London, anytime.”

  The Marine sentry outside Lewrie’s cabin doors rapped the deck with his musket butt, and stamped his boots. “Midshipman Griffin t’see the Cap’m, SAH!”

  “Shirt, Pettus,” Lewrie bade. “Enter!” he called out once he was partially presentable.

  “The flag has made our number, sir, and signalled Captain Repair On Board,” Midshipman Griffin reported.

  “Well, just damn my eyes,” Lewrie spat. “The Admiral will have t’settle for slovenly, if he wants me straightaway. Thankee, Mister Griffin. Muster my boat crew, if you please, and I’ll be on deck, directly.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Lewrie had not shaved that morning, and was dressed in loose and comfortable slop-trousers, white wool stockings, and a pair of buckled shoes, not his Hessian boots. With Pettus’s help, he got a fresh shirt done up and his neck-stock bound, shirt-tails crammed into the trousers’ waist-band, into a waist-coat and a plainer, older coat.

  “Dress sword, sir?” Pettus asked from the arms rack.

  “No, give me the hanger,” Lewrie decided, “and me older hat.”

  “What will Admiral Purvis say, sir?” Pettus fretted as he provided the requested articles.

  “That I was prompt?” Lewrie japed. “Keep the cat amused.”

  * * *

  It was a long and nigh-boisterous journey under lugs’l to the flagship, several miles off, but at last he made it and went up the battens and man-ropes to be greeted with the due ceremony. Once on deck, he noted that a Bosun’s chair was being rigged.

  “For General Spencer, I presume?” Lewrie asked the Lieutenant who had been assigned to see him aft.

  “Aye, sir,” the officer said with a snigger.

  When Lewrie arrived in the Admiral’s cabins, he found that he was one among many; the Captains of all ten ships of the line were present, including
Purvis’s Flag-Captain.

  “Ah, Captain Lewrie … Sir Alan, excuse my casual address,” Purvis said.

  “It’s a Captain Lewrie day, sir, and no matter,” Lewrie offered.

  “So I see,” Purvis said with a brow up. This day, he did not appear quite so worn or tired as he had upon their first encounter.

  Somthing’s lit his fire, Lewrie thought; feagued him like an old horse with ginger up its rump.

  Beyond the cabins, there were more Bosun’s calls, the squeals of pulley-blocks. General Spencer was arriving. Right after he was admitted to the great-cabins, he looked for a place to stow his hat, and peered about as if looking for a drink.

  “Sir Brent, welcome,” Purvis said. “We have heard from shore, at last. Wine for all, if you please,” he directed his servants, and ordered all to find a seat.

  “We’re landing my damned troops, at long last, are we, sir?” Spencer boomed out, clapping his hands in delight.

  “Here is what we know,” Purvis went on, standing behind his desk. “The city, and the Spanish garrison of Cádiz, has risen, and the pro-French governor, and some of his aides and hangers-on, have been dragged into the streets and murdered.”

  “Huzzah!” one Captain shouted.

  “We are not to enter the city, or the bay, however,” Purvis went on, lifting a quieting hand. “Word has come that the Spanish are to deal with the French ships in harbour. They’re moving bomb vessels and gunboats, and positioning fortress guns to take them under fire if they do not strike. The French Admiral, Rosily, seems determined to resist, though there’s little hope for him. If the Spanish don’t set them afire with heated shot, then they’d face us if they sortie, so … in the interests of supporting our new … ally,” he spat the word, “I must leave the honour of capturing those ships to the Spanish.”

  “Oh, sir!” one of the officers commiserated. “After all of our hopes, and yours!”

  “I know, I know,” Purvis replied, looking stony for a moment, then perked up, possibly for their benefit. “The silver lining to it … the Supreme Junta in Seville has declared war upon France, and upon Napoleon personally, if one can imagine that. General Castaños at San Roque has been named Captain-General of the Army of Andalusia, and I have been requested to allow merchantmen currently anchored in the Bay of Cádiz to sail for Ceuta, to take off a major portion of the fortress garrison and transport them to Algeciras, to augment General Castaños’s forces.

  “I have also gotten a request to provide a ship to bear a delegation from the Supreme Junta to London, to begin formal negotiations to end the war ’twixt Great Britain and Spain, and I am eager to do so. Any suggestions?”

  “Part of my convoy escort, sir,” Lewrie quickly offered, “the Barbados frigate, a thirty-two. She’s fast and weatherly.”

  And, she ain’t the Sapphire, Lewrie thought; Better anybody than me. I want t’stay and see what happens!

  “Thank you for the suggestion, Captain Lewrie,” Purvis replied. “Aye, once the French ships have been captured, it will be safe for Barbados to enter port and take the emissaries aboard.”

  “Then I can land my troops at Port María?” Spencer pressed.

  “Ah … no, Sir Brent,” Purvis had to inform him. “The Junta will not tolerate the presence of British troops in, or near, Cádiz, though if threatened by the arrival of a French army, that may be allowed at a later date. They have suggested Ayamonte, instead.”

  “Where the bloody Hell’s Ayamonte?” Spencer groused, turning red in the face.

  “It’s a small seaport at the mouth of the Guadiana River, Sir Brent,” Purvis said, almost with a sly look. “Your troops won’t have to be ferried onto a beach, but can land directly on the quays, and the transports may moor alongside, making the un-loading of your artillery and supplies much easier.”

  “Wasn’t on my maps,” Spencer gravelled.

  But it was on Lewrie’s sea charts, and he recalled where it was; he had to hide his amusement.

  “Ayamonte is on the South bank of the Guadiana, Sir Brent,” he took some delight in telling him. “Portugal is on the North. As far as the Spanish want you to Cádiz, and still be in Spain.”

  “The stiff-necked, prideful bastards!” Spencer screeched.

  “Look on the bright side,” Lewrie quipped. “You can be rowed over the river and liberate Portugal, if you’ve a mind.”

  “Rear-Admiral Sir Charles Cotton, blockading Lisbon, reports that his informations place only four thousand French soldiers at Lisbon,” Purvis said with a shrug. “He thinks a British force of six thousand could take the city, though personally, I doubt his figures. They seem too low, to me.”

  “We know that Marshal Junot led fifty thousand troops into Portugal, and there is a lot of territory to cover,” General Spencer said with a hopeful note. “Hmm, Lisbon, Oporto, the ah … other cities to occupy. Your man Cotton might be right.”

  “Temporarily, Sir Brent,” Purvis cautioned, “but if you march on Lisbon from Ayamonte, Junot could summon re-enforcements quickly, and I believe that we have all seen the Napoleonic way of war, by now, and how quickly French armies can move. Portugal must be left to the expeditionary force under General Sir Arthur Wellesley. On my part, I shall add one of my Third Rates to the escort and retain the Barbados frigate to transport the Spanish delegation to London, when it arrives in Cádiz from Seville. So, you may begin your landing at Ayamonte at once, Sir Brent.”

  “Then let’s be about it, shall we, sir?” Lewrie prompted the General, who was still looking peeved. “With weather permitting, we can have you and your troops on dry land by the eleventh or twelfth.”

  “A toast all round, gentlemen,” Admiral Purvis proposed, waving his empty glass in the air to summon his cabin servants for re-fills. And once all the glasses had been re-filled or topped up, Purvis paused in thought for a moment, then said, “We could call for victory, or we could call for peace with Spain, but I think a general sentiment may cover the situation presented us. Gentlemen, I give you Death and Confusion to the French!”

  “Death and Confusion to the French!” they all chorused lustily, and those seated pounded their fists on their chair arms, stamped their feet on the hard oak deck, and punctuated the air with more huzzahs.

  After that, most officers gathered up their hats and made their way to the weather decks to depart. Lewrie was certain that he was the junior-most Captain present, and would be first down the side to his boat, but Purvis crooked a finger at him.

  “Bide, Captain Lewrie,” Purvis said. “I shall write orders for the Barbados frigate’s Captain, and would admire did you forward them to that worthy.”

  “Of course, sir,” Lewrie agreed.

  “Sorry you will not have an opportunity to meet Collingwood,” Purvis said, “but, he’s off to Gibraltar to confer with Dalrymple.”

  “It is of no matter, sir,” Lewrie shrugged off.

  “Good, then,” Purvis decided. “I will assign the Norwich to be Barbados’s replacement in your squadron. Her Captain caught a fever and passed over, recently, and her First Lieutenant, Abercrombie, is Acting-Captain. I note that you do not fly a broad pendant?”

  “No, sir,” Lewrie told him. “My appointment as senior officer was by luck, and a request from General Dalrymple, so Admiralty had nothing to do with it. If a man senior to me had shown up among the assembled ships, I would not be drinking your excellent wine.”

  “Had you not made a name for yourself as a fighting Captain, sir, I’d take you for a scape-grace!” Purvis said with a faint laugh.

  “Well, it’s still early days, sir,” Lewrie japed back.

  “Hah! Whilst I write my orders, you should have another, then,” Purvis decided. “Re-fills here!” he called to his servants.

  * * *

  “Have you any news to share, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked once Lewrie had gained his own quarterdeck, and sent his boat over to the frigate with new orders.

  “Grand news, and a fair parcel of it, Mister Westcott
, which I will share,” Lewrie told him, grinning, “just as soon as you can call all officers aft to my cabins. Mister Hillhouse?” he asked the senior Midshipman standing watch. “I have need of Mister Harcourt for a while, and would admire did you take charge of the quarterdeck.”

  “Aye, sir,” Hillhouse replied, straightening up.

  “We’re off to Ayamonte, Mister Westcott, as soon as one of the Third Rates joins us,” Lewrie said.

  “Where’s Ayamonte?” Westcott wondered aloud.

  “The arse-end of Spain, right by the Portuguese border,” Lewrie said. “If the Dons don’t want us in Cádiz, we’ll have t’go in the back entrance. Mister Yelland? Fetch your charts for the coasts North of Cádiz, will you? We’re landing a British Army in Spain!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Grubby-lookin’ place, ain’t it?” Lewrie mused aloud after a long look through his telescope, now that Sapphire was safely anchored in the Guadiana River, in the middle of the stream and just a few hundred yards from the town of Ayamonte. The troop transports and supply ships, which drew less water, had preceded the two-decker to the town and its piers. Lewrie had thought to leave the sloop of war and brig-sloops at the mouth of the river, several miles below, to guard against the slight risk of the rumoured French squadron at Rochefort appearing to crush his little ad hoc force. They would cruise off-and-on the coast. The 74-gun Norwich he had ordered to anchor in the mouth of the river as a floating battery to deny an enemy an entrance to the river. He would have liked to stay down there with her, but, he had to be close to General Spencer, and had to carefully feel his way up to Ayamonte.

  “Anchored fore and aft, sir, with springs on the cables as you wished,” Lt. Geoffrey Westcott reported. “Hmm … the land about the river and the town is fairly level. Should there be French troops in the vicinity, we should be able to support General Spencer ’til he’s got his artillery ashore.”

  “Not a lot to the place, is there, Geoffrey?” Lewrie asked the First Officer. “It could be almost picturesque, if somebody thought to re-paint and sweep up the trash.”