“Oh, well, sir,” Yeovill pondered. “Let me think on it for a bit. I found a receipt at Gibraltar for a French dish, Chicken Marengo…”
“Had that in Paris,” Lewrie commented. “Good!”
“Onions, tomatoes, eggs … though I don’t know what to replace the crayfish with,” Yeovill maundered on. “Salt-fish? Hmm. A berry trifle for sweets, and we’ve lashings of fresh green beans. Potatoes with cheese and bacon…”
“Couscous, with cheese sauce,” Lewrie suggested, instead.
“With some chicken gravy to moisten it, yes, sir,” Yeovill said with a nod. “Chick peas, turned to hummus, with stale bread for dipping. And, we’ve more rabbits than God.”
Long ago, Lewrie had served under a Commodore who’d insisted that rabbits and quail made a topping-fine alternative to salt-meat, and he had emulated him. They bred quick, too.
“Sounds good, Yeovill,” Lewrie praised. “I’m certain you will produce a triumph, you always do.”
“Thank you for saying so, sir,” Yeovill replied, smiling with delight. “Exotic and foreign, hey? Then that’s what it will be.”
“Good man,” Lewrie said.
“Cool tea, sir?” Pettus offered, and Lewrie was more than amenable to that, too.
I can’t wait t’see Hughes’s ruddy face when he gets served that! Lewrie thought. He’d seen how much Hughes disliked any foreign “kick-shaws,” and he fully intended to make him as uncomfortable as he could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The days on passage back to Gibraltar were a trial for Lewrie, since Major Daniel Hughes was aboard, and most of the time as chatty as a linnet or parrot, underfoot of the crew’s work on deck, and an outright pest in the wardroom, where he was lodged in the spare cabin to starboard, right aft. Certainly, he was out of touch with world affairs and eager to hear of Ceuta being evacuated, of Cádiz’s fall, of how widespread the Spanish rising had become, but he was full of so many questions that the officers when off watch got to entering their flimsily-built cabins to sham sleep just to avoid him. Hughes lurked the quarterdeck and the poop, taking the air, pestering the Midshipmen with his tales of recent battles—in which they’d been active participants and saw them differently—his capture, which became a fierce fight before being overcome the more it was related, and his treatment at Órgiva and Málaga, his release by Spanish patriots who’d taken pity on him—now a story of derring-do and brave escape—and his long ride to Salobreña just chock-full of close pursuit and narrow escapes.
Worst of all, Hughes had the idea that if he’d been allowed Lewrie’s great-cabins once, and was dined in several times out of teeth-grinding hospitality, then he could breeze in and plunk down on the settee and order up a glass of something every time he felt a thirst. “The Rhenish, Pettus, there’s a good fellow. I’m dry as dust, what?”
The last straw was when Hughes seated himself in Lewrie’s wood-and-canvas collapsible deck chair, propped his feet up, and began reading one of Lewrie’s racier novels! That had resulted in an altercation with Mr. Deacon that went roughly thus.
“I wouldn’t do that, sir,” Deacon cautioned. “Like the windward side of the quarterdeck is only for the Captain, so’s his chair.”
“What?” Hughes had grumped back. “He ain’t usin’ it at the moment.”
“He’ll be dis-pleased does he discover you in it, sir,” Deacon remonstrated.
“Who are you to tell me, Deacon?” the Major barked. “I’ll not be ordered about by a jumped-up ex-Sergeant, or a spy’s ‘catch-fart’ minion! Bugger off!” He returned to his novel, fussily.
“I don’t know whether to challenge you to a duel … sir … or simply kill you where you sit … sir!” Deacon replied, bristling up and exuding a palpable air of menace.
“Captain’s chair, Major Hughes,” Lt. Harcourt, the officer of the watch, snapped, coming to the top of the larboard ladderway to the poop deck. “If you would be so good.”
“You hear what this … common enlisted man just told me?” Hughes gravelled.
“Didn’t hear a thing that passed between you, Major Hughes,” Harcourt told him. “This gentleman was doing you a service before Captain Lewrie caught you in his chair, right, Mister Deacon?” Harcourt asked, stressing “Mister” as Deacon’s due honourific.
Hughes scowled his dis-pleasure, went red in the face, but got to his feet and slunk off to the wardroom, leaving Deacon seething and Lieutenant Harcourt shaking his head.
“Do not kill him while he’s still aboard, Mister Deacon, hey?” Harcourt bade him. “If you need a second, I’m offering, however. I’m of a mind to be first in line, myself. God, what a pain he is!”
* * *
At last, HMS Sapphire dropped anchor and came to rest off the Old Mole of Gibraltar, and with that broom lashed to the main mast truck as Lieutenant Westcott had suggested.
“Might I offer you a lift ashore, Major Hughes?” Lewrie asked, once all the topmen had descended from the yards, after all sail had been brailed up in harbour gaskets.
“Thank you, Captain Lewrie,” Hughes replied, stiffly formal. “I would much appreciate it.”
“I’d also suppose we’re both bound to the Convent to report to General Dalrymple,” Lewrie went on, searching for something pleasant to say with the man while Desmond and his boat crew went down the man-ropes and battens to man one of the cutters. “He’ll be astounded t’see you, I’d imagine. Back from the dead, all that?”
“I would imagine so as well, sir,” Hughes said, “though he’s likely filled my old position as his aide, by now.”
“Yet, you sounded delighted to return to your regiment and its mess, your fellow officers,” Lewrie said.
“Oh, yes, that’ll be topping,” Hughes agreed.
“Though, you may give up your brevet promotion,” Lewrie simply had to say, to get a sly dig in.
“Yes, unfortunately,” Hughes said, scowling.
“Met a fellow once, a Lieutenant promoted to Commander and sent home with a prize,” Lewrie related, “but, Admiralty didn’t confirm his status, and he was stuck ashore, without a ship, and in a year’s worth of arrears t’pay Admiralty back the difference in pay.”
Hope the Army does the same, ye beef-to-the-heel lummox, he happily thought.
“Your boat is manned and ready, sir,” Lt. Elmes announced.
“Very well, Mister Elmes,” Lewrie said, going to the lip of the entry-port to take the ritual of departure, doffing his hat to his crew, and the flag. Hughes carefully made his way down the side of the ship and thumped himself down on a thwart in the sternsheets nearby to Lewrie. A leather satchel was lowered down on a line, and a moment later, Mr. Deacon descended, right spryly, to take a seat between Pat Furfy, the larboard stroke-oar, and the starboard oarsman, facing the pair of them.
“Enjoy the voyage, did ye, Mister Deacon?” Lewrie asked him.
“Delightful, Captain Lewrie, thank you,” Deacon said, beaming his pleasure, and pointedly ignoring Major Hughes.
“Shove off, bow man,” Cox’n Desmond ordered. “Back-water, starboard.” He put his tiller hard over. “Poise … out oars, larboard. Now, stroke, all together now.”
“All in all, the results were most pleasing,” Lewrie said to Deacon. “Success for your business, and for mine.”
“Mister Mountjoy will be over the moon, sir,” Deacon agreed. “He’ll pass the news of the destruction of a French demi-brigade to London, and all the newspapers will pick it up. One might say that British arms won their first victory over France in Spain. A sign of things to come.”
“Hope they spell my name right,” Lewrie joshed.
“I’m of a mind to write Horse Guards of my adventures as well,” Major Hughes piped up, intrigued by the possibility of his account being published, of being “mentioned in despatches” and “Gazetted.”
“Your observations on the state of the Spanish army, sir?” Lewrie asked.
“A churlish lot,” Hughes barked in sour amusement. “The senior
officers are clueless peacocks in grand uniforms, the junior officers are so loutish and lower class that the fine ladies of Málaga despise them, and their soldiers, rank and file, even in barracks, are slovenly sheep. Badly shod, if shod at all, most in sandals, I ask you! I believe if they have arms, they’re short of powder, if well-armed, they’re short of rations. Their army is a sad joke. They’ll stand no chance against the French, none at all. It’ll take a British army in Spain to beat the French.”
“Headed for the Convent, first, sir?” Deacon asked Lewrie.
“Aye, for a while, if Dalrymple has time for me. If not, I’ll go have dinner and leave my written reports,” Lewrie replied.
“Dalrymple, then my quarters,” Hughes stated, though no one had really asked him. “Un-pack my stored chests, settle back in, and dine decent, for once.”
“Ye don’t think your fellow officers might’ve auctioned your goods off, do ye?” Lewrie teased. “I’ve heard it done.”
“They would not dare,” Hughes growled. “It’s not as if I’m dead!”
“In your long absence, sir,” Deacon said, addressing Hughes for the first time since their contretemps aboard ship, “might your Colonel have requested your replacement from England?” Deacon said it with a sobre face, but Lewrie had to bite his lip to keep from guffawing. “Can’t let a company be led by a subaltern, not for long.”
“Well, if one’s promoted to Brevet Captain…,” Lewrie mused, “but, I s’pose he can always revert back to bein’ a subaltern.”
“If they have promoted an officer to my old place, he’ll have to give it back, as soon as dammit,” Hughes asserted, growing testy with the trend the conversation was taking.
I’d wager they shoved you at Dalrymple as an aide ’cause they couldn’t bloody stand ye, Lewrie thought with evil delight.
“Slow stroke,” Cox’n Desmond ordered as the cutter approached the landing stage below the stone quays. “Ready with yer gaff, Deavers. Toss oars, all. Ehm, yair sittin’ on th’ aft dock loine, sor,” he said to Hughes. “Ya moind passin’ th’ coil t’me, Yer Honour, sor?”
Oh God, now Desmond’s mocking him, layin’ the “brogue” on as thick as treacle, Lewrie thought, feeling like sniggering.
Emulating naval protocol, Mr. Deacon was first out of the boat with his satchel, followed by Hughes, after Lewrie waved him to start. Lewrie exited last, and they all strolled up the wooden ramp to the top of the quays.
Oh, Christ! Lewrie thought; The cat’s outa the bag!
For not only was an eager Thomas Mountjoy on the quay to greet them, but so was Maddalena Covilhā, dressed in a summery pale blue sheath dress, with a gay bonnet on her head, and a parasol twirling in her hands.
“Why, Maddalena!” Hughes exclaimed, holding out his arms as if she’d come for him. “M’dear! I’m back!”
Maddalena coyly danced right past him with barely a glance in his direction, went straight to Lewrie to plant a kiss on his cheek, and put her arms round him!
“You!” Hughes accused. “You?”
“Sim, him,” Maddalena said to Hughes with an impish expression.
“But…!” Hughes gargled.
“Me,” Lewrie told him.
“You are back, at last, meu querido,” she cooed to Lewrie.
“It’s grand t’see you, minha doce,” Lewrie cooed right back.
“Well, just goddammit,” Hughes growled, astounded, then stomped his way off.
Poor bastard, Lewrie gleefully thought; There’s no good news for him, or welcome, either! About what he deserves!
BOOK THREE
“Let there be light!” said God, and there was light!
“Let there be blood!” says man, and there’s a sea!
—LORD BYRON (1788–1824), DON JUAN
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lieutenant-General Sir Hew Dalrymple was in a very good humour when Lewrie entered his offices in the Convent. He was standing at his large map of Iberia, hands in the small of his back, rocking on the balls of his booted feet, with a satisfied smile on his face.
“Aha, Sir Alan! Relished your report!” Sir Hew declared. “Positively relished it! A half-brigade slaughtered, what?”
“Well, I can’t claim an outright slaughter, Sir Hew,” Lewrie countered. “It was closer to a decimation, with only ten percent or so killed or wounded. Losing their artillery and baggage train was the worst blow.”
“And their pride and confidence,” Dalrymple added. “The esprit de corps of a unit matters as much as weaponry. A very good show, all in all, along with the delivery of arms to the junta in Granada. Do sit, sir. Wine, or tea?”
“Tea, sir,” Lewrie replied, easing into a comfortable leather chair in front of Dalrymple’s desk as Dalrymple rang a china bell to summon an aide.
“Lord, the Spanish,” Dalrymple said, shaking his head as he sat behind his desk. “Rival juntas are springing up all across Spain, which is welcome. But, just because Seville was the first does not mean they will all look to Seville as the sole authority. Each one swears they will raise their own army, but co-operation among them, well … that will take some doing, I’m afraid. Without a king, and a united court, and a definite chain of command over all the armies, the Spanish stand little chance against the French in the field. It will still take a British army to lead the way, and coax our allies into working together. A senior British general with the nicest of diplomatic skills.”
You, for one, Lewrie cynically thought; what the man’s always wanted.
“At least our Andalusians can work together,” Dalrymple went on, rubbing his hands and smiling again. “We’ve just heard that the forces of General Castaños, and the forces assembled round Granada, have met and defeated a French army under a General Dupont near a town called Bailén. It took them six days of fighting, but, Castaños took the surrender of over seventeen thousand French. Bonaparte has not lost that many prisoners at one go since the army he abandoned in Egypt surrendered to us in 1801! Isn’t that grand, sir?”
“This is confirmed, sir, not a wild rumour?” Lewrie charily asked. “You know foreigners exagger—”
“Confirmed,” Dalrymple insisted, still beaming. “The arms you delivered played a part in it, and smashing that French column most-like freed up Spanish re-enforcements who would have been pinned down guarding against a thrust from Málaga, so you may take great satisfaction in your recent sally, Sir Alan.”
“Oh, I see, sir,” Lewrie replied, wondering if Dalrymple made note of his contribution in his report to London; he could use some good credit with Admiralty.
A smartly-uniformed Private, most-likely Dalrymple’s personal batman, entered with a tray and tea set, pouring for both and offering sugar, lemon, or cream as stiffly as a Grenadier Guard on “sentry-go” at St. James’s Palace. Once done, he jerked to Attention, stamped boots, saluted, turned about, and marched out, closing the double doors softly.
“Sir Brent Spencer’s force moved inland to support Castaños,” Dalrymple casually related, legs crossed and stirring his tea, “not actually with the Spanish, setting up a depot at Xeres.”
Lewrie looked at the large map but could not find it.
“Now that Dupont has been defeated, and Seville, Cádiz, Granada, and Córdoba are free of French occupation, I have ordered him to get back to the coast at Puerto de Santa María, and sail North to unite with Sir Arthur Wellesley’s army. I wish you to go to Cádiz Bay and provide escort for his transports ’til Admiral Cotton’s squadron can take over the duty.”
“Of course, Sir Hew,” Lewrie dutifully answered, even though the idea of more convoy-work almost made him gag. “Where will they be going?”
“Wellesley intended to land at Corunna in Northwest Spain, but he learned that the French had just defeated a Spanish army in the near vicinity, and the Galician junta was fearful of drawing too much attention to themselves,” Dalrymple told him. He took a sip of his tea, nodded with pleasure at its taste, but set cup and saucer aside to go to his map. “
Vigo is also out, but Admiral Cotton chose Mondego Bay, right here,” he said, tapping the map, “just by Figueira da Foz. There is a French garrison in the fortress at Coimbra within an easy march to Mondego Bay, but it is thought to be too weak to hold the fort and intervene with the landings, Spencer has nigh five thousand men, Wellesley has nine thousand five hundred, and there are units of the Portuguese army still free and available. That should make a decent force to take on Marshal Junot’s army.”
“That’s about an hundred miles North of Lisbon, is it, sir?” Lewrie asked, abandoning his own tea to go to the map.
“Yes, thereabouts,” Dalrymple agreed, all his attention on the map, his head turning back and forth as if following the marches of large armies on a long campaign.
Winnin’ a war in his head, Lewrie sourly thought.
“Junot has fifty thousand, though,” Lewrie commented.
“Yes, but he can’t hold the entire country,” Dalrymple objected. “It’s been determined that he’s concentrated at the frontier fortresses of Almeida and Elvas, that small garrison at Coimbra, and the bulk of his force is at Lisbon, below a line ’twixt Abrantes and Peniche. A Portuguese junta is centered at Oporto, and their partisan irregulars and their regular army have been savaging a force under a General Loison sent into the interior, who has pulled back closer to the main French army round Lisbon to lick his wounds. It’s good odds that Wellesley will prevail, though he may find that the French are more dangerous than hordes of Hindoos.”
“How soon must I sail, sir?” Lewrie asked.
“As soon as possible, Sir Alan,” Dalrymple told him.
“Very well, sir,” Lewrie replied with a nod, “but, I would like t’finish my tea,” he japed.
“What?” Dalrymple gawped, scowling at him for a second before catching on. “Aha, I forget that you are possessed of a merry wit, sir!”
“I get it from my Midshipmen, sir,” Lewrie explained tongue-in-cheek. “They’re always an impish lot.”
* * *
“Pass word for the First Officer,” Lewrie told a Midshipman of the Harbour Watch as soon as he’d taken the salute to welcome him back aboard HMS Sapphire. “I’ll be aft. Best summon Mister Yelland, too.”
Kings and Emperors Page 19