Kings and Emperors

by Dewey Lambdin

  Men on deck perked their ears up and began to speculate, for a summons like that always meant a quick return to sea. Sapphire’s crew had been looking forward to a run ashore by watches, which would mean at least two days in port, with firewood, water, shot, and powder, and fresh provisions taken aboard which might mean a third day of rest and even a Make and Mend half-day of idleness to nap, repair their clothing, read, or write letters home.

  No helpin’ it, Lewrie thought as he hung his hat on a peg on an overhead deck beam; I’m bein’ deprived the same as them. One supper with Maddalena tonight, and we’re off, dammit to Hell.

  “First Orf’cer t’see th’ Cap’m, SAH!” his Marine sentry loudly announced.

  “Enter!”

  “Bad news, I take it, sir?” Lt. Geoffrey Westcott said with a gloomy expression as soon as he entered the great-cabins.

  “Aye, Geoffrey. Take a pew,” Lewrie told him.

  A moment later, and Mr. Yelland was announced and given leave to come in.

  “Sailing, are we, sir?” Yelland asked, looking as glum as a hanged spaniel. Whatever that worthy had lined up ashore did not bear imagining, but what pleasure he was now denied hurt him sore.

  “Wellesley is to land at Mondego Bay, in Portugal, and we’re to see Spencer’s little army there t’join him, Mister Yelland. Have you charts of the place?” Lewrie asked.

  “Aye, sir, though I’ll have to dig them out,” Yelland replied. “If you will excuse me for a moment?”

  “Of course, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie said. Once the Sailing Master had departed, Lewrie pulled an apologetic face for Westcott. “Sorry about this rush, but there’s no helping it. How ready is the ship for sea?”

  “We’ve the firewood and water, we’ve replaced what little we consumed by way of victuals,” Westcott told him, “but replacement shot and cartridge bags are wanting, and the Purser has yet to lay hands on livestock, or fruit. The wardroom’s short of wine and brandy, and all my small-clothes need washing, and my under-drawers itch me, sir. Other than that, we could get under way by dawn tomorrow.”

  “Is she that fetching?” Lewrie teased, sure that Westcott’s grumbling was over his girl ashore; no matter where they went, one could count on Westcott finding himself some female comfort.

  “Aye, she is,” Westcott said with a chuckle and one of his brief, harsh grins. “A fair-haired girl from Genoa. Can’t make out damn-all what she’s saying half the time, but what does that matter? Italian’s not my strong suit.”

  “But young women are,” Lewrie said, grinning as well.

  “Well, one has to be good at something!” Westcott laughed.

  “Sailin’ Master t’see th’ Cap’m—,” the Marine bellowed.

  “Aye, enter!” Lewrie said with impatience, and Yelland bustled in with several rolled-up charts in his hands, and they all gathered round as Yelland spread them out on the dining table.

  “Figueira da Foz, here, sir,” Yelland said, “and Mondego Bay here. It looks to be a good, long beach, running from the city to the Nor’west to Cape Mondego. Better there than a bit North, sir, along the, ah … Dunas de … Qui-ai-os, however the Hell you say it. God, foreign tongues! No roads shown there, sir. If the army artillery and waggons land there, they’d bog down.”

  “And once there, they’re to march all this way to Lisbon?” Lt. Westcott posed. “Best of luck to them.”

  “That’s the intention,” Lewrie said, summarising the locations of French forces in Portugal, and remembering that Dalrymple had put a pin in his grand map at Setúbal, on the other side of the peninsula below Lisbon and the Tagus River, where French Marshal Junot had placed more of his invasion force. “I’m also told that there’s some French warships at Lisbon, and there’s speculation that eight or so Russian ships are there, and have been taken over, or are now allied with the French.”

  “Damme, didn’t Russia issue some sort of declaration of war against us, already?” Mr. Yelland asked, sounding exasperated.

  “If they did, they’ve not taken any hostile action against us, yet,” Lewrie told him. “Just closed their ports to our merchantmen as part of Napoleon’s Berlin Decree. If those ships do hear about Wellesley’s coming, or Spencer moving t’join him, they might sortie, so we’d best keep a keen lookout.”

  “How many other ships are available for the escort, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked.

  “Dalrymple’s writing to the Captains of the ships in harbour to assemble an escort,” Lewrie said. “There’s Newcastle seventy-four, and a brace of frigates. Newcastle’s Captain’s most-like senior to me, so we’re just along for the voyage … and I won’t have t’think a lot. ‘Yes, sir, no, sir, two bags full.’”

  “The coast of Portugal offers quite a few places where the soldiers can be extracted, should the French force them to,” Yelland speculated, leaning closer over his chart.

  “Once at Mondego Bay, we’ll meet up with Admiral Sir Charles Cotton’s squadron,” Lewrie informed them, “and we’ll be as safe as houses. Puerto de Santa María to Mondego Bay? Five-hundred-odd sea miles?”

  “About that, sir, about that,” Yelland agreed, though pulling a face, “as the crow flies. Might take a week, depending on the direction of the wind, and all. Fifty miles right up to windward can turn out to be two hundred in tacking. Hmm, I believe I must go ashore for a bit, sir. It might be a good idea to look for a map of Portugal, not just a sea chart. It might be good to know what’s beyond the first line of hills and mountains that a chart shows us.”

  “Good idea,” Lewrie agreed. “Know where the army’s going.”

  “You just want ashore,” Westcott teased.

  “Christ, who doesn’t, Mister Westcott?” Yelland exclaimed. “I have your permission, sir?”

  “Aye, go and fetch us some maps,” Lewrie allowed, “something t’fill in the white voids two miles inland.”

  Yelland rolled up his charts and departed, looking too cheerful for words, while Westcott scowled at his back.

  “Thank God,” Westcott said, waving a hand under his nose. “He is riper than usual. Does he ever bathe or change clothes?”

  “A good navigator, though,” Lewrie said. “He must be borne.”

  They heard a Midshipman hailing an approaching boat.

  “Lord, what now?” Lewrie asked, fetching his hat off the peg, preparing to go back on deck to see what it was about.

  “Orders for your Captain!” a voice shrilled from the boat.

  Lewrie heaved a sigh and went out to the quarterdeck, whiling the wait away by petting the ship’s dog, Bisquit, who was always up for attention and affection. A Midshipman came to the deck from the boat and handed a sealed letter over to Midshipman Harvey, with an exchange of stiff, doffed-hat salutes, and the stranger was back over the side. Harvey brought the letter to Lewrie, bowing as he uselessly announced, “Letter for you, sir.”

  “Thankee,” Lewrie replied as he tore it open to read it. “Mine arse on a band-box!” he exclaimed a moment later. “Jemmy Shirke?”

  He hadn’t seen or heard a thing about his former mess-mate in ages, and perhaps that was a good thing, for when they’d been Midshipmen together in the old HMS Ariadne in 1780, Jemmy Shirke had been a pain, a surly, teasing, and practical-joking lout who’d tormented Lewrie with one prank after another, playing “scaly-fish” to “the newly.” Shirke had been a guest when Lewrie was thrown a “wetting down” party to celebrate his Lieutenancy on Antigua, which Keith Ashburn had turned into an noisy orgy worthy of the old Hell-Fire Club, which had been raided by the other patrons of the Old Lamb in Falmouth Harbour, and broken up early.

  Last I saw o’ Jemmy, he had his head ’tween some whore’s teats, and goin’ “brr,” Lewrie thought, with only a modicum of fondness; How the Devil did he ever make “Post”?

  However it had happened, Jemmy Shirke advanced through the Lists, and was now senior to Lewrie, and as Senior Officer Present, he would command the escort to the convoy bearing General Spencer and his troops to Mondego
Bay. The letter was addressed to the Captain of the Sapphire, not by name, inviting him to dine aboard with the captains of the two frigates; it was not a peremptory Captain Repair On Board.

  Hmm, wonder which of us’ll be the more surprised, Lewrie wondered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Lewrie?” Captain James Shirke exclaimed as he greeted him by the entry-port of HMS Newcastle, his Third Rate 74. A second’s astonishment was followed by a crafty look. “Come up in the world, ain’t you. My Steel’s is out-of-date, else I’d’ve known who it is I’m feeding. My Lord, a knighthood? When did that happen?”

  Just to make sure that Shirke didn’t pick up where he’d left off in the early days, Lewrie had tricked himself out in full regalia.

  “About four years ago,” Lewrie told him. “The King threw in a Baronetcy, to boot. Must’ve been he was havin’ a bad day. I’ll tell ye about it over supper. Good t’see ye again, Jemmy, and congratulations to yourself. When did ye make ‘Post’?”

  “Late Ninety-Six,” Shirke said, turning wary. “You?”

  “Spring of Ninety-Seven,” Lewrie said, and Shirke looked relieved. “How did that party end, by the way? I slipped out with my wench, through a side door.”

  “Hah!” Shirke let out a bark of humour. “They turfed us all out in our small-clothes, the girls half-nude, and it was the Hue and Cry all the way back to the piers!”

  Jemmy Shirke had put on a stone or two, and his smug face had thickened a bit, yet, for age, he appeared about the same as he had in the old days; a prominent forehead, a slightly pouted mouth, and a pair of clever brown eyes.

  “Boat ahoy!” one of Newcastle’s Mids called to another approaching gig.

  “Aye aye!” came the shout, signifying the arrival of another Post-Captain.

  “That’ll be the Captains of Tiger and Assurance,” Shirke said. “Our frigates. Hayman, and Fillebrowne.”

  “William Fillebrowne?” Lewrie asked, startled.

  “I think he is, aye,” Shirke told him. “Know him?”

  “We’ve … met,” Lewrie said through gritted teeth.

  That arrogant bastard! Lewrie thought.

  A moment later and there he was at the lip of the entry-port, taking the welcoming honours and doffing his fore-and-aft bicorne to the flag and officers. Fillebrowne came from great wealth, and was always elegantly tailored and expensively uniformed, the second or third son of immensely rich people. When Lewrie had met him at Elba in the ’90s, he almost took a liking to him in the first minutes, but Fillebrowne had revealed himself a tad too much, and Lewrie happily loathed him a minute after.

  He’d had HMS Jester, Fillebrowne had had HMS Myrmidon, in Thom Charlton’s small squadron sent to the Adriatic to counter the French and disrupt their trade in oak for ship-building. Fillebrowne was more interested in using naval service as a chance to amass treasures, artworks, jewelry, and priceless relics from the impoverished French Royalist exiles than in seamanship. His elders had done their Grand Tours of the Continent and come home with Greco-Roman riches and grand art, so why could he not, as well?

  Idle, flip, sure of his superiority, was Fillebrowne, a top-lofty sneerer, with a mumbling Oxonian accent; a lecher, too, almost as mad for quim as Westcott, but so arrogantly boastful about it.

  The worst was Fillebrowne throwing his “acquisition” of Lewrie’s former Corsican mistress, Phoebe Aretino, in his face with a leer, and almost daring him to do something about it! In Venice, when the man had found that Sir Malcolm Shockley’s younger wife was known to Lewrie, Fillebrowne had gone out of his way to cuckold Sir Malcolm with Lucy, née Beauman, a love of his from long ago on Jamaica, to boot!

  After taking the salute from the side-party, Fillebrowne took a glance aft, spotted Lewrie, and spread a slow, superior smile upon his phyz.

  “Welcome aboard, Captain Fillebrowne,” Shirke said. “Allow me to name to you Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, an old shipmate of mine. Captain Lewrie, I name to you Captain William Fillebrowne.”

  “Lewrie,” Fillebrowne replied, un-graciously. “Been a while, has it not?”

  “Willy,” Lewrie purred back. “Aye, it has.”

  Fillebrowne was not used to people addressing him with the diminuitive of his Christian name, and that threw him off stride, making him clear his throat in sudden pique, and go red in the face.

  Another officer came aboard to join them, a Post-Captain of less than three years’ seniority, with only the one epaulet on his right shoulder. John Hayman replied properly to the introductions, addressing Lewrie as “Sir Alan.” He looked to be a serious young man, but one with an unfortunately smallpox-scarred face.

  “Well, sir, shall we go aft?” Shirke said, waving towards his great-cabins. As expected of a larger Third Rate 74, Shirke’s cabins were bigger than Lewrie’s, and leaned toward the Spartan plain-ness that the Navy approved, though the paint colour, the choice of furnishings, the style of carpetting over the painted black-and-white deck chequer, and the abundance of shiny pewter, polished brass, and fine crystal was quite tasteful, overall. Shirke had not mentioned if he was married, but Lewrie suspected a woman’s touch in the choices, right down to the upholstery, and the bed coverlet.

  They were offered seats, and glasses of wine were produced at once.

  “Seen Phoebe lately, have you?” Fillebrowne idly enquired with a taunting brow raised.

  “‘La Contessa Phoebe Aretino was at a levee I attended at the Tuileries Palace in Paris during the Peace of Amiens,” Lewrie was glad to inform him, refusing to take the bait; that amour was long gone and done with. “She’s become the queen of the city’s parfumiers, and to the Empress Josephine. Still quite a delectable dish.”

  “What, Paris?” Shirke exclaimed. “What the Devil were you doin’ there?”

  “Tryin’ to swap dead Frog Captains’ swords for a hanger that I lost to Napoleon at Toulon,” Lewrie told him, leaning back in his chair, quite at ease, and paying Fillebrowne no further mind. He explained how his commandeered French razée, converted to a mortar vessel, had been sunk right out from under him by Napoleon’s guns, and a lucky hit in the forward mortar well, how he’d made his way ashore with the survivors, and been confronted by Bonaparte himself. “With so many Royalist French in my crew as volunteers, I couldn’t just abandon ’em, so I refused t’give my parole, and he rode off with it, just before some Spanish cavalry rescued us. The one Lieutenant Kenyon gave me, remember, Jemmy?”

  “Vaguely,” Shirke replied. “I think you wore it at your shore party to celebrate your Lieutenancy, but that was ages ago. What did happen to Kenyon? I recall him from Ariadne. An odd sort, he was.”

  “He perished in a raid on a coastal town in the Gironde, when we took on two forts,” Lewrie said, “and aye, he was an odd sort.”

  A secret “Molly,” murdered by his own crew, and the least said of that, the better, Lewrie grimly thought. Kenyon’s brig-o’-war had been paid off, the crew scattered throughout the Fleet, and the whole unsavoury matter had been hushed up, for “the good of the Service,” and Kenyon’s cohorts of his same stripe never employed again.

  “So, you have actually met Bonaparte twice, Sir Alan?” Captain Hayman tentatively asked, with a tinge of awe in his voice.

  “Aye, Captain Hayman,” Lewrie told him. “The second time, in Paris, I must’ve rowed him beyond all temperance, for the next thing my wife and I know, we’re bein’ chased all the way to Calais by his police agents, lookin’ t’murder us.”

  “Indeed,” Fillebrowne said with a lazy, half-believing drawl.

  “It was in all the papers, just before the war began again,” Hayman said. “My condolences, sir, late as they may be.”

  “Thankee, Captain Hayman,” Lewrie said with a grave nod.

  Hayman noted his medals, and Lewrie explained his presence at the Battle of Cape Saint Vincent, and how Nelson’s ship had wheeled out of line and practically forced Lewrie’s Jester to go about, or be rammed, else, and join him in countering th
e Spanish fleet, just two ships in the beginning. Yes, he’d been at Camperdown, too, just after escaping the Nore Mutiny, right after making “Post.” He had been at Copenhagen, too, but there was no commendation for that.

  “I was at the Glorious First of June, too, sir,” Lewrie said, “but that was accidental. I was bein’ chased by two French frigates, and stumbled into it.”

  “I was at the Nile,” Shirke announced, “still a Lieutenant in a frigate, and we couldn’t see much of it, really. Except for when Ocean exploded. Cannon fire so loud, you couldn’t hear a thing, then boom!, and it went so quiet, you could’ve heard a cricket chirp for nigh-on a quarter hour.”

  “My son, Hugh, was at Trafalgar,” Lewrie reminisced. “With Thomas Charlton. Just a Mid, then. And my other son, Sewallis, was under Benjamin Rodgers for a time. Remember Rodgers, from our time in Charlton’s squadron, do ye, sir?” he asked, addressing Fillebrowne.

  “A … capable fellow,” Fillebrowne idly allowed with scant praise. “Rather fond of champagne, as I recall.”

  “Aye, wouldn’t put a toe out t’sea without several dozen-dozen in his lazarette,” Lewrie replied. “A grand fellow, is Rodgers. I’ve known him since the Bahamas in Eighty-Six.”

  Shirke’s steward announced that their supper was laid, and they all repaired to the dining-coach to take seats.

  “Worked with your old First Officer, Stroud, in Eighteen-Oh-Three,” Lewrie commented. “He had the Cockerel frigate, when we were sent t’hunt down a French squadron all the way to Spanish Louisiana, just before the Frogs sold it to the Americans.”

  “Indeed?” Fillebrowne replied between spoonfuls of ox-tail soup, as if it was no matter to him.

  “I was First Lieutenant into her round the time of Toulon,” Lewrie went on, “’til they needed sailors t’man some captured French warships.”

  “Stroud, well,” Fillebrowne said, dabbing his lips with his napkin. “I am surprised he was made ‘Post.’ A good-enough organiser and ‘tarpaulin’ sailor, but he always struck me as a dullard, a most un-imaginitive man. Takes all kinds, I would suppose. He stayed aboard when we were anchored at Venice. Had no curiosity, nor any urges to savour the city’s pleasures, either.”