“Emma Hamilton? Nelson’s Emma Hamilton?” Mountjoy gawped.
“Umhmm,” Lewrie rejoined with an idle leer. “She was tasty at the time, too. So. What’s young Leopold doin’ here?”
“Offering himself to the war effort, so long as his military post is suitable to his illustrious rank,” Mountjoy scoffed, “and offering his father, Ferdinand, as either a king or a regent. The other passenger is Prince Louis-Phillipe, Duc d’Orléans, the eldest of the French royal family, who would have succeeded to the French throne, if the Revolution hadn’t come along. He’s offering himself, a French Bourbon to replace a Spanish Bourbon. It’s all impossible, of course, and the Spanish juntas will never hear a word of it, and Dalrymple’s in a dither, trying to put out fires and soothe the Spanish, saying that neither of the sods are a British idea.
“Worst of all, there’s rumours that Archduke Charles of Austria might be on his way to get a seat at the table, too,” Mountjoy went on. “What good relations we’ve built in Spain could be out the window if they think we approve of a foreign king, regent, or emperor, or … generalissimo! Dalrymple hasn’t allowed either of the princes to set foot ashore, yet, Thunderer’s captain wants them off as soon as dammit, and the whole thing could be an utter mess by the end of the week.
“Wait,” Mountjoy said, ceasing his nervous tirade and peering at Lewrie. “You and Emma Hamilton? Really?”
“In one of her melting moments, she distinctly said, ‘I don’t know what it is, about me and sailors,’” Lewrie boasted, laughing out loud.
“My word!” Mountjoy replied in awe. “You never cease to amaze.”
“Hmm, well, perhaps I do have my moments,” Lewrie brashly confessed, all but polishing his fingernails on a coat lapel.
“The princes are the last thing to have on Sir Hew’s plate, at the moment, and that old meddler, Emmanuel Viale … he was Dalrymple’s envoy to Castaños for a time?… he and the Vicar of Gibraltar have both written the Seville junta, praising Prince Leopold of Naples, and it’s riled them almost beyond all temperance. British scheming and meddling, they think. And, Dalrymple doesn’t have much time to settle the matter. London’s appointed him Commander-In-Chief of all operations in Portugal and Spain, and he’ll be off to join Wellesley’s army in a few days, dumping the mess on Major-General Drummond.”
“What?” It was Lewrie’s turn to gawp in astonishment. “Commander-In-Chief? Dalrymple? Are they stark-ravin’ daft?” He said that loudly, and didn’t much care who heard him. “The Dowager hasn’t seen a real battle since … God!”
“Well, not many of our generals have, either,” Mountjoy pointed out. “With any luck, he’ll leave the fighting to Wellesley and do the general directions, himself. Well, leave the fighting to Lieutenant-General Sir Harry Burrard.”
“Who the Devil is he?” Lewrie had to ask.
“London may be having second thoughts about trusting the endeavour to a ‘Sepoy’ General,” Mountjoy told him in a hushed tone, so passersby could not hear. “If Wellesley is successful, Burrard will take over, until Sir John Moore arrives with a much larger army that is gathering as we speak. Burrard’s senior to Wellesley, after all.”
“But, is he worth a tuppenny shit?” Lewrie sneered.
“God only knows,” Mountjoy had to tell him, shrugging. “But, Burrard is spoken of as ‘Betty’ Burrard.”
“Now, what does that tell you?” Lewrie scoffed.
“That he dresses up in women’s clothes?” Mountjoy japed.
“This whole thing could really turn t’shit!” Lewrie breathed in disgust. “I’ve half a mind t’stay in port and have a good laugh, and half a mind t’bugger out. Here, now! I’m still technically under your authority. If ye don’t wish t’stay here and get smeared with the disaster, can’t you order me, us, to sail off somewhere?”
“Lewrie, you are a genius!” Mountjoy suddenly exclaimed. “That I could, and yes, we could. Let’s go to the Ten Tuns and have an ale or two and plot this out!”
* * *
“I don’t s’pose you could write ‘genius’ in your reports to London, could you?” Lewrie asked once they were seated, and two pints of pale ale had been drawn for them. Some crisp-fried fish tidbits with a spicy dipping sauce had come with them as tapas.
“Don’t know if I’d write them, at all,” Mountjoy replied. “The less they know of my movements, the better, even if a reply from my superiors would take a fortnight. Sorry.”
“After decades of bein’ thought a lucky dunce, I’d hoped,” Lewrie said with a sigh. “Ah, well. Where would you like to go?”
“I’d thought of Cádiz, to try and establish an intelligence network there,” Mountjoy wistfully said after a deep, meditative draught of his ale. “Tap onto the informers that Admiral Purvis developed, but Dalrymple’s aides there, and at Seville, are reporting on a regular basis, so that’s out. I’ve people at Tarifa, cross the bay in Algeciras, Málaga, and Cummings and his boat bring news from every port in Andalusia, now. Portugal’s not in my bailiwick, so—”
“Why not Portugal?” Lewrie asked him. “Or, does Secret Branch already have fellows like you in Lisbon, Oporto, and Vigo, or with the army?”
“I really don’t know,” Mountjoy said, wincing a little to confess his total lack of knowledge. “If there are, they certainly won’t tell me. I’m allowed to know only what I need to know. Portugal, hmm. Now, that’s an intriguing thought. I know that Dalrymple already sends everything he learns to Wellesley, mostly of the situation anent the Spanish, their politics, and what their armies are up to. If our army succeeds in getting Lisbon back from the French, we could benefit from a Secret Branch presence there, in the interim before London sends out a man to oversee it, at least.”
“And the fellow who took that initiative would be well-thought-of in London,” Lewrie said with a sly cock of his head, and an encouraging wink. “Get to know the Generals, Wellesley and ‘Betty’ Burrard, and what they wish to know?”
“He might also be thought of as a gad-about indulging his curiosity at Government expense,” Mountjoy countered, looking glum of a sudden.
“But, curiosity could be taken for energetic intelligence gathering,” Lewrie rejoined. He found that his mug was empty, and waved for a re-fill. “We could even see a battle, and find out if Wellesley is half the general that people make him out to be.”
“Curiosity also killed the cat,” Mountjoy reminded him. “Most likely trampled to death, if Wellesley fails, and his army is routed. Yet!”
Mountjoy got a dreamy look on his face, mulling over the idea so intently that he didn’t notice the arrival of a fresh mug of ale set before him, and the removal of his empty one.
“Why the Devil not, then!” Mountjoy suddenly exclaimed, thumping a fist on the tabletop. “I’ll see Dalrymple at once, and tell him I’m off to Portugal. Surely, Sir Hew will have last-minute despatches that we can carry along with us, and he’ll see the need for the trip. How soon can we sail?”
“Day after tomorrow, wind and weather permittin’,” Lewrie told him with his usual caveat, which made them both smile. “D’ye think that Deacon can handle your affairs while you’re away, or would he like to come along?”
“No no, I fear that Mister Deacon must carry on here, he’s more than capable of keeping an eye on things,” Mountjoy replied. “Deacon is a sly man of many parts, I’ve come to discover. Where he developed his wits, God only knows. Certainly not the barracks and drill grounds of the Guards Regiment. He’s a future with Foreign Office.”
“You must send me formal orders, of course,” Lewrie told him, sipping his ale in celebration to get his ship back to sea, instead of idling uselessly while grand affairs were happening somewhere else. “Damme, sometimes it’s good t’have friends in high places, even those in your line o’ work!”
“And the rest of the time?” Mountjoy teased.
“The rest of the time, people in your line o’ work sling me into impossible tasks and dangers,” Lewrie said, laugh
ing. “Hang me out on a tree limb like laundry in a hailstorm.”
“Mind, though,” Mountjoy said. “If we do get to see a battle, we’d both be up to our necks in the ‘quag,’ for once.”
“Then come well-armed,” Lewrie cautioned, and he was not trying to tease.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
HMS Sapphire skirted the Portuguese coast after standing into Mondego Bay and turning South, with no sign of the army, or the fleet of transports and supply ships that Lewrie had expected to find; should the army need immediate evacuation, this Wellesley would surely keep them close at hand, he reckoned, but the coast that slipped by, and the major seaports of Nazaré and the fortress town of Peniche, where the French were rumoured to have a garrison and over an hundred guns, drowsed in sleepy Summer heat, as peaceful as anything.
In point of fact, though, it was not “all cruising and claret,” for General Sir Hew Dalrymple had indeed felt an urgent need to convey his latest informations to General Sir Arthur Wellesley, and had sent one of his aides-de-camp along with his despatches to liaise with Sir Arthur—none other than the idled Captain Hughes, returned to his old substantive rank but still considered surplus to requirements by his own regiment.
“Oh, good Lord,” Mountjoy had whispered in dread when Captain Hughes was piped aboard. “Not Hughes!”
“It’s worse for you, Mountjoy,” Lewrie whispered to him as the fellow had doffed his bicorne in salute at the lip of the entry-port. “You’ll have t’share that spare cabin off the wardroom with him, hee hee! I’ll dine him in in my cabins, of course, but he’s all yours most of the time.”
“Old Zachariah Twigg was right about you, Captain Lewrie,” the spy-master hissed. “You do have a vindictive streak!”
“Aye,” Lewrie gleefully agreed with that assessment, “and I’ll have my cook, Yeovill, serve as many foreign kickshaws as he can think of when I do feed the bastard.”
Poor Hughes; he seemed full of himself to be entrusted with a mission so vital for the new Commander-In-Chief, strutting about and puffing with pride to be thought useful, again, his abilities fully employed, and ready to tell everyone how he was anticipating that he would be Dalrymple’s aide-de-camp in the field, taking part in grand battles where his skill and experience would be proven.
“I don’t know whether t’feel sorry for the sod, or chuck him over the rails,” Lewrie said with a groan. “But, I am becoming tired of his presence. Where’s our bloody army when ye need it?”
“Pray God that General Wellesley finds him indispensable, then,” Mountjoy commiserated in the privacy of Lewrie’s stern gallery after a mid-day meal. “Then we’re both shot of him. God, how he snores! And, whatever you’re serving him, he’s the windiest fellow ever I’ve had to share a cabin with. That Yankee rebel, Benjamin Franklin, wrote an essay about farting proudly, but God!”
“At least he don’t talk in his sleep … or does he?” Lewrie asked in jest.
“No no, nothing human-sounding,” Mountjoy replied, grimacing. “It’s all grunts, moans, and bear-like rumbles and rattles.”
“Sail ho!” a lookout in the main mast cross-trees shouted. “One ship, fine on the bows!”
Lewrie fetched a day-glass and mounted the poop deck to spy the strange sail out, but found that the inner, outer, and flying jibs were in the way. Mouthing a curse, he descended and paced forward, all the way to the forecastle, leaning far out over the larboard cat-head beam for a clear view. Low on the Southern horizon, he finally spotted a set of t’gallants and tops’ls, identifying whoever it was as a three-masted, fully-rigged ship … but whose? He lowered his glass and took a peek to larboard, for the coast of Portugal. Sapphire was sailing within view of the mountain ranges’ peaks, perhaps no more than twenty miles off. He reckoned that the strange sail could not be a merchantman sailing on her own; that would be too risky for her. Besides, the coastal trade of Portugal had pretty-much ceased after the French invaded. No Spanish ships, merchant or warship, would be this far along the coast, either, and no British-flagged merchantman would be sailing alone.
“No idea who she is, sir?” Midshipman Ward asked at his elbow.
“No, Mister Ward,” Lewrie told him, raising his telescope to an eye again. “Run aft. My respects to the officer of the watch, and he is to hoist our colours and make the Interrogative signal. If she’s one of ours, she’ll make her number in reply. If she’s an enemy, then we’ll see. Off ye go, scamper!”
“Aye, sir!” the lad said, and turned to make haste astern.
The sight of the Captain on the forecastle, the report of a strange sail on the horizon, and Ward’s rapid run aft stopped the men of the watch at their various duties, forcing some to lean far over the bulwarks for a look, others to ascend the shrouds for a view of that strange sail, and caused still others to gather in knots to talk it over and speculate. When Lewrie turned about to look aft to see if their national ensign and signal flag had been hoisted, he was pleased to see how many of the crew were looking eager for action. After the boresome escort-work Sapphire had done under her old Captain in the Baltic, her people had come to expect a good fight, and lashings of prize-money to follow another prideful victory. Lewrie’s mouth curled into a wee smile as he made his return to the quarterdeck down the larboard sail-tending gangway, nodding confidently to the sailors and Marines he met, acknowledging some by name with a cheery “good morning” but not answering any questions, yet. He felt a spurt of pride as he considered that he’d created a happy, confident ship and a crew that knew its business when called to Quarters.
“Any reply?” Lewrie asked Lt. Elmes.
“Not yet, sir,” Elmes replied, casting a quick look aloft to the signal hoist to reassure himself that it was not masked by the sails and upper-works.
“Deck, there!” the lookout shouted. “She makes her number, and shows British colours!”
“Four … Two … Four,” Midshipman Griffin slowly read out as he clung to the mizen’s larboard shrouds, half-way to the cat-harpings.
“Ehm…,” Midshipman Ward said, fumbling this month’s secret signals code book until he’d found a match. “She’s the Sabine, Sixth Rate frigate. Captain … Artemis Fleet.”
“Another hoist, then,” Lewrie said, feeling a little disappointed that they wouldn’t have a fight. “Ask her where we can find the army.”
“Aye, sir,” Ward said, going to the poop deck and the taffrail flag lockers.
“One of ours, then?” Mountjoy asked. “Perhaps she’s standing guard over the army’s latest access to the sea.”
“Might very well be, Mister Mountjoy,” Lewrie agreed. “Useful, the Interrogative flag,” he mused aloud. “We once spoke one of our ships near the Greater Antilles. Neither of us had seen the sun for nigh a week, and we’d both been runnin’ on Dead Reckoning. She showed the Church flag, the one ordering to hold services, spelled out Where, and the Interrogative. The up-shot? Oh God, Where Are We? Hah hah!”
“That’s much like the one I saw done when I was Fifth Officer in a seventy-four, sir,” Lt. Elmes reminisced with a grin. “We were alongside Gun Wharf, and another ship was waiting to tie up where we were. Her Captain hoists How Long Will You Be, spelled it all out, and our Captain replied with numerals and spelled out Foot. One hundred eighty feet!”
“Good one!” Lewrie chortled.
“Naval humour,” Mountjoy bemoaned. “Like sailors’ slang, it’s indecypherable.”
“Reply, sir!” Midshipman Griffin shouted down to them. “M … A … C … I … E … R … A … Bay! Maciera Bay!”
“Mister Yelland? I’d admire a look at the charts, if you please,” Lewrie asked, steeling himself to be in the cramped chart room on the larboard side of the quarterdeck, and hoping that Yelland had sponged off in the last week.
“Ah, here, sir,” Yelland said, tapping an ink-stained forefinger on the rolled-out chart of the coast of Portugal. “It’s not much of a bay, though. There’s a wee river, or large creek, that runs down to the sea �
��twixt these steep, rocky hills. There isn’t much of a beach to speak of, and ah … aye, we’d have to anchor far out, since the chart shows that the bay approaches are shallow and sandy. Maybe not the best holding ground, either. Do you wish a safe five or six fathoms, we’d be at least a mile or better offshore.”
“We’ll go in sounding the leads, and I will feel better if we anchor in six or seven fathoms,” Lewrie decided, not liking the sketchiness of the chart’s information. “We’re about here, now?” he asked as he tapped the chart near Praia de Ariea Branca.
“Uhm, I’d say near level with Lourinhã, sir, a bit further on than that,” Yelland corrected. “Still about twenty miles seaward of the coast.”
“Very well, sir,” Lewrie said, “we’ll alter course to the Southeast ’til we strike this twenty-fathom line, come level with Maciera Bay, then alter course again Due East and find safe anchorage.”
“Aye, sir,” Yelland said, pinning the ends of the chart down with books so he could duck in and out of the chart space to reference it as often as needed in the next few hours. They then both left the chart space and returned to the quarterdeck, with Lewrie wishing that he could fan away Mr. Yelland’s sour, stale aromas.
Captain Hughes, who had been lounging in the officers’ wardroom, came up from the upper gun-deck to peer about, and see what all the excitement had been. He had taken time to dress properly, and now was slowly pacing with his hands in the small of his back, as if it was just not done to appear too curious, or alarmed.
“I heard some shouting,” he said at last. “‘Sail ho,’ what?”
“We’ve spotted one of our ships down South of us,” Mountjoy told him. “We’ve found General Wellesley’s army, and we’re making our way there.”
“Have we? Capital!” Hughes said with a bark of delight. “Then I shall tell my man to pack my traps. It will be good to dine ashore this evening, even if Sir Arthur’s officers’ mess will most-like serve salt-beef and such. Field rations, ah!”
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