Kings and Emperors

by Dewey Lambdin

  “I’ll tell Keane and Roe over dinner,” Westcott said, taking joy of that picture himself. “The whole wardroom will enjoy hearing.”

  “Before you do, pass word that we’ll be sailing by Two Bells of the Day Watch, and have everyone make sure that we’re ready for sea in all respects,” Lewrie cautioned, then paused, cocking his head over. “Why do I have a naggin’ feelin’ that I’m forgetting something?”

  Lt. Westcott frowned, too, as if sharing his concern. “Aha, sir! What about Mister Mountjoy? We can’t leave him here.”

  “Damn my eyes, you’re right,” Lewrie said, all but slapping at his forehead. “Ye know, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since I came back aboard.” He looked about to espy one of the Midshipmen of the Harbour Watch. “Mister Ward, you are to take boat and go ashore to the army encampment, find Mister Mountjoy, and fetch him back so that we can sail.”

  “Ehm … Mister Mountjoy, sir?” Ward said with a gulp, turning red in the face, “I, ah … he sent a note aboard late last night and I … I was about to stand the Middle, and…” He felt himself all over, probed all his pockets, and finally produced a wadded piece of lined foolscap. “I’m sorry, sir, I quite forgot about it, being so late, I didn’t wish to wake you, and…”

  Lewrie took it from him, un-wadded it, and spread it flat with his palm on the nearest bulwark cap-rail. It was written in pencil.

  “Well,” Lewrie said at last, frowning deeply. “It appears that Mountjoy’s left for Gibraltar, already, aboard one of the transports carrying wounded soldiers to the Navy Hospital. Wanted to carry news of the victory quickest, damn him.”

  It actually read;

  Spies unwelcome, bad food and worse drink, flearidden straw pallet, and barred from negotiations by the “proper” sorts. Gibraltar and Seville must be told at once. See you at the Ten Tuns Tavern, Mountjoy

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Lt. Westcott said.

  “Mister Ward, though,” Lewrie growled, rounding on the lad. “You’ve been badly remiss, you’ve denied me what amounts to official communication. You know that I should have been roused, or the note sent to my cabins, at once … don’t you, young sir?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Ward said, shuddering. It was rare that the Captain lost his temper.

  “Mister Terrell?” Lewrie bellowed in his best quarterdeck voice. “Pass word for the Bosun! Mister Westcott, when the Bosun turns up, he is to give Mister Ward a dozen of his best.”

  “I will see to it, sir,” Lt. Westcott replied.

  Lewrie went aft to his cabins, and only heard the whacks as Midshipman Ward was bent over the breech of a gun and “kissed the gunner’s daughter.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  It really wasn’t all that far from Maceira Bay to Lisbon and the Tagus River, and even the usually plodding HMS Sapphire fetched sight of Admiral Sir Charles Cotton’s blockading ships just after dawn of the next day. Sapphire made her identification number to the flag, then hoisted Have Despatches, quickly answered by the flagship’s demand of Captain Repair On Board, and Lewrie was off in the 25-foot cutter as soon as his ship could come within rowing distance, with his boat crew in their Sunday Divisions best.

  “Welcome aboard, sir,” the flagship’s Captain said once Lewrie had attained the deck of the towering Second Rate. “The Admiral is aft in his cabins. If you will come this way? Ehm … we’ve heard some rumours that a surrender has been arranged?” he hinted, as eager as anyone for news from shore.

  “I shouldn’t tell tales out of school, sir,” Lewrie demurred, “but aye, there has been. I fear I must leave it to Sir Charles to impart the details, once he’s read it over. Let’s just say that the French will evacuate the whole country, and leave it at that, if you don’t mind waiting a bit more.”

  “Hmpfh, well … here you go, sir,” that officer said, irked a bit that Lewrie was not more forthcoming.

  He was ushered into the Admiral’s great-cabins, a richly and grandly furnished suite twice the size of his own. Sir Charles Cotton rose from behind his day-cabin desk and came forward to welcome him, a fellow of a most substantial build suitable to his age and rank.

  “Despatches, is it, Captain … Lewrie, is it?” Cotton boomed. “Think I’ve heard your name somewhere before. Sit, sir, and will you have tea or coffee?”

  “Tea, sir, if you don’t mind,” Lewrie responded, finding a chair in front of the large desk. He looped his canvas bag off before he did so, opened it, and handed over the slim packet inside. “Sir Hew Dalrymple has finalised the terms of the French surrender, sir, and this is your copy of the, ah … Convention of Cintra.”

  “That what they’re calling it?” Cotton said, eagerly taking it and ripping it open to read it.

  “So I was told, sir,” Lewrie replied. “The largest town near Vimeiro, or something.”

  “No, it’s nearer Lisbon, and the coast, where the negotiations have been held,” Cotton countered, with most of his attention drawn to the despatches.

  Hughes needs to swot up on his geography, then, Lewrie thought.

  “What in the bloody, pluperfect Hell?” Cotton exploded. “My God, what a travesty! Send them back to France, with all their arms and personal…? What a damn-fool joke!” Cotton spluttered. He went red in the face as he flipped through the several pages, then slammed it atop his desk as if touching it was dangerous.

  “I was given a separate summary of the agreement, sir, should you have any questions about the broader strokes,” Lewrie offered.

  “Talk about snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, hah!” Cotton fumed. “Didn’t think him capable, but Wellesley at least beat the French right proper, and he deserved better than this, England deserves better than this rot. Dalrymple must be going senile, and Burrard, that puff pastry…! Don’t tell me that Wellesley signed this willingly.”

  “I was given to understand that he had very little say in it, sir,” Lewrie told him, “and I don’t know, but suspect, that the other gentlemen used their seniority to press him to it.”

  Lewrie got his tea from a cabin-servant, a cup and saucer in an intricate and delicate Meissen china pattern, with a sterling silver spoon to stir with, and a tray bearing fresh-cut lemons and a sugar bowl was presented him.

  “This will be the utter ruin of them all,” Cotton predicted. “Even Wellesley’s family can’t save him from it, this time. I wish I’d been ashore to see it, though, and how anyone beat the French.”

  “I was, sir,” Lewrie said with a grin. “It was all quite cleverly managed. He placed his troops along a long, two-mile ridge, and hid the bulk of his men on the back slope, only summoning them up at the moment the French columns got in musket-shot. Two or three thousand muskets firing down on the front and flanks of the columns just melted them away in a twinkling, and then they followed that up with bayonet charges, for the most part, sending the French stampeding back in complete dis-order. It started round nine in the morning, and it was done by noon, or thereabouts.”

  “You went ashore?” Cotton marvelled, squinting.

  “I wanted to see it, one way or another, sir,” Lewrie said. “The slopes were carpetted with French dead, and thirteen pieces of artillery were captured. It was … grand!”

  “Hmm, well,” Cotton said, referring to that damnable treaty once more. “I don’t see any mention as to the disposition of the French warships, or the Russian squadron, at Lisbon. What were you told of them, Captain Lewrie?”

  “Nothing, sir,” Lewrie told him. “I don’t believe that they were even considered, but that’s the Army for you. Perhaps Sir Hew Dalrymple might’ve imagined that the French ships would escort their army back to France, but that would be ridiculous.”

  “Damn what Dalrymple imagined, or wants!” Cotton said, slamming a fist on his desk hard enough to make his pens jump. “I have long planned to find a way to bring them to action, or make prize of them, and by God, I will! As for Admiral Senyavin’s Russian squadron, well … Russia isn’t an out-right belligerent, yet, an
d Napoleon and the Tsar had it out last year at the Battle of Friedland, so it isn’t clear if they and the French are allies, either. The Russians might not make Good Prize, but I could force them to intern themselves back in England ’til London tells me different.”

  “Aye, sir,” Lewrie agreed. “No sense in allowin’ them to roam free if they are, or will become, French allies.”

  “Does your summary say anything about what constitutes ‘personal possessions,’ Captain Lewrie?” Cotton asked, squinting at the documents more closely. “And, what the Devil does it mean, that ‘the export of specie will be permitted’?”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it, sir,” Lewrie had to admit, “but it sounds very much like a license to steal. Damned Frogs.”

  “I’ve a few sources of information from Lisbon, you know,” the Admiral slyly boasted. “That Foreign Office fellow at Gibraltar…”

  “Mister Thomas Mountjoy, sir?” Lewrie prompted.

  “Aye, that’s the one,” Cotton said. “He recently managed to get one of his skulking types into Lisbon, overland from Ayamonte on the Spanish border, who sent me a note by one of my regular fisherman informants … signs himself Aranha, which means ‘Spider.’ He said that the French brought portable mints with them when they invaded. Made no sense at the time, but … that would be a sly way to melt down all their loot from cathedrals, churches, monasteries, and wealthy homes, and turn silver and gold to French coins. Just one more way that the Dowager’s been gulled. This agent’s latest says that Junot is hiring five neutral Danish ships to carry his own personal ‘baggage’! They fully intend to make off with the spoils of their conquest in spite of this damned treaty! Simply appalling!”

  “Ehm, this Spider chap,” Lewrie asked, sure that he knew the agent’s identity. “Are his messages … does he sound a tad insane?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” the Admiral confirmed for him.

  “Know him,” Lewrie said with a shake of his head. “Well, met him once. He was in Madrid, before the Spanish revolted, and helped it along. He’s daft as bats.”

  Romney bloody Marsh! Lewrie thought; How’s he still alive?

  “But, incredibly brave and clever,” Admiral Cotton said with a firm nod of praise.

  “Anything else you wish to know, sir?” Lewrie asked, finishing his cup of tea. “If not, I must be off to Gibraltar, to deliver General Drummond his copy of the treaty.”

  “Good!” Sir Charles Cotton boomed. “I now recall where I’ve heard your name before, Captain Lewrie. The newspapers, and the Naval Chronicle. Quite the dashing and active frigate captain, and more fortunate than most when it comes to prize-money. Not to be uncharitable, but, those French ships are mine, and my squadron’s. We’ve all been banking on them, and I trust you would not wish to dilute the pot and deprive an older man his long-denied due, hah!”

  “God no, sir!” Lewrie said with a laugh. “You’re more than welcome to the spoils, tempting though it is to see the French humbled, and tour Lisbon, at last.”

  “So you will be off at once,” Admiral Cotton sort-of-asked, one brow up in worry that he might linger, after all, for a few hundred pounds of profit, with a deep scowl to warn him that he shouldn’t.

  “Can’t even stay long enough for a second cup of tea, sir,” Lewrie vowed as he got to his feet. “And, may I wish you great joy of your coming success at Lisbon.”

  “Capital, simply capital!” Admiral Cotton barked with great satisfaction as he, too, rose to see Lewrie to the entry-port.

  * * *

  When HMS Sapphire coasted to a stop and dropped her anchor off the Old Mole at Gibraltar, it was evident that the grand news which Mountjoy had carried from Vimeiro was already known from one end of the town to the other. Bands were parading, and all the battlements were fluttering with Union Flags everywhere one looked. The faint sounds of drunken cheers made their way out to the ship, and some daytime fireworks were being let off in enthusiasm.

  The mood was not so merry at the Convent, though, when Lewrie handed over the copy of the Convention of Cintra to Major-General James Drummond. Lewrie had had no dealings with the man so far, but that worthy struck him at once as a much more active, intelligent, and capable officer than Dalrymple.

  “Hmm,” Drummond grumbled as he read it through a second time, still dis-believing. “Quite extraordinary, even astonishing. Not to criticise my predecessor, but … it appears the French wrote it and our senior officers slavishly surrended to them! Damme, we had them in the bag, then they just let them wiggle free!”

  “It’s worse, sir,” Lewrie gloomily told him, repeating what he had gotten from Admiral Sir Charles Cotton, and Romney Marsh’s mystifying despatches. “Junot’s loading five ships with his own loot, and the mints have been workin’ round the clock. Napoleon may end up with as much solid coin as he got when he sold Louisiana, and gets an entire army back, with all their arms. Well, we get to keep all their artillery, about two-dozen waggons full of powder, shot, all their stores, cavalry mounts and draught animals, and over twenty thousand rounds of ammunition. Once Lisbon harbour is ours, a lot of that could be useful to the Spanish. All in all, though, Portugal ends up completely looted. The cupboard’s bare.”

  “I would have made them march back to France,” Drummond said with a derisive snort, “if they had to be set free. Ideally, I would have imprisoned them all, but for the cost of feeding the bastards. Bah! How could we have settled for this?”

  “I’d’ve stripped them naked and made them cross the Pyrenees with their thumbs up their arses, on their heels and elbows, sir,” Lewrie said, repeating his jape to Major Hughes.

  “That might have gone a bit beyond the recognised rules of war, Captain Lewrie,” General Drummond replied, though the comment awoke a wry grin on his phyz. “You’ve shared this with the Foreign Office agent, yet?”

  “Not yet, sir,” Lewrie said. “He’s my next stop.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you,” Drummond said, pacing over to his large map pinned to a board. Instead of Dalrymple’s map of Spain, Portugal, and his pet project of taking the fortress at Ceuta, the General’s was of Gibraltar and its immediate environs. He pulled a face, not yet dimissing Lewrie, though Lewrie had already risen to his feet, hat under his arm. “At least we have Wellesley’s triumph to celebrate, and that’s the main thing … that, and the ousting of the French from Portugal. This…!” Drummond said, waving the sheaf of paper about, “does not affect us here. We shall celebrate and put a good face on it. I’m told that all the regimental messes are co-operating to stage a grand supper ball, a fête champêtre, even if Italian sparkling wines must stand in for champagne proper. Are you still in port, sir, be assured that you and your officers shall be invited.”

  “Thankee kindly, sir, and I look forward to it,” Lewrie said, perking up. “I’ll take my leave, then. Good day, sir.”

  * * *

  It took Lewrie a hot, sweaty hour of walking to hunt up Thomas Mountjoy after that; Pescadore’s, Mountjoy’s lodgings, the fraudulent offices of his Falmouth Import & Export Company in the lower town, and the Ten Tuns Tavern. He finally bearded him in his den at his upper-town lodgings, having missed him somehow in transit.

  “Ah, Lewrie, back at last, are you?” Mountjoy said jovially as he sat out on his awninged gallery overlooking the harbour, and at his ease following a fine mid-day meal. “You look hot. A cool wine?”

  “Yes, thankee,” Lewrie said, sitting down on an upholstered iron chair and fanning himself with his hat. “I thought you’d use me as your private yacht to get back here.”

  “News of our success just had to be gotten to General Drummond, and the Spanish Junta at Seville. Sorry ’bout that,” Mountjoy said.

  “You really should have hung around a tad longer,” Lewrie chid him as Mr. Daniel Deacon came outside with a freshly-opened bottle of sprightly floral Spanish wine and an extra glass. “Hallo, Deacon, and how d’ye keep?”

  “Main-well, sir,” Deacon said, pouring all roun
d.

  “Celebrating still?” Lewrie asked. “A bit premature, that. As I said, you really should have stayed long enough to hear the details of the terms that Dalrymple, Burrard, and the French thrashed out.”

  “Mmm, well … what are they?” Mountjoy had to ask, and Lewrie took joy of being the source of information that the spy-master did not know; it was rare that that shoe was on his foot.

  “Well, first, the French will evacuate all their troops from every inch of Portugal,” Lewrie told him. “We get it all back at one blow.” And as they cheered that, he took a welcome sip of his wine. “But…” he added, sticking a finger in the air, “they get to sail back to France, in British ships, with all their arms, colours, and … personal possessions, which means whatever loot they’d stolen from Portugal. And, their pay chests,” Lewrie said, scowling, as he explained about the portable mints, the ships that Marshal Junot hired for his booty. “I heard that General Wellesley wanted to march down to Torres Vedras at once, keep the initiative, and box the rest of Junot’s troops in at Lisbon, but that was scotched. The whole thing has simply turned to shit, a great, steaming pile of it!”

  “My God, the lack-wits!” Mountjoy gravelled, after a minute of slack-jawed amazement. He tossed off his wine at one go. “We’ve been diddled! How incredibly … stupid!”

  “Still, we beat them, sir,” Deacon said. “I would have loved to have seen it, myself. And we get Portugal back.”

  “I went ashore with my Ferguson rifled musket, and saw it right from the firing line,” Lewrie told him, “and yes, it was grand to see. The French column can’t beat the British line, and rolling platoon volleys.”

  “Portugal free, and the Spanish revolt has driven the French North of the Ebro River,” Mountjoy stuck in, seeking any solace. “If Spanish math is to be trusted, ‘Boney’s’ invasion has cost him over fourty thousand killed, wounded, and captured, and King Joseph Bonaparte’s fled Madrid for Burgos, maybe as far as Vitoria.”