Kings and Emperors

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Long live the Emperor,” he said in a comically shaky voice, “and let me live t’get outa this place! Mon Dieu, Mort de ma vie! I am running now, toot sweet!”

  That had them roaring with laughter.

  “I was told that those ridges yonder, the Monte Mero, are steep, and so full of boulders, it might as well be a stone fort,” he went on. “The Frogs’ll be out of breath by the time they’re halfway up, and dyin’ by the dozens at every step. All the gun-smoke is over on the other side, so far, so…’til we see red coats fallin’ back, and blue carpets on this side of the ridges, all’s well. If we do see that, then we’ll sail over to that inlet, yonder,” he said with one arm pointing towards the foot of Santa Lucía Hill, “and use our cannon t’slaughter ’em by the hundreds!

  “Our first year in the Med,” he exhorted, “you shot the Devil out of forts and batteries … this Summer, we took on that column of Frogs marchin’ along the coast road from Málaga, you shot the guts out of two Spanish frigates. You’re the best set of gunners ever I did see in the King’s Navy. If called to do it, can ye shoot Hell out of a French army?”

  Eager cries of agreement and cheering greeted his exortations, and he waited ’til it died down before continuing. “For now, we will wait t’see what happens. You off-watch men, you really should go below and get some sleep, but I can’t order ye to. So…’til the rum issue and dinner, let’s have a Make and Mend, and stand easy.”

  They cheered that, too. The keenly curious could stay by the bulwarks and up the masts, while others could read, write letters, or mend their clothing, fiddle with their craftwork and carvings, whilst a fair number would indeed nap on deck wrapped in their blankets, or go below to turn into their hammocks.

  * * *

  The rum issue at Seven Bells of the Forenoon came and went, as did the hands’ mid-day meal, the change of watch from Noon to four, the change of watch at the start of the First Dog, and even the approach of the Second Dog at 6 P.M. The army was holding, it seemed, as the sun sank low and dusk began to dull the view of the shore. Lewrie had been aft in his cabins, catching up on the never-ending paperwork associated with a ship in active commission, when he took note that Pettus and Jessop were lighting more lanthorns.

  And the sudden silence.

  “What the Devil?” he asked himself as he rose from his desk, cocking his head to listen more closely.

  “Think it stopped, sir,” Jessop commented. “Quiet-like.”

  Wonder if that’s good, or bad, Lewrie asked himself as he went for his hat and boat cloak, and hastened out to the quarterdeck, where he found his officers gathered in puzzlement, up from the wardroom in curiosity, instead of preparing for their own suppers.

  “There are boats coming off from the quays, sir,” Lt. Westcott pointed out. “More wounded men, it looks like.”

  “Any summons from the flag for us to send in boats?” Lewrie demanded.

  “Not yet, sir, no,” Westcott answered, totally mystified.

  “I can’t see any French infantry on the ridges, sir,” Harcourt, the Second Officer, reported. “Ours, mostly, some hand lanthorns, and litter parties, I think. The light’s going.”

  Boom-Boom! There were two guns fired aboard Admiral Hood’s flagship, the General Signal to all naval ships present to watch for a hoist of signal flags, which would be hard to make out in the gloom of dusk.

  “I can make out … Send Boats,” Midshipman Hillhouse slowly read off with a telescope, “and Wounded, spelled out, sir.”

  “Let’s be at it, then, gentlemen,” Lewrie snapped, “man all boats and get them on their way. See which transport shows a night signal that she’s to receive wounded. Bosun Terrell? Muster all boat crews!”

  “What of the hands’ supper, sir?” Westcott asked. “What should Mister Tanner do, hold off serving out, or—?”

  “Damn,” Lewrie spat. “He’s to serve those men still aboard, and let the meat simmer awhile longer for the rest.”

  He dearly wished that he could hop into the pinnace or the launch and go ashore to discover what had happened, but, for once he held himself to a tighter rein. He would have to be patient!

  “Mister Hillhouse, still here?” he called out.

  “Aye, sir?” the Midshipman replied.

  “Take charge of one of the cutters, get ashore, ferry wounded men out to the transports ready to receive them, but … report back to me as soon as you can as to what’s happened ashore,” Lewrie ordered.

  “Aye aye, sir!” Hillhouse said, doffing his hat before dashing off, eager to shine, happy to be singled out, and just as curious as his Captain in that regard.

  Who the Hell am I dinin’ in t’night? he had to remind himself; Sailin’ Master, Marine officers, Purser, and Mister Elmes, and two of the Mids? Well, the Mids are out, they’ll all be busy.

  He thought better of that.

  “Gentlemen, I will be dinin’ later than normal,” he announced. “We’ll put it off ’til the Mids invited are back aboard. I will be aft.”

  As soon as he was in the privacy of his cabins, he tossed off his hat and boat cloak and cried for whisky, listening to the clack of his chronometer as it measured the un-ending minutes that he had to bide.

  * * *

  “Midshipman Hillhouse t’see the Cap’m, SAH!” the Marine at his door shouted.

  “Enter!” Lewrie barked back, much too loud and eagerly.

  Mister Yelland the Sailing Master, Marine Lieutenants Keane and Roe, Mister Cadrick the Purser, and Lieutenant Elmes were already in the great-cabins, sitting or standing round the starboard side settee with wineglasses in their hands. Their already-muted conversations were hushed as Hillhouse entered, hat under his arm.

  “Well, Mister Hillhouse?” Lewrie demanded.

  “Beg to report, sir, all wounded are now aboard the transports, and our boats are returning,” Hillhouse began, very aware that all eyes were upon him. “The army beat off every French attack, and hold the same positions that they did this morning. I was told it was touch and go round some village called Elvina, the French would take it and we would shove them back out, several times. I was told that they’re fought out … the French, I mean, sir. Shot their bolt, was the way an officer described it. We’ve won, sir!”

  Sapphire’s officers began to cheer at that news, but Hillhouse was holding up a hand to indicate that there was more to be imparted.

  “It was dearly won, sir,” he said at last when the din had subsided. “General Sir David Baird is among the wounded, had his right arm shattered, and General Sir John Moore, sir … he was hit by a cannonball, and he passed over, just after the French retired from the field. General Hope is now in command of the army, and he wishes the army evacuated, now the French are so badly mauled. I am told that we should begin just after first light, tomorrow, sir.”

  “Baird, good God!” Lewrie gasped. “I knew him, from Cape Town. Poor fellow! I hope he survives his wounds.”

  “And, we all met Sir John last year, sir,” Lt. Elmes lamented. “A Devil of a fine fellow, a gentleman, and a soldier.”

  “Amen t’that,” Lewrie agreed, taking a sip of his wine that had suddenly lost its sprightly lustre. “Hope is sure that the French are done, they’ve shot their bolt, and can’t interfere with the evacuation?”

  “I gathered that they were in very poor shape when they arrived, and fought out of sheer desperation for our rations, sir,” Hillhouse told him, “much as you speculated this morning, that they were fighting for a spoonful of food!”

  “Well, then, sirs, let ’em starve some more round their cheerless campfires tonight,” Lewrie said with a grin, “and let us make a point to dine exceeding well! You’ll join us, of course, Mister Hillhouse?” And the Midshipman nodded his thanks, Lewrie raised his glass and proposed a toast; “To Victory, gentlemen!”

  “Victory!” his officers shouted back.

  “And Confusion, and Famine, to the French!” Marine Lieutenant Roe added on, crowing with glee.

 
; “Ah, supper is laid and ready, sir,” Pettus reported.

  “Good! Let’s dine, then, sirs,” Lewrie bade them, waving them to the dining-coach and their places at the table.

  Some victory, though, he thought as he took his seat at the head of the table; too dearly won, and we’re still slinkin’ off like thieves in the night. And, there’s still tomorrow. The army ain’t away Scot free, yet!

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The 17th of January dawned cold, mockingly clear, but with boisterous seas out beyond the harbour. It appeared almost too cheerful and sunny, as the day progressed, to shine so on the scene of such a dreadful and desperate battle. Upon mounting the poop deck for his first look-round with a telescope, Lewrie discovered that the number of transports huddled in Corunna’s harbour had been reduced. During the night, those ships with the sick and wounded, and the remnants of the army’s wives, children, and camp-followers, had departed.

  Word had come during their supper the night before that all of the evacuated troops would not be returned to Lisbon, where they had started, but would be borne back to English ports, as if the entire expedition had been given up as a failure. That prompted speculation that the ten-thousand-man garrison left in Portugal might be withdrawn, as well. “Keep it to yourselves,” Lewrie had cautioned, though “scuttle-butt” would spread, as it usually did, to every man and boy aboard as if he had stood on the quarterdeck and bellowed the news to one and all!

  Make the best of your way to English ports, is it? Lewrie reminded himself as he scanned the fleet, and gave out a derisive snort; Well, which bloody ports, hey? Regimental sick, wounded, wives, and kiddies end up at Falmouth, and their men end up at Sheerness? What idiot decided that, I wonder? England, well! It would be grand to be home for a while.

  He spotted some movement among the transports anchored close to the quays at Santa Lucía; several were hauling themselves to Short Stays, and beginning to loose canvas, now full of soldiers and whatever of their weapons, gear, and rations that they could carry away. The quays and the commercial town round the village seemed to have turned red with all the regiments queued up and waiting to begin embarkation into others.

  “Good morning, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, looking up from the quarterdeck. “The evacuation has begun, then?”

  “Good morning, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie replied in kind. “Aye, so it appears. I think I can make out some defensive lines out beyond the town. Come on up and have a look for yourself.”

  Westcott joined him and stood by the bulwarks, slowly panning his own telescope back and forth. “Looks as if they’re coming down to the quays by whole brigades. Soon as their ships are full, they’ll be off. Hmm, no sign that the French mean to have a go at them, yet.”

  “No, not yet,” Lewrie glumly agreed, scanning back and forth. Bisquit came to the poop deck and sat on his haunches between them, uttering wee whines for attention. Lewrie leaned down to pet him for a bit.

  “I say, sir,” Westcott said, “but is that a French flag atop Santa Lucía Hill, yonder? Our troops must have left it during the night. Yes, yes it is a French flag. Damn my eyes, I think I can make out artillery pieces!”

  Lewrie straightened up and leaned onto the bulwarks with his telescope to his eye, again, straining to confirm Westcott’s observation. “Damme, you’re right. They’ve a whole battery up there, the snail-eatin’ bastards!”

  As they watched, they could hear the rustling of sail-cloth, the distant rumbling of anchor cables, as more transports began to get under way, along with the approved capstan chanties allowed aboard Royal Navy warships as they, too, began to get under way to escort this clutch of ships out to sea and back to England.

  “They’re opening upon our transports,” Westcott spat as they both saw the first puffs of gunpowder smoke from Santa Lucía Hill, followed seconds later by the reports of discharges, and the keens and moans of incoming roundshot.

  “Aha!” Lewrie shouted as he spotted the Sailing Master, Mister Yelland, coming up from the wardroom below, still chewing on a last bite of bacon. “Mister Yelland, fetch yer sextant and come up!”

  Yelland had to duck into his starboard-side sea cabin for his sextant, and a slate and chalk, before he ponderously mounted the ladderway to join them on the poop deck. “Aye, sir?” he asked.

  “Where we intended to go yesterday and fire on the French if they gained the Monte Mero,” Lewrie impatiently pressed, “if we go there this morning, can we elevate our guns high enough to engage that damned Frog battery?”

  For a seasoned sea-captain, Lewrie would be the last to claim that he was a dab-hand at mathematics, not like his past Sailing Masters during his career. He was forced to wait while Yelland hefted his sextant to his eye, took the measure of the hill’s height, then scribbled on his slate with many a cock of his head and some “Ah hums” thrown in for good measure. At last, he announced, “Not as deep into the inlet as you proposed yesterday, sir, no.” Yelland rubbed his un-shaven chin and allowed “If we come to anchor nearer the mid-way point ’twixt that point and the quays of Saint Lucía, about two-thirds of a mile off from the hill, would be best, and that at extreme maximum elevation of the guns.”

  “Good enough, then,” Lewrie said, slamming a fist on the cap-rails of the bulwarks. “Mister Westcott, pipe All Hands to hoist the anchor and make sail. We’ll beat to Quarters once we’re under way!”

  “Aye aye, sir!” Westcott said, looking positively wolf-evil as he bared his teeth in a wide, brief grin.

  * * *

  “Bless me, are they actually aiming at any ship?” Captain Chalmers observed from the quarterdeck of his Undaunted frigate, as French shot rumbled into the harbour waters, raising great pillars and feathers of spray and foam. “Why, they’re all over the place!”

  “That will most-like change, sir,” his First Officer opined. “Cold barrels and ranging shots, what? Oops, oh my!” he added, as the French artillery scored a hit on a departing transport, splitting the ship’s main tops’l and leaving a large hole in the canvas. A second or so later, and that transport was struck, again, this hit just a bit wide of the mark and scoring down her larboard side, and raising a great cloud of dust and engrained dirt from her timbers.

  “Damned plunging fire!” the Third Lieutenant exclaimed.

  “I will thank you to mind your tongue, sir!” Chalmers snapped. “You know my views on curses, and blasphemy.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “There’s Sapphire getting under way, sir!” the First Officer pointed out.

  “Mister Lewrie?” Captain Chalmers called out. “Has there been a signal from the flag for our group to make sail that you missed?”

  “No, sir,” Midshipman Hugh Lewrie quickly answered. “The last signals to that effect showed the numbers for other ships. She is getting under way on her own, it appears, sir!”

  HMS Sapphire was ringing up her best bower, even as she began to make sail; spanker, stays’ls, tops’ls, and jibs. She was turning slowly, wheeling away as if to make for the lower end of the harbour and the French battery. Undaunted was near enough to her former anchorage for everyone aboard to hear her Marine drummers beating out the Long Roll, and her fiddlers and fifers starting to play “The Bowld Soldier Boy.”

  “And just what does he intend, I wonder?” Chalmers asked the aether. “Should we join him? Any signal to us?”

  “That’s my grandfather’s favourite tune, sir,” Midshipman Hugh Lewrie said with a wistful note to his voice. “My father’s, too. He is going to fight!” he said with pride. “Sapphire makes no signal, sir.”

  “Do you imagine, sir,” Undaunted’s First Officer asked, “that Captain Lewrie intends to draw the French battery’s fire upon his ship? She’s stouter than us. She can take their eight- and twelve-pounder shot better than we could, perhaps even the plunging fire from their howitzers.”

  “Spare the transports?” Captain Chalmers wondered aloud, even as the French found the range upon another departing transport ship and scor
ed several damaging hits. “I must say that Captain Lewrie has ‘bottom,’ in spades!”

  “Yes, he does!” Midshipman Lewrie seconded that impression, if only under his breath.

  * * *

  “The ship is at Quarters, sir,” Lt. Westcott reported in his most formal and grave manner, then cast an eye towards the Sailing Master and his Master’s Mates, Stubbs and Dorton, all of whom were busy scribbling on their slates, their sticks of chalk squeaking in urgency between quick sights with their sextants.

  “Soon, Mister Yelland?” Lewrie called to them.

  “Soon, sir,” Mr. Yelland assured him, sounding anxious.

  “There’s not enough room for us to go about,” Lewrie said to Lt. Westcott, waving an arm round the harbour. “We can’t stand close to the quays, wear about, and engage with the off-side battery. We would spend all our time at it. We’ll have to anchor, with the best bower and kedge, with springs on the cables.”

  That drew a wince from Westcott, and a sucking of breath over his teeth. “Play target, to spare the other ships? Aye, nothing for it, then. Let go the kedge, first, and hope it finds good grounding, as rocky as the harbour is.”

  “And use the best bower at a very short scope t’keep us from swinging, aye,” Lewrie grimly agreed. “Stand by to let go the kedge when Yelland decides we’re at the best place, then send topmen aloft as we free the bower.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Westcott said, doffing his hat most formally, again, sure that this would be a very hot business. He turned away to begin issuing Lewrie’s orders.

  The French battery atop the hill had been busy during their slow approach, sending roundshot chasing after departing transports, but, after finally taking notice of such a big and tempting target, they began to shift the aim of their guns, even before Sapphire got to her optimum firing position.