CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“You’ve done a fine job of it, Mister Mountjoy,” Lewrie said after a tour of Harmony from bow to stern. “The ‘big turnip’s’ ready.”
“Oh yes,” Mountjoy drolly replied, with a roll of his eyes. “I have Captain Middleton, and every shipwright in the dockyards, angry with me, Hedgepeth grinding his teeth and growling like a cur every time I meet with him, Harmony’s cook ready to jump ship if we expect him to prepare rations for nigh two hundred men, and the ship’s mates cursing me for taking half their cabin space for the Army officers. If I’d ordered their women raped, and their children boiled alive, I don’t think I could have done better!”
“No matter, Mountjoy,” Lewrie told him, “change always bothers people, big changes irk them worse, but they’ll learn to cope. Make adjustments? And, you have your maps, and intelligence.”
Lewrie had taken Sapphire back to sea after their last meeting, and had stayed out for another month of cruising the coasts of Andalusia, doing more threatening and chasing than capturing and burning Spanish coasters and fishing boats. From Estepona to near Cartagena, there were no longer many Spanish mariners who would dare go too far out, lest el diablo negro got them.
In point of fact, Lewrie had to admit that he could not take all the credit. The brig-sloops and frigates of the Mediterranean Fleet were working close inshore of the provinces of Catalonia, Murcia, and the sliver of seacoast of Aragon, ranging further afield than the French naval bases of Marseilles and Toulon. Sapphire had run across several of them and had closed to briefly “speak” them, bantering as to who was poaching in whose territory. Most of it was good-natured.
And, he’d come across agent Cummings’s boat a couple of times, the last encounter a meeting far out at sea at Cummings’s summons of the faded red jib. He was bound for Valencia, but had garnered maps and notes on an host of possible objectives for Lewrie to rush back to Mountjoy at Gibraltar. The man’s personal reports painted a grim picture of want, poverty, and unemployment among the Spanish people as the government in Madrid slavishly enforced Emperor Bonaparte’s Continental System which closed all Europe to British trade and goods. He even went so far as to predict that if things did not improve for the Spanish people, there would be a rebellion, sooner or later. He had no trouble finding willing informants, and some who had asked for arms from the British.
To Lewrie’s lights, Thomas Mountjoy was looking a tad haggard, but that was to be expected. He had a lot on his plate lately, what with dealing with Harmony’s conversion, the yards, and the stores warehouses, looking under every rug on the Rock for spies and Dalrymple’s imagined rebellion, double-dealing smugglers, and sifting and sorting all the reports from his own agents to stitch together plausible and trustworthy assessments to send back to London, with only Deacon for help in the doing.
I could’ve stayed in port and helped, Lewrie thought; But, the ship would’ve gone t’rot. Better him than me!
“Now the transport’s about ready, you should get some sleep,” Lewrie offered to atone for his absence.
“Still too much to do,” Mountjoy countered. “I’ll only sleep deep when all the ingredients are in the pot, and you’re off for the first raid. Oh God … Hedgepeth.”
Harmony’s Master had come up on deck to take the air. He was, as Mountjoy had described him, a dour twist. He was long and lean, squinty-eyed, eagle-beaked, and only put in his dentures for dining, which turned his sour mouth inwards. He wore his hair, what was left of it, grey, long, and thin, and seemed to shave only once a fortnight. Hedgepeth was a proper “scaly fish”, a real “tarpaulin” man, seared the texture and colour of old deer hide gloves by decades at sea. He was the best that could be hired, in truth, but by God, he was a trial!
“Cap’m Lewrie … Mister Mountjoy,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice, turning the “Mister” into a speculation as to whether Mountjoy truly deserved it, touching the brim of a civilian hat.
“Captain Hedgepeth,” Lewrie greeted him with a doff of his hat. “The yard’s done a fine job of her, d’ye not think?”
“Only if yer damned Navy puts her back t’rights when yer done with her, Cap’m Lewrie,” Hedgepeth groused, “or she’ll never carry a decent cargo again. Might’s well turn her into an overnight packet on the Thames, with all them bloody cabins. Ship horses, maybe, for the stalls’re ready and waitin’, ain’t they.”
“I see the scrambling nets are aboard, sir,” Lewrie went on.
“For all they’re worth, aye,” Hedgepeth said, scratching at his whiskers. “Here now, ye puttin’ an Agent from the Transport Board aboard, who’ll tell me how t’scratch my own balls?”
“There will be Army officers aboard, of course, Captain, but their brief starts when they wade ashore in the surf,” Lewrie tried to explain. “I’m placing fifty of my hands aboard t’man the boats and steer ’em, and two of my senior Midshipmen. Normally, it’s one Mid per fifty men, but on-passage they’re to take orders from you. There will be an extra cook, which I’ll have to scrounge from the naval hospital, to assist yours, and my Jack In The Breadroom to stand in as a Purser. All will answer to you, sir.”
“All o’ that makes for one helluva crowd,” Hedgepeth said, taking a moment to spit over the quarterdeck bulwarks, “lubberly Redcoats heavin’ over the side, wanderin’ about in everyone’s way like so many stray hogs, and yer fifty sailors layin’ about idle. Shit!”
“Use ’em, watch and watch, Captain Hedgepeth,” Lewrie offered. “Cut your men’s workload ’til they have to man the boats. Sapphire’s your main defence should we run into trouble at sea, but you’d have armed soldiers, well-trained sailors t’fend off boarders, and a way to use your swivel guns to best effect.”
“We get into that much trouble, a Spaniard or Frog’d lay off and shoot us t’pieces ’fore they’d try t’board us,” Hedgepeth sourly pointed out. “Aye, we’ll play yer games, Cap’m Lewrie, though I don’t think much’ll come of it. Mister Mountjoy here’s payin’ the reckonin’. Ye know yer bloody boats’re too heavy t’hoist aboard, even with all yer Redcoats and tars heavin’. I tow all six like a string o’ ducklin’s, I doubt I’d make four or five knots.”
“Then I’ll just have to reduce sail and keep close to you,” Lewrie promised, trying hard not to sound impatient, but Lord, the man was surly!
“Fun t’watch, heh heh,” Hedgepeth said, with an open-mouthed laugh, which was not all that pretty. “Jolly!” he suddenly bellowed in a quarterdeck voice louder than Lewrie had ever heard. “Boil me up a pot o’ black coffee, Jolly, ye idle duck-fucker!”
The ship’s cook, a fellow nigh as old and ugly as Hedgepeth, popped his head out of the forecastle galley, shouting, “Beans grindin’ an’ th’ warter a’roilin’, sir!” Lewrie was amazed to see that Jolly had all his arms and legs. Most Navy cooks were Greenwich Pensioners and amputees, given an easy job instead of being discharged.
“We’ll take our leave, Captain,” Lewrie said, doffing his hat.
“Cap’m Lewrie … Mister Mountjoy,” Hedgepeth said, nodding and turning away with a twinkle in his eyes. “Heh heh heh.”
Once seated aft in his 25-foot cutter, and the oarsmen making way to the quayside to drop Mountjoy off, Lewrie turned back to look at Harmony, and the six large boats nuzzling her hull. “She’ll do, Mountjoy, she’ll do main-well,” Lewrie told him.
“What’s next?” Mountjoy wondered.
“See the hospital, get a cook,” Lewrie japed. “I’ll send my man, Yeovill, t’see if there’s anyone who can do a bit more than boil water.”
“Troops,” Mountjoy countered. “We’ve all the pieces in place, but for them, and without a committment from Sir Hew Dalrymple, we’re in a cleft stick. Two companies, right?”
“Aye,” Lewrie said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but hasn’t Peel or somebody written him to make the request already?”
“Well, he’s had our written proposal for months, and our oral presentation,” Mountjoy said, “and I’ve w
ritten him several times to keep him abreast of our progress, so the project can’t slip his mind. And yes, Mister Peel wrote me to say that he had written Sir Hew requesting co-operation, but…” Mountjoy lifted his hands in seeming frustration. “Dalrymple will pay attention should he hear it from Admiralty, or Horse Guards, but a request from the Foreign Office’s Secret Branch? I don’t know.”
“Aye, he’s a real ‘down’ on cloak and dagger doin’s,” Lewrie agreed. “It’s low and sneaking to real gentlemen, totally without honour. Fortunate for us that we’ve learned how t’be low and sneaking.”
“Well, I haven’t had to cut any throats, yet,” Mountjoy mildly objected. “Don’t believe we teach that class. There is no real training, don’t ye know. We just get pitched in under a senior, and do the best we can with what we’ve got.”
“Low cunning, and crass slyness,” Lewrie said, with a laugh. “I think we qualify. We should put our heads together and plan what to say that will convince Dalrymple t’give us what we want. Cover all the items, and have answers ready for anything we imagine he might ask, or differ with. Christ, write it out so even I can recite by rote. Use simple words when ye do. Just a thick-headed sailor, me.”
“Lewrie, you do yourself an injustice,” Mountjoy disagreed.
“Let’s be as clever as Zachariah Twigg,” Lewrie pressed. “If that doesn’t work, we can always threaten Dalrymple’s family!”
Mountjoy gawped at the absurd suggestion for a second, wondering if Lewrie was serious, then burst out in a peal of laughter that nigh doubled him over, and it took him a long minute to recover and speak again. “Right then, a planning session, all day tomorrow, at my lodgings, and we’ll run it all by Deacon, he’s a good head on his shoulders.”
“Bring all your latest agents’ and informants’ reports, with their maps of possible targets, too,” Lewrie suggested. “And, what about what Cummings sent you, about the insurgents who’ve requested arms and ammunition? That’ll make his nose hairs quiver, I expect.”
“Yes, it might, wouldn’t it?” Mountjoy brightened. “Tomorrow, all day.”
“Should I bring the wine?” Lewrie teased.
* * *
“I don’t know,” Lieutenant-General Sir Hew Dalrymple very slowly said as he tugged at an earlobe, sounding weary and dubious, once Lewrie and Mountjoy had finished their carefully prepared presentation a few days later.
Christ, he ain’t ‘the Dowager’, Lewrie thought in well-hidden exasperation; He’s more like the old maiden aunt ye only have over at Christmas!
“I must admit that you have achieved quite a lot since first presenting your plans to me,” Sir Hew went on, rewarding them with a quick, fond smile, and just as quickly gone. “And it would be a shame did your scheme not come to fruition. Yet…”
That word was drawn out several seconds long, fading off into a sigh. Lewrie and Mountjoy looked at each other, openly grimacing when Sir Hew looked towards the ceiling, as if seeking inspiration.
“All we need now are troops, sir,” Mountjoy gently reminded.
“Two companies,” Lewrie stuck in.
“And there lies the rub, sirs,” Sir Hew told them, coming back from his inspection of the ceiling. “After explaining the possible ramifications of what Spain might do, given the reports of Marshal Junot’s army assembling, Horse Guards in London, and General Fox on Sicily, have promised me an additional battalion or two, yet…”
There’s that bloody word, again! Lewrie thought in a huff.
“And yet, sirs, I must husband all I have, and all that I may receive, to defend Gibraltar,” Sir Hew Dalrymple concluded.
“Ehm, may I enquire, sir, if you thought to mention the need to include detachments for offensive operations to London, or to General Fox on Sicily?” Mountjoy asked, sounding as if he had crossed fingers, hope against desperate hope.
“Believe I did so, in passing, Mister Mountjoy,” Sir Hew said, looking cross to be questioned.
“Offensive operations along the coasts may tie down a fair number of Spanish troops,” Lewrie quickly said, “if we hit ’em hard and often enough, sir. They’d have to garrison every little seaside town or fishing port, re-enforce their coastal forts, batteries and semaphore towers, or erect batteries. That’d limit the number of troops and guns that the Spanish could muster to lay siege to Gibraltar. Go in for a penny, earn a pound in dividends!”
“Not anywhere near Gibraltar, though, sir!” Mountjoy eagerly added, taking new heart. “We’d strike further afield.”
He’s lookin’ at me like I’m a talkin’ dog, Lewrie thought; An idea from the likes o’ me that helps?
“We would do nothing to ruin your fairly cordial relationship with your counterpart, General Castaños,” Mountjoy slyly went on, “from which I am certain that you glean useful information upon the mood of the region. Yet, if Spain and France plan a move against you here, our raids could delay and limit his massing of forces by the Spanish, requiring the French to commit their troops, and their march to here would take so long that London would have more than enough time to send you all the re-enforcements you could wish, sir.”
“Perhaps that would end with British armies in Spain, meeting ‘Boney’s’ armies head-on, sir,” Lewrie suggested.
“That would be promising,” Sir Hew said, leaning back to fantasise for a moment. “But, landing British troops against allied Franco-Spanish armies…” He sighed and went gloomy again.
“Well, Sir Hew,” Mountjoy said, with a grin, “it has been our aim all along to break that alliance and get Spain out of the war. Neutral if possible, able to trade with the world again, or as a British ally in the best case.”
“Teeterin’ on the edge, Sir Hew,” Lewrie contributed, and drew a quick under-lid glare from Mountjoy who feared that Dalrymple would mis-interpret on which side Spain might teeter.
“Nowhere near Gibraltar, or General Castaños’s military region, d’ye say?” Dalrymple mused, pulling an earlobe again. “In that case, some limited offensive raids might…” He paused, then reached out to pluck a china bell from his desk-top and ring for an aide. A massive set of old oak doors opened, and an Army Captain entered.
“Sir Hew?” he asked with an eager-to-serve smile.
“Captain Hughes, the troop transports that arrived a few days ago,” Dalrymple enquired. “Of what units do they consist?”
“One squadron of horse, sir, two regiments of foot which will go on to General Fox,” Captain Hughes easily reported off the top of his head, “and several companies of replacements for various regiments.” Hughes had all the regiments’ numbers, and the numbers of troops at the tips of his fingers, the perfect aide.
I know this bastard! Lewrie realised; He’s that opinionated twit in the seafood chop-house with that girl t’other day!
Up close, and face-on, Captain Hughes was the epitome of a war-like officer, beefy, strong, and wide-shouldered, with a deep voice. His red uniform coat, with gilt lace epaulets, black facings and silver and red button loops, his shirt, neck-stock, and white waist-coat and matching breeches were immaculate and exquisitely tailored. Hughes’s boots were so well-blacked and buffed that they might have been made of patent leather.
Give him a beard and put him in hides, and he’d make a damned fine Viking, Lewrie thought; The shitten bulldog!
“Experienced, are they, Hughes?” Damrymple asked. “The replacements?”
“Fresh-trained and sent off from their regiments’ home barracks I believe, Sir Hew,” Hughes said, with a superior smirk. “Newlies.”
“Two companies from the 77th, hey? Hmm,” Dalrymple mused, and drummed his fingers on his desk. “Had their regiment suffered a great many casualties on campaign, I would have thought that their Colonel would have requested more from their home battalion. Perhaps whoever he is, he can soldier on without them, then. Full complement of officers with them, Hughes?”
“Two Captains, two Lieutenants, and two Ensigns, sir,” Hughes rapidly ticked off. “I do not
know of their experience or abilities.”
“And have I made you conversant with any plans for offensive, seaborne raids along the coasts, Hughes?” Sir Hew asked further.
“I do believe that I might have come across some mention here and there in the course of sorting your correspondence, Sir Hew,” Hughes hesitantly said, cocking his large head over to one side.
“Allow me to name to you, sir, Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, and Mister Thomas Mountjoy, of the, ah … Foreign Office. Sirs, my aide, Captain Daniel Hughes, seconded from the 53rd Foot,” Dalrymple said, rising to summon them together for the requisite handshakes. “And what did you make of such plans, Captain Hughes, given your scant familiarity with them?” Dalrymple asked him.
“They sound simply capital, Sir Hew,” Hughes replied eagerly. “A topping-fine venture!”
“Good, good, then,” Dalrymple said, beaming. “Glad to hear you find them so. Captain Lewrie has managed to arrange all the necessities with which to put the plans afoot, but for the troops. His complement of Marines aboard his ship will be a part of any landings alongside those two companies of the 77th.”
“How many men in all would that be, Captain Hughes?” Lewrie asked him, sure that he was the sort who would have the numbers.
“Including officers, sergeants, and corporals, that would be one hundred and twelve, Captain Lewrie,” Hughes quickly supplied.
“Just about right,” Lewrie told him. “About as many as the transport can manage. Them, plus my fifty-six…”
“Under a Captain of Marines, sir?” Hughes asked, with a bit of a scowl, as if imagining that Dalrymple might place him in command of the landing party. Hughes looked most eager for a fight.
“A First Leftenant, sir,” Lewrie told him.
“Hughes, as welcome as are your skills as my aide,” Dalrymple said, “still I have felt your desire to command troops again. For this task, I believe I will appoint you to take charge of those two companies of the 77th, and Captain Lewrie’s Marines when sent ashore on any of the raids.”
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