The King's Marauder

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Perhaps the Spanish treasury is so empty, he thought it likely they’d ask him t’pay t’replace her,” Lewrie said with a brief snort of the blackest of gallows humour. “Poor devils. Rig out boats for towing, and get us under way to rejoin our prize, Mister Westcott.”

  “Aye, sir,” Westcott said, looking grim and disappointed with his best efforts to save more. “Shape course for Gibraltar?”

  “Aye, Gibraltar,” Lewrie said, nodding gravely. He lingered on the poop deck for several minutes to savour the airs. It was getting on for November, and even the Mediterranean was turning brisk. The sun was lowering in the West, getting on towards dusk, and the skies in that direction were almost glowing amber, yellow, and red.

  Red skies at night, sailor’s delight, he glumly thought, though far from delighted by then. At last, he descended to the quarterdeck, hoping that his cabins, which he had not seen since the ship had gone to Quarters that morning, might have been put back in some semblance of decent order, though he dreaded the idea that he would have to dine in his officers who remained aboard, along with Captain Pomfret and a few Mids; they’d be cock-a-whoop boisterous, too ready to celebrate, and he would have much preferred to dine alone, just him and Chalky.

  “Too bad about the other Spanish frigate, ain’t it, sir?” Captain Pomfret commented. “All those poor, drowned men! Still, defeating two enemy ships in one day is quite a rare feat, I should think. Make all the papers and cheer folks back home something wondrous! My congratulations, Captain Lewrie … even if, as I understand the process of ‘to the victor go the spoils’, your ship will only reap prize money on the one, what?”

  “You shall share in it, too, Captain Pomfret,” Lewrie assured him with a faint grin. “You were present upon our decks. Take joy o’ that. Dine with me tonight. With any luck, my cook, Yeovill, will prepare us something special.”

  “Delighted to hear that I should prosper, even in a small way, and I would also be delighted to dine, and celebrate your victory,” Pomfret eagerly said.

  “Yes, it was a victory, wasn’t it?” Lewrie mused, wanting no more than to go aft and get off his feet. “Not completely mine, though. If a grand victory it was, it’s Sapphire’s victory, their victory,” he said, pointing forward to the many sailors on deck. “It’s always theirs.”

  EPILOGUE

  I begin by taking. I shall find scholars afterwards to demonstrate my perfect right.

  FREDERICK II, THE GREAT

  KING OF PRUSSIA (1712–1786)

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Bart., was having one of the worst mornings of his life. To say that he felt rowed beyond all temperance, to describe his mood of being betrayed, and as ill-used as if assailed by so many bears, would be an understatement.

  He could not return aboard HMS Sapphire and indulge in a roaring, satisfying rage in the privacy of his great-cabins; that would result in a terrorised cat, a howling ship’s dog, and cringing cabin-servants, and possibly the abuse of his furniture, and stubbed toes. Quite possibly his officers, Mids, and sailors who could not help over-hearing a long, curse-laden tirade, and the gay tinkle of flung glassware, might imagine that he’d taken complete leave of his senses.

  Lewrie could relate the wrenching circumstances to Lieutenant Geoffrey Westcott later, after he had drained off all his bile, but it was not yet time for that; he had to see straight, first, and, at the moment, he felt that if he looked in a mirror, his eyes would be red, like a Viking Berserker warrior of old!

  I may laugh about this in future … but I rather doubt it, he fumed to himself.

  Naturally, he would not go to his mistress’s, Maddalena Covilhā’s lodgings and burden her with it. She’d think him demented, and fear that she’d made a bad bargain with a raving lunatick, one she’d never know when he might go off, again, perhaps on her. Maddalena seemed intelligent enough a woman to understand, but it might be more than an hour, and three bottles of wine, before he completely vented.

  No, the only person upon whom he could empty his spleen was Mr. Thomas Mountjoy, for part of his bad news affected that worthy’s operations, and if he hadn’t heard about it yet, Mountjoy would surely be as shocked as he was, and just as angry.

  “Deacon,” Lewrie growled at the dangerous fellow as he entered Mountjoy’s lodgings, not caring how he took the curtness. “Is he in?”

  “Yes, Captain Lewrie, I’ll announce…” Deacon offered, but Lewrie brushed past him and thundered up the stairs to the top-floor set of rooms, burst through the door into the sitting room, and bawled, “Damn ’em, Mountjoy, those two bloody fools, Dalrymple and Middleton, have taken away my boats! How the Devil am I t’land troops? They’re going t’be turned into harbour gunboats!”

  He caught Mountjoy at his small dining table in his shirtsleeves, with a napkin tucked into his collar, carefully picking away the shell of a cupped, boiled egg, the perfect picture of domestic bliss.

  “I know,” Mountjoy said, so calmly that Lewrie felt the sudden urge to leap over the table, take him by the throat, and throttle him.

  “You know? Bloody Hell!” Lewrie roared. “What the…?”

  “Given the sudden change in circumstances, ‘the Dowager’ don’t think we should be antagonising the Spanish any longer,” Mountjoy said as he dug into his soft-boiled egg with a tiny spoon and took a dainty bite. “As London has long wished, Dalrymple now wishes that the Dons direct their outrage ’gainst the French, not us. He made a strong request … well, call it an order sugared with a veiled threat … that we, you and I, suspend offensive operations ’til the situation sorts itself out.”

  “Shut down?” Lewrie gawped, feeling as if his head would pop. “When were you goin’ t’tell me? And, what bloody circumstances?”

  “Marshal Junot’s Army of Observation has crossed the Pyrenees, and is marching on Portugal,” Mountjoy matter-of-factly told him, as if it was no more vital a matter than the morning’s temperature. “We got word of it last evening, so it’s days late, and Junot is probably already near Salamanca, and making good time, so our ambassador in Lisbon, Lord Strangford, relates. Oddest damned thing…”

  Mountjoy paused to smear butter and jam on a slice of toast, take a bite, and chew.

  “Odd? Yayss?” Lewrie prompted, his sarcasm dripping.

  “Just round midnight last night, I received a covert despatch from Romney Marsh, from Madrid, announcing the very same news,” Mountjoy said. “A poulterer came to the door with two chickens I did not order, with Marsh’s note. ‘Contract signed, goods on way to Lisbon, Madrid merchants out-bid and upset’, it said. Meaning, I take it, that there was some formal, written pact or treaty arranged by Godoy and his arse-licking Francophiles, and that news of a French Army on Spanish soil has outraged your common Spaniard to no end. Better for Godoy had he not put it down on paper, and let it happen with little notice, but, that’s his problem.”

  “Marsh? That fool?” Lewrie spat.

  “Oh, as mad as a hatter, is Romney Marsh,” Mountjoy heartily agreed, laughing, “but if he’s a fool, he’s a most useful one.”

  “Mine arse on a band-box,” Lewrie said, all his pent-up, eager to be spilled rage quite flown his head, leaving him feeling deflated and weak in the knees. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Tea?” Mountjoy offered. “And, there’s a basket of toast.”

  “We’re t’make nice with the Spanish now, are we?” Lewrie asked. “Just let bygones be bygones, and hope they come t’love us?”

  “That may take some doing on their part, since you’ve done such a grand job of making their lives miserable, of late,” Mountjoy told him with a snicker. “I’ve word that that battery you bombarded has been abandoned, the one you blew up won’t be re-built, and even the semaphore towers you burned have been left in ruins. I told you that Spain is completely broke. With so much of Spain’s treasury going to the French, there’s little left to spend on their own needs. Spain’s less a French ally than one of her impoverished colo
nies.

  “To add insult to injury, here you just up and bested two of the best frigates left to the Spanish Navy,” Mountjoy went on, imparting Lewrie with a cheery wink. “Congratulations on that. ‘The Dowager’ is of the same mind, and thought it a fine feat, but … Dalrymple also believes that, now the French have violated Spanish sovereignty, we’ve done more than enough to rub their proud noses in the muck, and shame them. Do have a cup of tea while it’s still hot.”

  “Have some brandy t’go with it?” Lewrie grumpily demanded.

  “But of course I do, good fellow!” Mountjoy said, springing to his feet to fetch a bottle.

  Good fellow? Lewrie thought, scowling; Please, mine arse! I’ll not be cossetted like a dog who does tricks!

  “The troops, the transport?” Lewrie asked as Mountjoy returned with the brandy. “What happens to them?”

  “Surplus to requirements, I’m afraid,” Mountjoy said, sighing as if in sympathy. “Captain Pomfret, and the detachment of the 77th, will be off to Sicily to re-join their regiments in the field, with an host of good stories to tell, I should imagine. Captain Hedgepeth is most likely taking the transport to Lisbon.”

  Halfway through stirring sugar and lemon into his brandy-laced cup of tea, Lewrie raised a questioning brow. “Lisbon?”

  “Our ambassador, Lord Strangford, and his retinue, must be evacuated, along with all British subjects,” Mountjoy replied. “So many engaged in the wine, port, and sherry trade, so many merchants, and so many debtors hiding out in Portugal from their creditors in England? Hedgepeth and his Harmony might even be hired on to evacuate the royal family. A fellow in my line of work at the embassy sent me a letter in the same packet with the ambassador’s, stating that he has it on good assurance that the Regent, Prince João, is determined to leave nothing to the French, and he’ll not leave a single member of his courtiers or ministers behind to head a puppet government, so dozens and dozens of ships will be necessary. Prince João intends to move everything to the Vice-Royalty of Brazil.”

  “Hope the courtiers enjoy all the mosquitos,” Lewrie gloomed.

  As he poured himself another cup of tea, admittedly one more a tea-flavoured brandy, Mountjoy went on to praise the sagacity of the Regent of Portugal, who had seen the handwriting on the wall when Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte had initiated his Continental System to deny Britain any European trade, certain that he’d be threatened to join or else face invasion and conquest. Prince João had pretended to agree, but had strung out the negotiations so long that Bonaparte had lost patience, realising that he had been played the fool.

  “My counterpart wrote that João is also determined to ship the crown jewels, the treasury, the royal libraries, and even the gilded coaches to Brazil,” Mountjoy said with another wink, leaning closer and lowering his voice as if French grenadiers had their ears pressed to the doors. “He’s been packing up and preparing for months, can you imagine?”

  “What’s in the jam pot?” Lewrie asked. “Orange marmalade?”

  “Hmm?” Mountjoy replied, looking dis-appointed that Lewrie was not gushingly impressed. “Lemon marmalade.”

  “Give it a shove in my direction, if ye please,” Lewrie asked. As long as he had to listen to Mountjoy jawing on, he decided that he could have a wee bite, as well. With nothing more for Sapphire to do and offensive operations scotched, he thought that he might even take up whist, or chess! Or try to learn Spanish.

  “D’ye think I might be useful at Lisbon?” Lewrie wondered.

  “I believe we’ve a squadron there already, under Sir Sydney Smith,” Mountjoy told him, furrowing his brow to recall correctly. “For now, I’m sure that Dalrymple and Captain Middleton would prefer that there’s a naval presence at Gibraltar … some sailors to man the new gunboats? For now, there’s no more call for any further chaos or mayhem along the Spanish coast. I’ve Cummings and his boat to keep me in touch with agents and their informers, so I can get a sense of how the Spanish are taking their government’s surrender to Bonparte’s whim. Who knows, sir? That one request we got for British arms for a rebellion ’gainst Madrid might be repeated, and become widespread! Imagine your ship sailing into some major port in Andalusia, with arms to land, and being cheered in the streets!”

  “That’d take some fanciful imagining,” Lewrie groused.

  “Well, think on this,” Mountjoy posed, leaning closer, again, lest he’d be overheard by French pigeons on the gallery outside. “We know that Dalrymple has good relations with his opposite number, General Castaños. If he and his officers are disgusted enough that they rebel against Madrid, that could ignite the whole country, and open a door for a British army to land, then, in hand with the Spanish, head for Cádiz and take it from behind!

  “Then, there’s an earlier despatch that Marsh sent me, anent internal divisions in Madrid which may bubble over to our advantage,” Mountjoy went on in that insufferable “I know something you don’t” way that had always irked Lewrie, “King Carlos of Spain’s been reduced to a figurehead, under Godoy and his set of French-lovers, and the Spanish people blame him for all their troubles. They’d rather have Ferdinand, his heir, on the throne, even if he is a dim-witted, lantern-jawed fool. King Carlos distrusts Ferdinand, Ferdinand’s plotting to take the throne and get rid of Godoy, and Godoy is plotting against Ferdinand, so some sort of coup is bound to happen which could turn all Spain topsy-turvy, and against the French, at last.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it happen,” Lewrie grumped, going for another slice of toast, the butter plate, and the jam pot.

  “It means nothing to you?” Mountjoy exclaimed, unable to grasp that Lewrie was not as enthusiastic over the prospects as he. “But of course, the suspension of operations, losing the troops, transport, and those boats has been an appalling wrench, just when you were getting so good at these new-fangled ‘amphibious’ landings.”

  “It ain’t just that,” Lewrie grumbled. “It’s the Prize-Court.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “The Prize-Court?” Mountjoy asked, puzzled.

  “The bastards,” Lewrie said, getting his “fume” back, nigh as hot as before. “Oh, there’s no problem with the San Pedro, that’s as clear as day. No, it’s that French corvette I brought in months ago, Le Cerf. Comes of me tryin’ t’be just too clever by half! Remember that I had all four transports fly Navy ensigns, and pretend t’be a squadron? Well, the transports’ masters, and the shipowners, got an idea in their greedy little civilian heads that if they pretended t’be frigates, and sailed into battle ’stead of runnin’ off like they were supposed to do, then they were ‘in sight’ at the moment the corvette struck her colours, and it’s Navy custom for all ships of the Fleet ‘in sight’ when that happens get t’share in the prize money! They’ve put together a suit t’get their cut, and sent a lawyer down from London to argue for ’em!”

  “My word!” Mountjoy exclaimed. “Can they really do that?”

  “Whether they can or not, they’ve laid the suit, and it’ll be years ’fore a final ruling,” Lewrie gravelled. “The local Court’ll rule, but it’ll have to go to Admiralty, maybe as high as the Privy Council, to sort it all out. To make things worse, Colonel Fry, of the Kent Fusiliers, learned of it, and since they were play-actin’ as Marines at the bulwarks of the transports, damned if the regiment’s not laid a separate suit t’get their share, too, ’cause Army regiments have been seconded to serve as Marines in the past, and there’s a precedent! If the Prize-Court rules in their favour, and the transports’, it’d be the year 1900 before it’s settled, as bad as a contested will in Chancery Court! If any o’ my crew is still livin’ when it’s settled, they might get enough t’buy a bottle of Gibraltar ‘Blackstrap’ wine! Christ!”

  “Hmm … well, look on the bright side, sir,” Mountjoy urged, striving for a sympathetic note to his voice, though Lewrie could see that he was having a hard time stifling his amusement. “You have the Spanish frigate to make up for it, and isn’t there some monetary
reward for the other, even if she sank? What do they call it, Head and Gun Money, depending on how many cannon and men were aboard her? You have that straightforward, and … there is the credit you have won for the doing. I shall write Mister Peel in London to make sure that your victory is properly appreciated by Admiralty, by the Secretary of State at War, and by the Crown. The involvement of Army detachments will receive proper praise at Horse Guards, as well. I guarantee it.”

  “Well…” Lewrie grumped, allowing himself to be cossetted out of his pet, after all.

  “Not much I can do about your problem with the Prize-Court,” Mountjoy added with a shrug, “but, perhaps Mister Peel may be able to portray the Army’s suit, and the transport owners’ suit, as grasping and greedy in the London papers. One never knows, public sentiment can be quite powerful, now and then. A description of how clever your ruse was when confronted with two French warships might sway opinion to your side.”

  “Well, there is that,” Lewrie grudgingly allowed. “The tracts that the abolitionists circulated saved my bacon when I got tried for stealin’ slaves, even if I’ll never live down ‘Saint Alan’ or ‘Black Alan the Liberator’. Gawd!”

  “That’s the spirit, Captain Lewrie!” Mountjoy said, all but giving him an encouraging pat on the back. “In the meantime, there’s the gunboats that Captain Middleton is getting. They’ll need to be armed and manned, and that’ll keep you and your crew busy here in the harbour. I know, you don’t want them to go too stale, so you could leave some behind and cruise the coast, as you did before, while the men left in harbour staff the gunboats. In rotation, perhaps? Cruise, and make a minor nuisance of yourself ’gainst Spanish shipping. Can’t guarantee how long that may last, mind. As far as Admiralty is concerned, you are still on Independent Orders, seconded to me, but that could change, depending on how London reacts to the invasion of Portugal. More tea, Captain Lewrie?”