Текст книги "The King's Marauder"
Автор книги: Dewey Lambdin
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Mine arse on a band-box, the…!” followed a moment later by “the cretinous, cack-handed, cunny-thumbed bloody … lubbers!”
Lewrie’s oldest and worst cocked hat was flung to the deck for the third time, and it wasn’t even eleven in the morning, yet, but the latest attempt to dis-embark the soldiers of the 77th from Harmony to the boats was no better than the first three over the last five days, and Lewrie was sure that it was disappointing enough to make the Archbishop of Canterbury start kicking children!
“It might look better in the dark, sir,” Lt. Westcott quipped.
“If we ever get that far, we’ll drown the whole crippled lot, and start fresh!” Lewrie roared. “These people couldn’t climb down off a bloody foot-stool!”
It ain’t even that rough a morning, Lewrie bemoaned, watching the Redcoats swaying and clinging for dear life to the scrambling nets, and the easy pitch of the waiting boats alongside the transport. The sea was mild-enough, though there was moderate, foaming surf at the foot of the Rock, sweeping in to wet every inch of the narrow beach, and spew round the rocks. What he had estimated to only take ten to fifteen minutes had turned out to be closer to half an hour just to get them all aboard and settled, much yet to get the boats ashore.
Off Sapphire’s bows, his own four boats were already filled with his Marines, loafing in a rough line-abreast about a cable off, waiting for the Army to sort themselves out.
“My thanks, again, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said to his First Officer in a brief, calm moment. “The boat, ye know. How and where ye got it…”
“Best not enquire, sir,” Westcott said, with a taut grin. “The less you know, the better.”
The smallest of their boats, the 18-footer jolly boat, had disappeared, miraculously replaced one dark night by a spanking-new 25-foot cutter to match the one they had, and when the sun rose, there it was, painted white with sapphire-blue gunn’ls just like their others. Admittedly, the paint had still been wet, but…! The jolly boat had been too small to be useful except for carrying a very few passengers ashore and back, or rowing the Bosun round right after anchoring to see that the yards were level and squared with each other. He was the only one who missed it.
“Harmony’s starboard-side boats are shoving off, sir,” Lieutenant Harcourt pointed out. “They’re clearing the ship, just afore her bows.”
“Twenty-five bloody minutes, Christ!” Lewrie spat.
“Faster than before, sir,” Westcott said. “That’d be Captain Kimbrough’s, I believe.”
Young Captain Bowden’s company was only halfway loaded into the boats on the transport’s larboard side. Lewrie put his telescope to one eye and could make out Bowden by Harmony’s mainmast stays, mouth open in rage, disgust, or impatience; at that distance it was hard to tell. Major Hughes was aft by the mizen stays, arms wind-milling in the air to urge the last few soldiers to go down the nets. He looked red in the face as the last man went over the bulwarks at last, then wind-milled his way forward to bellow at Captain Bowden.
“One boat’s coming off, sir,” Harcourt reported.
“Coming?” Lewrie yelped. “So is bloody Christmas!”
At very long last, all the boats were full and stroking shoreward in line-abreast. At least Sapphire’s sailors were professionals at rowing and conning the boats. They all grounded on what passed for a beach roughly about the same time, and their passengers scrambled out over the bows much more quickly, as if glad to find even a patch of solid ground on which to stand, relieved and delighted to escape boats and ships for even a few minutes.
They looked comical, even to Lewrie’s frustrated eyes, huddled almost shoulder-to-shoulder at the foot of the nigh-vertical, barren cliffs, wetted to their shins as the surf rolled in, with some soldiers balancing themselves on the boulders and scree rocks that had accumulated at the cliff’s base over the centuries.
“Mister Harcourt, the six-pounder, if you please,” Lewrie said. “Signal the return. Then pray … earnestly.”
After the crack of the gun, and the sight of the small cloud of sour smoke from its discharge, the soldiers filed up to claw their way back aboard the boats and take their seats on the inner parts of the thwarts, muskets jutting upwards and held between their knees. One by one, the boats were shoved off the beach, the oarsmen stroking to back-water out far enough for one bank of oars to back-water, the other to stroke forward and turn them round bows-out toward the waiting ships, right in the middle of the surf. All the boats pitched and rolled, cocking their bows or sterns high as incoming waves set them to hobby-horsing, but, after a few minutes, all were clear and on their way out, with the unbroken rollers lifting them a few feet, then dropping them between sets.
“Is the weather getting up?” Lt. Westcott speculated aloud, looking up to the commissioning pendant, the clouds, and the steepness of the wave sets.
“The surf is breaking a tad more boisterous, sir,” Lt. Harcourt agreed.
“You can feel it,” Lewrie said, leaning over the bulwarks for a look at the sea ruffling round the hull. “If we get those clumsy bastards back aboard, we’ll call it a day, then stand out to sea.”
“Aye, sir,” Westcott replied.
Lewrie paced the quarterdeck, now and then ascending to the poop deck for a better view with his telescope, willing himself to be calm, stoic, and un-moved, but that was a hard task. The boats came alongside Harmony in their proper places, bowmen hooked the channels with their gaffs, one bank of oarsmen took hold of the scrambling nets to keep the boats close alongside and keep the nets somewhat taut as soldiers tentatively made their way up the transport’s side to heave a leg over the bulwarks and partly roll back aboard.
“Time, Mister Elmes?” Lewrie asked from the poop deck.
“Twenty-one and one half minutes for the soldiers to get back aboard, sir,” the Third Officer told him. “A bit quicker.”
“That’s ’cause they know the rum issue’s coming as soon as they do,” Lewrie scoffed.
“Perhaps we should set a rum keg on the beach next time, then, sir,” Elmes joshed. “And the first boat ashore gets full measures.”
“Then they’d get so drunk we’d never get them back!” Lewrie said, relieved enough to banter once again.
His own Marines had come back aboard Sapphire much more quickly, the boats had been tented with taut tarpaulin covers to keep out rain and sloshed-aboard seawater in rough weather, and were already being led aft for towing astern once the ship got back under way. Muskets and accoutrements were stowed away, and the Marines had removed their red coats, neck-stocks and waist-coats, only worn when standing sentry or when called to Quarters for battle.
The Sailing Master and the Midshipmen under his instruction had gathered to take Noon Sights with their sextants and slates, though it was a pointless endeavour for Sapphire’s officers, for once, since the ship was still fetched-to about a thousand yards offshore. Lewrie had been so intent upon watching the soldiers’ return that he had missed Eight Bells ringing the change of watch.
“All hands back aboard, sir, arms and boats secured, and ready to get under way,” Westcott, who was now the officer of the watch, reported. “Rum first, sir?”
“No, I want sea-room first,” Lewrie decided as he slowly came back down to the quarterdeck. “Just in case.”
Hundreds of sailors and Marines stood about the deck in the waist, along the gangways, joshing each other, pleased with their own exertions, and jeering at the poor showing of the men of the 77th, looking aft for word of their own rum issue.
“Bosun!” Westcott shouted, “hands to the foresheets and braces! Stations for getting under way!”
There was a collective groan at the delay, but on-watch hands sprang to their duties, and within minutes, Sapphire had come about, and under reduced sail, slowly clawed her way a mile or better out to sea, with Harmony trailing her.
“I’ll be aft, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie finally announced. “I think a good, long sulk is in order. I may even curse the cat!”
Once in his cabins, Lewrie shucked his coat and undid his neck-stock for comfort, pummelled his battered hat into a semblance of its former shape, and flung himself onto his settee. Chalky came dashing with his tail erect and mewing as he leapt into Lewrie’s lap for some long-delayed pets, butting and stroking his cheeks on him.
“Tea, sir?” Pettus asked.
“Aye,” Lewrie agreed, still a bit glum.
The muted music from the ship’s fiddler and a fifer came to him, playing “Molly Dawson” at a lively beat, and there was a cheer raised as the red-painted and gilt rum keg got fetched up from below.
“Think they’ll get better at it, sir?” Pettus asked as he came back with a tall tumbler of cool tea, lemoned and sugared to Lewrie’s likes.
“They’d better, or I’m wastin’ everybody’s bloody time.”
* * *
The weather did get up for the next two days’ running, forcing both ships to keep well out in deeper, open waters, with lots of rain and stiff quarter-gales keening in the rigging. The cancellation of training gave Lewrie enough time to sift through every detail of his plans for teaching lubberly soldiers.
Loath as he was to admit it, he had put the cart before the horse, expecting too much too quickly. “River discipline!” he had blurted out over supper alone in his cabins, feeling much like Archimedes shouting “Eureka!” in his bath water.
Fresh-caught landsmen rounded up by the Press, new-come volunteers, were never expected to be slung aboard a warship and forced to man the guns, tend to the braces, sheets, and halliards, scale the ratlines, take on the perilous passage by the futtock shrouds to the tops, and lay out on the yards, right off. It took weeks safely anchored in port to introduce them to the rudiments before any captain would dare set sail, not just trusting to luck to make a safe passage.
Once the weather cleared, Lewrie ordered both ships back to Gibraltar, and came to anchor near the New Mole. The soldiers were sent ashore to their temporary barracks for a day and a night, fresh rations were fetched aboard Sapphire and Harmony, and both crews were allowed shore liberties before getting back to business.
Then, in the calm waters of Gibraltar Bay, the landing boats were led round to their stations, and the soldiers were ordered over the side, without muskets to impede them at first. Into the boats and sit for a while, then out of the boats and back on deck. A break for water, and they were ordered to do it all over again, several times in the first day, to the point that Harmony’s decks could be cleared in a quick ten minutes.
The next day the drills were done with muskets and all accoutrements, all day long less intervals for water, rum, mid-day meals, and the soldiers were only released from practice late in the afternoon, just before the second rum issue. With a steady, unmoving deck and boats that did not pitch and heave about, the soldiers’ time got even better.
On the third day, the boats were manned, the nets deployed, and the soldiers scrambled down to their places, but this time, the boats rowed off to form line-abreast and stroked in to within close pistol-shot of the quays to glide in so the soldiers could exit over the bow platforms, form by platoons on the town’s dockside street, then get back into the boats and return to the transport to scramble back aboard to do it all over again. Those evolutions raised a great deal of mirth and curiosity in the town, and a lot of good-natured joshing from the town Provosts, dock workers, and off-duty soldiers of the garrison, and some sharp-eyed, calculating looks from civilian men.
Spies, agents, and informers be-damned, Lewrie thought, shaking his head over the necessity, sure that there were several powerful telescopes on the other side of the bay at Algeciras the like of Thomas Mountjoy’s, watching their every move and wondering what it was about.
There might be dozens of Spanish greengrocers and fruiterers on their way back across The Lines emulating the American rebel, Paul Revere, shouting, “The British are coming!” he imagined, and a grain merchant or three crying, “Two if by sea!”
Then, for the next two days, all sailors and soldiers were left to idle, only forming up and entering the boats after the nights had fully fallen, with all glims and lanthorns extinguished. That wasn’t to prevent the Spanish seeing them practise, but to get the soldiers used to the drill as if in a moonless, overcast black night at sea.
By then, the men of the 77th could perform the evolutions just as efficiently and quickly as Sapphire’s Marines could, and Lewrie was at last a lot more sanguine of their chances.
It was time to see Mountjoy for a mission.
* * *
“Puerto Banús looks promising,” Mountjoy decided after sifting through his latest reports and agents’ sketches. “Look here, there’s a battery to the left of the harbour entrance, about twenty feet higher than the town itself, on a little pimple of a rise. It’s an open redan, a stone semi-circle mounting only three eighteen-pounders, or the Spanish equivalent, in weight of metal.”
“That’d be about fifty gunners and officers, in all,” Lewrie estimated. “I can keep them occupied with gunfire.”
“About what my informer observed, yes,” Mountjoy agreed. They were out on his rooftop gallery, screened by the canvas awning, and enjoying a decent breeze that cut the day’s heat, bent over the iron table before the settee. “Now, there’s a good, broad beach over here to the right of the harbour. Some scattered houses, as you can see, and the report is that small boats are drawn up on the shingle behind it for the night, in the outer part of the harbour. Groves of trees to the right of that, then three windmills to grind grain, and a granary further inland by about an hundred yards. Behind that is the town proper, and the houses are close together. I’m not sure if we should go much beyond the granary.”
“Street fightin’, in the dark, with a surprise round every corner, in every window? Aye, we’ll burn the granary and the mills, and call it a good day’s work. Though I’d like t’spike those guns,” Lewrie said. “Has your informer gotten a good look at the battery?”
“Not too close, no,” Mountjoy said, with a shrug. “But he did see a doorway on the backside of the rise where their powder magazine must be, sunk underneath the battery. His sketch shows a long wooden barracks a little way behind the rise, and an old stone fisherman’s house off to the right of that and a little more inland, where the officers lodge, is my guess.”
“Damme, I could put my Marines to that, arm the men who handle the boats to aid them, and take the place,” Lewrie schemed. “There is a good beach in front of the battery, isn’t there? Damme! Once we surprise the Dons and drive ’em off, loose gunpowder scattered on the guns’ carriages’d set ’em alight and burn ’em up. Hell, we lay a powder train to the magazine, and it’d blow the whole thing sky-high!”
“Hmm,” Mountjoy considered, frowning. “Far be it from me to tell you how to spread the requisite mayhem, but … might that be a tad too enterprising, right off? If they keep a good watch, and there is any sort of moonlight, they’d be ready for you.”
“The most important objective is the battery,” Lewrie countered. “If it’s taken and destroyed, the Spanish will have to waste effort and money replacin’ it … drawin’ troops for a larger garrison, military engineers, and new artillery pieces. Stone workers to lay a stronger, bigger emplacement, hey? No, the battery’s the main course, and the mills and granary are the lagniappe, as they said in Louisiana … the ‘little something extra’. We land everyone against the battery, and deal with the rest after, with any opposition already eliminated.”
“Well, we did promise Sir Hew we’d whittle down any possible re-enforcements sent to General Castaños,” Mountjoy said with a sigh, leaning back into the settee’s cushions. “I’ll put Deacon to copying the sketches so all officers involved can have them. How soon might you need them?”
“No tearing hurry,” Lewrie said. “I’ve let the soldiers ashore to their barracks for a day or two as a reward, and my own people are due shore liberty, by watches. Say, two days from now? We’ll get the officers together for a briefing before we set off. And, I’m in need of fresh laundry. Ehm, you wouldn’t have a second objective in mind fairly close to Puerto Banús, would you?”
“Not right offhand, no,” Mountjoy promised. “I think just the one raid will suffice, for now. Babies must crawl before they learn to walk, after all. Let’s get the rough edges smoothed down before we hit our stride.”
“Meaning, ‘Lewrie, don’t make a muck of it’, hey?” Lewrie asked, with a wry expression.
Mountjoy made no reply, but raised a brow and nodded.
* * *
That’s what comes of bein’ thought an idiot, Lewrie sullenly told himself as he strolled downhill from Mountjoy’s lodgings to the quays; The up-and-comin’ younkers like Mountjoy think they know better than older farts like me. Get a few years on me, and they marvel if I can eat with a knife and fork! Can’t even imagine what the puppies of the 77th make o’ me. Hallo?
He spotted Major Hughes a’stroll along the quays with a woman on his arm, his free hand gesticulating at the harbour, and, from the way his egret-plumed bicorne dipped like a hobby-horse, was happily and boisterously engaged in conversation with her, which conversation seemed to be one-sided, for the woman’s hat and head did not follow his pointing.
Lewrie could only see the couple from behind, but he fancied that she was the intriguing Maddalena. Her dark hair was worn simply in a long fall at the nape of her neck, not teased, roached, or ironed into an intricate updo like most women with pretensions to style wore it, and in comparison to the usual flounces and flummery, her gown was simple, a pale yellow, high-waisted affair trimmed in white. Her up-turned sun bonnet partially masked her head to protect her complexion, tied with a yellow ribbon under her chin.
Hmm, slimmer than I thought, Lewrie appraised as he neared them, noting that her gown was more a sheath than a loose, bell-shaped thing, a modest muslin or linen instead of richer fabrics.
“… and since our families are closely connected, Sir Hew was most accepting of my ideas, don’t ye know, m’dear,” Major Hughes boasted. “Now that I’ve gotten my men trained, it only awaits the go-ahead from him.”
What? Christ on a crutch! Lewrie fumed inside; Takin’ credit for it, are you? And boastin’ that loud where ye shouldn’t?
He’d gotten close enough to overhear that, along with half the dockworkers on Gibraltar, and overtook the pair as they drew to a stop to admire the transport with its waiting landing boats nuzzled alongside.
“Why, Major Hughes, is that you?” Lewrie cheerfully called out, pretending pleasant surprise. “A good mornin’ to ye, sir.”
“Oh, ah!” Hughes replied, turning to regard him with real surprise, his complexion flushing redder. “Ashore for the morning, are you, sir? Well met, Captain Lewrie, well met.”
“And to you, sir,” Lewrie said, doffing his hat.
“I was just telling Maddalena here about the training we have been doing,” Hughes went on. “My pardons. Captain Lewrie, allow me to name to you Mistress Maddalena Covilhā. Maddalena, I name to you Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, of the Royal Navy, and the Captain of the Sapphire, out yonder.”
“Mistress Covilhā, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, sweeping his hat onto his chest and making a wee “leg”.
“Captain Lewrie, the delight is mine,” she replied, dropping him a slow curtsy, though keeping her brown eyes on his face, in which there was, alongside a pleased curl of her lips, a glint of amusement.
“Covilhā,” Lewrie said, trying on the name, “is that Spanish, Italian, or Portuguese, if I may enquire?”
“I am Portuguese, sir, from Oporto,” she said with a smile and some greater animation, “though my family long ago lived in a town of our same name.”
“Oporto!” Lewrie exclaimed with an easy laugh. “My father was there for several years … hidin’ from his creditors. Never been to that city, but he said it was most pleasant. And, he adored all the wines, of course.”
“But, how can a gentleman of the English aristocracy be so poor that he must seek shelter from debt, Captain?” Maddalena wondered, with a shake of her head.
“He was a Knight of The Garter, but our family was bankrupt, and never noble. He won his knighthood, as I did mine, As for bein’ a Baronet, let’s just say that King George the Third was havin’ a bad day when he dubbed me a knight.”
Maddalena pretended shock that Lewrie would speak so casually of a monarch, much less his own, though she had to stifle an outright peal of laughter.
“Really, sir!” Major Hughes chid him, appalled.
“Really, he did, sir,” Lewrie gladly rejoined. “There was a long line of us t’be honoured, two or three ahead of me were dubbed Knight and Baronet, and I expect it stuck in his head, so when it came my turn, there it was. I thought it wouldn’t count, but the palace flunkies told me that the Crown don’t err,” he related, drawing out “err” into a long growl that sounded more like “Grr”, which set the girl tittering, and Hughes going redder in the face.
He was trying hellish-hard to please, and going for charming, witty, and amusing, and was delighted to see that his effort was working. Mistress Covilhā was giving him the same sort of speculative regard she’d shown him when he’d dined near her and Hughes at Pescadore’s, a frank consideration that he might be more fun than her present companion.
“Well, we were just about to dine, Captain Lewrie, so I’m sure you will excuse us,” Major Hughes said, looking a trifle irked.
“But of course, sir,” Lewrie allowed.
“Perhaps Captain Lewrie might care to join us,” Maddalena suggested quickly.
“Wouldn’t care t’intrude,” Lewrie pretended to beg off.
“Oh, but he must, Major Hughes!” Maddalena eagerly insisted, going kittenish and coy. “You are the … brothers in arms?”
Major? Lewrie scoffed to himself; Is she in his regiment? Why not “my dear” or “darling”, or “woolly bear”? She don’t sound all that affectionate with him.
“We work in close co-operation, yes, m’dear, Captain Lewrie to the sea-side, and me on the land, but…” Hughes tossed off as if it was the sketchiest of associations.
“Then between the two of you, you can tell me all about it,” Maddalena sweetly said,
“Well, if you’d care to, sir,” Hughes grudgingly allowed, looking as pleased with the idea as a Hindoo served a slab of roast beef.
“Well, I must confess t’feelin’ peckish,” Lewrie said with a shrug, as if it did not matter a whit, “but, do allow me to play host. My treat? Where did you plan to go?”
“Thought we’d dine at Pescadore’s,” Hughes gruffly said.
Maddalena made a face, hidden from Hughes by the side of her bonnet, and allowed her to share a wry smile with Lewrie.
“An excellent choice,” Lewrie congratulated. “Let us go.”
* * *
Later that afternoon, at his total ease in his cabins aboard Sapphire, and slowly nursing a cool glass of sangria, the discovery of which delighted both him and his cook, Yeovill, Lewrie reviewed their mid-day dinner with a great deal of satisfaction.
When the waiter, Michael/Miguel, had asked for their beverage choice, Lewrie had ordered a pitcher of sangria, claiming curiosity, and Maddalena had seconded him, leaving Hughes to his pale ale, siding with the girl to win a bit more favour, and thank God that it had proved sweetly enjoyable. For his entree, Lewrie had gone for the fried fish and cracked-open lobster, as did Maddalena as if taking her cue from him, leaving Hughes to his roast beef and potatoes.
He’d given Maddalena a culinary tour, from Canton in China to Indian fare at Calcutta, regaling them with the spiciness of the West Indies, the game meats of Cape Town, the glories of Low Country fare in the Carolinas in the United States, even the moose, elk, and cod of Halifax. Hughes, it seemed, had not travelled all that far, and could only speak glowingly of salmon, grouse, and pheasant when shooting or fishing in Scotland.
Despite a strong urge to do so, Lewrie had not boasted of his naval career, or his battles, hopefully leaving the impression that he’d done a slew of things heroic, mentioning only the battle off the Chandeleur Islands of Louisiana which had won him his knighthood in 1803. The faint scar on his cheek? A youthful idiocy when he was a Midshipman, in a pointless duel on Antigua, and he hadn’t even won the girl in the end!
She had asked if he was married, or had children, and he had told her of Sewallis and Hugh, now both at sea in the Navy, and his daughter, Charlotte, back home at Anglesgreen (the less said about that sullen, spiteful wench the better!) and that his wife had died five years before, leaving the details to her imagination; leaving Maddalena with the notion that “poor, widowed Alan Lewrie” was lonely and alone, and possibly available. He told her of his cat, Chalky, who was good company at sea, and the ship’s silly dog, Bisquit, and how he’d been acquired, pretending to laugh off the idea of his loneliness … upon that head, at least.
Did Hughes’s regiment have a mascot animal, like the “Regimental Ram” of the Light Dragoons he’d escorted to Cape Town? The coat of arms and badge of the 53rd featured a gryphon, but, being mythical, were rather thin on the ground, unfortunately.
All in all, it had been a fine dinner, for Lewrie, at least. And, when Maddalena had glided off to the “necessary” leaving Hughes and himself alone, he had had the wee joy of cautioning Hughes to be careful where, and with whom, he revealed any details of what they were training for.
“Sir Hew’s a bee in his bonnet about spies on every street corner already, and I dare say he may be right, with all the foreigners on Gibraltar,” Lewrie had hinted, “and keepin’ Mister Mountjoy up nights lookin’ for ’em, when he ain’t rootin’ round for what he calls agents provocateurs. I’m sure ye can be somewhat open with Mistress Covilhā, but only in private, hey? ‘Under the rose’, and all that?”
Hughes had grumpily assured him that “the silly baggage” was not a spy, had no maidservant to pick up on careless statements, and did for herself, and in the end had more sense than to blab in the markets. “Women, what?” Hughes had scoffed. “We could most-like include her in the briefings, and she couldn’t make heads or tails of it in the end.”
What a perfect, purblind fool is Hughes, Lewrie thought in smug delight; The bluff bastard doesn’t see her as anything more than a convenient “socket”, and doesn’t know the first bloody thing about keepin’ a woman fond, and it’s God’s own truth that she doesn’t much care for him.
It was the lot of many women in this life to make the best of their shortened circumstances, were they poor, widowed, and had no husband or kinfolk to support them, and it was the rare woman who could follow any sort of trade. The brothels and alleys were full of them, and the prettiest in domestic service were fair game for the masters and the masters’ sons, which usually led to the brothels eventually.
However Maddalena had ended up on Gibraltar, she had had to settle for being a kept woman. Hughes had taken her “under his protection”, as the saying went, the lucky shit, paying for her lodgings and up-keep somewhere here in the town, but was so abstemious that he didn’t provide her with a cook or a single maid-of-all-work when one would be hired so cheap?
Now, what can I make o’ this? Lewrie wondered with a sly grin on his face; Mountjoy’d most-like warn me off t’make sure that Hughes stays agreeable, but … hmm!
