Текст книги "Kings and Emperors"
Автор книги: Dewey Lambdin
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
“Good God, you still have some of ’em?” Lewrie gawped.
“Nossir, but doffin’ our hats, smilin’, an’ makin’ th’ sign o’ th’ cross does just as good,” Furfy told him. “An’ ain’t th’ most of us good Catholic Irishmen?”
Lewrie clapped his lips shut and shook his head, thinking that sure as Fate, every sailor sent ashore would hear of that ploy, and try it on. Of course, they’d have to practice “breast-beating” before they set off!
“Back to the ship, you rogues, and don’t give me cause t’put the lot of you on bread and water,” Lewrie told them.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Good God, what are you doing up here, Captain Lewrie?” General Spencer asked as Lewrie rode up on a hired mount.
“I was bored, sir, and wanted to see how you were doing with your defences,” Lewrie told him, with a smile. “Admire my horse, do you?”
General Spencer guffawed in answer, for Lewrie’s rented horse was a shaggy, un-curried shambler, more like a plough-horse than one bred to the saddle.
“I’d ship him home and enter him in the Derby, if the voyage didn’t kill him,” Lewrie japed. “His hire is closer to the price of an outright purchase … damned Spanish ‘sharps.’ This is your camp, sir? And your defences lie beyond?”
“We’ve settled in quite nicely,” Spencer grumpily allowed after a quick look round to see that all was in order. “My troop lines are there, the Spanish volunteers, there,” he said, pointing beyond the orderly lines of canvas tents to a shambolic encampment off to the North. “There were several hundred of their soldiers that the French had dis-armed and imprisoned, down South of here. When Cádiz arose, their gaolers were called back to Avril’s brigade, and they were left to fend for themselves. I’ve distributed all the arms I had to spare, with accoutrements and ammunition, but that leaves half of them armed with scythes, swords, or boar spears. As for boots, clothing, tents, and camp gear, they’ll have to get by as best they can. The officials in Ayamonte think that I should feed them, but the rations I brought won’t stretch that far, and the Spanish won’t see to their own, damn them.”
“Are they worth anything?” Lewrie asked.
“They claim that they were trained troops, once, but now they are a shabby joke,” Spencer gravelled. “Shoeless armed bands of Gypsies would be more dangerous. So … bored, are you, sir?”
“To tears, sir,” Lewrie eagerly confessed. “I almost wish the French would come down from Lisbon to the border, so I could shoot them t’Hell.”
“I’d admire did the French try me on, too,” Spencer admitted, with a wistful note to his voice. “The horse I was forced to buy off the Dons is much of a match to yours, Captain Lewrie, but, if you wish a tour of my lines, I’ll have it fetched.”
“Thankee, sir,” Lewrie told him.
He was indeed bored to distraction. Remaining anchored far up a river with little room to manoeuvre if trouble came, idle and feeling useless and cut off from imagined grand doings elsewhere gnawed at his patience. He had moved Sapphire closer to the town quays so his guns could cover the ferry landings and the road on the Portuguese side of the Guadiana, and closer to communications with the signalling party in the church tower. He had worked himself to a daily sweat at sword-play, with his pails filled with shot; he’d paced the length of the ship for a full hour each morning, and had gone ashore for long, vigourous strolls. He had hoped that a brisk canter out to the army encampment would be distracting, but his poor hired mount would not go beyond a bone-setting, jouncing trot.
The line of hills that Spencer had thought to entrench turned out to be a series of pimples, with long slopes from the encampment to the tops, and long, gradual slopes down to the plain beyond. Spencer showed him where he had emplaced his few pieces of artillery, set up in redans made of wicker baskets filled with earth, and disguised with shrubs taken from the hedges that bordered individual farm plots or pastures. Lewrie thought that the disguising might have made sense a few days before, when the shrubs had been green, but they were now going sere and brown.
“Do the French come, I intend to mask the bulk of my infantry at the back of the slopes, and have had the men dig a line of chest-high entrenchments,” Spencer explained as they rode along the crests of the hills, looking down to the open plains. “Were I a Frenchman, and wished to attack this position, I’d set up my gun batteries out there, round that farmhouse, barns, and such, and pound away, hoping to kill as many men as possible before sending in my columns. That’s what they’ve done since Ninety-Three. Napoleon was an artilleryman, and he loves to mass his guns in big batteries.”
“That will tear up a lot of hillside, but your men’ll be safe,” Lewrie grasped, “unless they have howitzers. But, they don’t possess bursting shot, Colonel Shrapnel’s shells.”
“Exactly so, Captain Lewrie,” Spencer beamed, sounding somewhat surprised that a sailor would understand. “And, in the earliest days after their revolution, when they launched the levée en masse, they’ve stuck with the column for the attack, not the advancing line. Think of it … a whole battalion formed up two hundred men deep and thirty across. It’s a wondrous target for direct roundshot and bursting shell, and when it gets into musketry range, my men, in ranks two-deep, can direct their fire right in their teeth. Rolling platoon fire in continual volleys, hah! The Frogs haven’t run into that, yet, and when they do, they are going to be in for the bloodiest surprise of their lives! I fully expect a great slaughter.”
“Ehm, they’ll have cavalry, and you don’t, sir,” Lewrie had to point out. “What keeps them from riding round both your flanks? And, these slopes are so gentle, what’s to stop them from galloping right up to where we sit?”
“I’ve also had my men dig patterns of rabbit holes beyond the farthest extents of the hills, and along the back slope,” Spencer boasted. “About eight inches across and a foot deep. There are more round the bounds of the encampment to prevent them sweeping through it. Won’t stop them, but it will slow them up long enough to shift my men to face the threat, and besides, Avril’s the closest threat, and he’s in brigade strength, with probably no more than eight or ten guns and few cavalry. What, one squadron? I think I can hold, and bloody his nose.”
“If things go badly for you, my guns can cover your retreat to the quays, sir,” Lewrie offered. “At full elevation, my six-pounders and upper-deck twelve-pounders can throw shot about a mile.”
“Good God, don’t!” Spencer exclaimed, aghast. “You would do me more damage than the French! Firing blind? Pah!”
“Did it once before, when our army was in Haiti,” Lewrie said. “Of course, the range demanded was much shorter, not over five hundred yards, but with proper flag signals established to tell me where the shot falls, up-down, left-right, it can be done.”
“Well, if I am falling back, there won’t be flag-signalling, and my own guns will be setting up in the streets of Ayamonte,” General Spencer strongly objected. “You can maul the French in the town with direct fire, but I never heard the like, and don’t wish for you to experiment, not with my troops. Bang away all you like does Junot send troops down from Lisbon to take me from the rear.”
“Very good, sir,” Lewrie replied, crest-fallen. He had thought it a good idea!
Lewrie got to clamber down into the entrenchments, crawl over the artillery sites, and get a good look at Spencer’s defences, but it was a bust of a day’s outing, and he wasn’t even offered a glass of something before dismissing himself and going back to town. And the horse, no matter how kicked in the ribs, would not go at a pace beyond its shambling trot!
* * *
After another week of idle uselessness, the crew began to go restless. Ayamonte did not want them ashore, so there was no shore liberty. The demands of Spencer’s brigade, and the power of his pay chests full of silver to buy up most of the cattle, sheep, goats, and pigs, kept Sapphire’s people on salt-meat rations, and even the wardroom’s, and the captain’s, tables were reduced to what beasts could be spared from the forecastle manger for their meals.
Weapons drills, make-work, scrubbing and painting, and many Make and Mend half-days, could distract them only so long. Watch-against-watch competitions at how fast they could ascend and descend all three masts, who could sing the best, who could dance the best, and boxing, palled after a time.
Lieutenant Westcott got his chance to go ashore, but came back aboard looking glum. He had fresh-laundered clothing, but little else, and certainly without tales of conquest of any fetching señorita, and that with his coin purse much reduced by the prices the Spanish were charging. For the other officers and Mids, it was much the same.
“Christ, you can’t even ogle them,” Westcott carped, “else the men of the town threaten to tear you limb from limb! Breaking into a Sultan’s hareem would be easier!”
Lewrie dipped into his own funds and sent the Purser, Mister Cadrick, ashore with orders to fetch back sufficient hogs, fruit, and baked bread for a feast, or don’t come back at all, and Cadrick managed to haggle, plead, and succeed at his task. There was not a single pence that came back in change.
Fast cutters or packet brigs came in every now and then with orders or news, and everyone got their hopes up that London or Gibraltar would send word for a change in their condition. Sometimes there was mail for Sapphire included, and Lewrie could take his mind off his ennui to read newspapers, even if they were weeks out of date by then, or catch up on family and friends. His youngest son, Hugh, was now in a frigate after his first ship paid off, and having the time of his life in the Mediterranean. His eldest, Sewallis, was aboard a new ship, another Third Rate 74, still on the Brest blockade, and did not sound so enthusiastic as his brother, seeming to have had second thoughts of his rash decision years before to run away to sea and forge his way into uniform. His daughter, Charlotte, did not write him, but Lewrie’s brother-in-law, Governour Chiswick, and his wife, Millicent, wrote for her. If Lewrie would pony up the money, Governour strongly hinted, it might be good to prepare Charlotte for a London Season, and her debut in Society, to catch her a good match.
There were letters from old friends, too; Benjamin Rodgers, Anthony Langlie, and his wife, Sophie, formerly Lewrie’s orphaned ward after the evacuation of Toulon, Ralph Knolles also in the Med in his Sixth Rate frigate. There was one breezy, chatty letter full of gossip from his father, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, and a packet of letters from Maddalena back at Gibraltar; fond ones that made him wish most fervently for a quick return there. Anywhere!
If we’re anchored in this bloody river, anchored to Spencer and his damned army, much longer, I’ll go mad! he told himself; Swear I will!
At the very least, he could occupy himself answering all those letters, scribbling away for hours on end, so engrossed in the doing that he could forget his miserable circumstances.
* * *
“The cutter’s coming offshore, sir, and there’s an Army officer aboard her,” Lieutenant Harcourt announced from the quarterdeck where he’d been idly taking the air.
“Umph!” Lewrie replied, rising from his collapsible chair on the poop deck, and laying aside his book. “So there is. Thankee, Mister Harcourt. D’ye think they’ve run out of mustard for the officers’ mess, and wish t’borrow a pot or two?” he added as he sauntered down to the quarterdeck.
“They’ll not get mine, sir!” Harcourt said with a short bark of a laugh.
“Boat ahoy!” Midshipman Spears called to the boat.
“Letter for your Captain!” came the shouted reply.
The boat came alongside the main mast chains, the Army officer managed to scramble up to the entry-port and take the hastily gathered salute from the side-party, then came aft and doffed his hat to Lewrie, and handed over a sealed letter.
“What’s this in aid of, sir?” Lewrie testily asked.
“General Spencer has just received orders from London, sir, and informations from Cádiz,” the young Lieutenant replied with an eager smile. “General Sir Arthur Wellesley’s army is to land in the Tagus, but we will not be marching to join him at Lisbon.”
“That was the plan?” Lewrie said.
“It was contemplated, yes, sir,” the army man said, “but it seems that London is of a mind that our brigade would be of more use closer to Cádiz, to aid and encourage the Spanish Army of Andalusia, and the Spanish have finally agreed to allow us to do so.”
Lewrie ripped the letter open and turned away briefly to read it. “Thank bloody Christ!” he whooped after a moment. “Puerto de Santa María! Not Cádiz exactly, but it’ll do. General Spencer is packing up and ready to go aboard the transports?”
“As we speak, sir,” the Lieutenant happily told him. “He wishes to be away in three days, weather permitting.”
“I can’t wait t’shake the dust of Ayamonte from my boots, either,” Lewrie told him, feeling like breaking out in a hornpipe dance of glee, “not that I gathered much dust in the bloody place. Assure the General that the transports await, and we’ll be ready to sail as soon as he’s got all his force off. And, inform him how delighted that every hand is t’hear of it, me included.”
“I shall relate that to him, sir,” the Army officer promised, equally pleased that they would go.
“Pettus,” Lewrie called, spotting his cabin-steward idling on the larboard gangway and fiddling with a fishing line, “do you fetch this officer a glass of wine before he returns ashore. We’ll liquour his boots for his ride.”
“Thank you, sir!” the Lieutenant exclaimed.
Word quickly spread, as it usually did aboard ship, fetching off-watch officers from below, with Westcott in the lead, even before Pettus could pour that glass of wine.
“Do I hear right, sir?” Westcott asked, looking hopeful.
“Hear what, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie could not help teasing.
“Why, that we’re out of this flea-ridden hovel!” Westcott replied.
“We are,” Lewrie assured him. “Off for Puerto de Santa María on the Bay of Cádiz, as soon as the Army can be got off.”
“I hope you pack quickly, sir,” Westcott said to the stranger.
“Closer to a larger city, your odds’ll be better,” Lewrie japed. “For your … hunting?”
“Perhaps the ladies of Cádiz bathe more often than the women of Ayamonte, aye,” Westcott said, sniggering.
“Oh, Lord,” Lt. Harcourt said, shaking his head, for Harcourt was a man who could be described as a Decent Sort, one more prone to seek a wife, should he ever get a command of his own and more pay.
As the army officer drank his wine, Lewrie could hear a stir among the crew. Off-watch men were coming on deck, people were whispering behind their hands, breaking out in grins, and looking aft for confirmation of the “scuttle-butt.” A fiddler even struck up “One Misty, Moisty Morning”!
Aye, they’re ready t’sail away, Lewrie thought; more than ready t’go somewhere else!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cádiz had fallen, the French were ousted, and the important naval port was back in the hands of the Spanish, and the Supreme Junta in Seville. The Bay of Cádiz, sheltered and protected by the peninsula on which sat the old city and the fortresses, was crowded with ships. There were Spanish Navy ships of war, too-long blockaded in port and neglected for lack of supplies and money, looking positively dowdy by then. In only slightly better condition were the French navy warships which had survived the Battle of Trafalgar, their Tricolour national flags drooping low on their sterns, with Spanish royal colours flying atop them to show just who had forced them to strike.
Spanish merchantmen, also trapped in harbour and unable to make a profit, were hastily being fitted out for voyages to Spain’s colonies in the Americas to re-assert Spain’s complete dominance of trade ’twixt them and the home country. When ready for sea, they would most likely bear officials and royal orders to colonial goverors to bar any intra-colonial trade except for Spanish ships, and stop mercantile activities with anyone else.
The revolution against French conquest had arisen so quickly that British, or other neutral European, merchants might take months to make their appearance at Cádiz with valuable, greatly desired, cargoes, but they would come later. For now, it was only the hired transports and troopers of General Spencer’s little army which were present.
With the need for blockade over, several Britsh warships from Rear-Admiral Purvis’s squadron had been allowed into harbour, mostly for firewood and water. There would be no shore liberty here either, though, for the Spanish were still touchy upon the presence of too many ingleses in town, sure that there was still a plot by the perfidious British to take the place by force and turn it into a second Gibraltar, then keep it forever!
Lewrie got his wish to meet Vice-Admiral Cuthbert, Baron Collingwood, but that resulted in a very brief encounter, a nod of a head and a gruff “Ahd ye do, sir?”, and Lewrie would not gush like a schoolboy a second time.
“Happy now, sir?” Purvis asked with a wry expression.
“Sorry ’bout that,” Lewrie replied, ducking his head and turning red to be reminded of his embarrassment. Up close, Collingwood was a tall and lean old stick, morose and tired-looking, and going bald.
“Well, he was one of Nelson’s ‘band of brothers,’ but I’d have rather known Nelson,” Purvis idly said.
“Might I ask, sir, what’s to become of Sapphire, now that the army is landed?” Lewrie had to ask. “I’ve been on Independent Orders at Gibraltar for the last year and a half, but with the Spanish up in arms ’gainst the French, my presence there may not be necessary.”
“Hmm,” Purvis mused aloud, pondering. “I could order you to join my squadron, Collingwood’s now, really, but with Cádiz ours, the need for another blockader is gone.”
“I might be better employed up North with Sir Charles Cotton’s squadron blockading Lisbon, d’ye imagine, sir?” Lewrie wondered. “If General Wellesley’s army is to land in Portugal soon…?”
“Aye, you might be more useful with him, but, Dalrymple, and those furtive Foreign Office gentlemen might not be through with you yet. Best sail for Gibraltar and see. Upon that head, you can carry despatches from Collingwood and me on the way,” Purvis told him.
“Capital!” Lewrie exclaimed. “I can give my people shore liberty somewhere they’re welcome, where most people speak English!”
“Aye, join the Navy, see the world, and be gobbled at by foreigners,” Purvis said with a rare laugh. “We’ll have our despatches in your hands soon, Captain Lewrie, then you can be off.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lewrie replied, doffed his hat, and took his leave.
* * *
Free of plodding transports at last, Sapphire made a fast passage back to Gibraltar, almost racing through the Strait with currents and wind combining to speed her along, daring to skate past the guns at Tarifa and Cape Carnero, reducing sail and speed as she rounded Pigeon Island into the bay. The Spanish gunners, who normally would have taken any British ship in range under fire, were silent. And at Algeciras, and in the mouths of the Palmones and Guadarranque Rivers, the hordes of Spanish gunboats lay idle. There were more Spanish merchant ships at Algeciras, but no more warships.
Sapphire rounded up into the wind and dropped anchor off the Old Mole, took in sail, and came to rest. Even as that evolution was going on, one of the cutters was brought up from being towed astern, manned, and Lewrie was down the ship’s side and into it in a trice, with a canvas satchel full of mail and despatches slung from one shoulder. As he was rowed to the landing stage along the quay, he could cast an eager look lower down the town, and was delighted to see Maddalena on her balcony, waving a towel at him.
Soon, girl, he thought; soon as I’m done with the Dowager!
* * *
He was shown into General Sir Hew Dalrymple’s offices immediately, where the Dowager shot to his feet and almost dashed to take hold of the despatches, idly ordering wine for Lewrie.
“Ayamonte first? Quite a long way from Cádiz,” Dalrymple commented after he’d read the first one. “God above, the Spanish!”
“They only allowed us into port for firewood and water, sir,” Lewrie told him, thanking God for the Convent’s deep cellars, where wine could almost chill, as he took a long sip. “General Spencer has built defences round Puerto de Santa María, but he’s also despatched four battalions and some artillery to Xeres, further inland, to buck up the Spanish army.”
“He’s aware that under no circumstances is he to march along with Castaños when he moves? I’ll not trust the fighting prowess of the Spanish against the French, and risk losing a sizable body of ours in the process,” Dalrymple grumped.
“He is, sir,” Lewrie assured him. “I was told that there’s yet a French brigade under Avril, lurkin’ somewhere between Seville and Cádiz, if it hasn’t gone off to join L’Étang there, or Dupont at Córdoba. I gather that General Spencer will remain near Cádiz ’til he knows whether General Avril will march upon him.”
Lewrie took note that Sir Hew’s map stand no longer featured Ceuta and the fortress, but now displayed a large map of the entire Iberian Peninsula, with bits of ribbon pinned to various Portuguese or Spanish cities. He assumed that the blue’uns represented French-held cities, and the gold’uns stood for places where the Spanish had risen up. Sir Hew set aside the next letter for a moment, rose from his desk more slowly than before, crossed to his map, and stuck a gold ribbon on Cádiz, then stepped back to admire his map with a satisfied sigh.
“What’s the red ribbon for, sir?” Lewrie asked. It was stuck in the ocean, not the land, up near Corunna in Northwest Spain.
“It represents General Sir Arthur Wellesley, Sir Alan,” Sir Hew told him as he returned to his desk, and his despatches. “London sent me a letter that he might land there, first. I eagerly await news of that.”
“Rather a long march to Lisbon, ain’t it?” Lewrie asked. “Even the roads close to the coast are sure t’be bad. But, if the French confront him in force, he could always be taken off by sea, from Vigo or Oporto, if need be. Wellesley’s idea, that?”
“Lord Castlereagh’s, most likely,” Dalrymple said, frowning and stroking his chin. “I know of the Wellesleys, but little of Sir Arthur, but for his reputation gained in India. I do not know his fighting qualities, or whether he is a cautious man or an audacious one. Flighty Hindoos are one thing; the French are quite another. I’m not aware of any ‘Sepoy’ generals of note who have fought well against the French.” He almost sneered.
“Well, so far, Sir Hew,” Lewrie drawled, “our Army’s not done all that well against them, no matter their generals’ bona fides.”
“Think so, do you?” Dalrymple snapped, coming to the defence of his service, but he could not deny the truth. “I see that the French fleet in Cádiz is neutralised, with the honours going to the Spanish? No prize money in it for the Navy? How sad.”
That was a definite sneer. Lewrie shrugged it off, sure that the interview would soon be over.
“Any ideas of how you might employ my ship, given the change in circumstances, Sir Hew?” he asked anyway. “She’s too slow for a despatch vessel. Ye need frigates and such for that.”
“An orphan, are you?” Dalrymple posed, sounding as if he was still nettled by Lewrie’s comments about the Army and its generals. “If Admirals Collingwood and Purvis found no use for your services, perhaps you might call upon your Mister Mountjoy. You were sent here partially under his auspices, were you not? You still operate under Independent Orders.”
“I shall do that, Sir Hew,” Lewrie replied, shifting in his chair, prepared to rise and depart. “Anything else you need from me regarding the situation at Cádiz?”
“No, I believe the despatches speak for them,” Sir Hew said. “You may go, and good luck to you finding employment.” He shooed Lewrie off as he would a fly.
“Very good, Sir Hew. I’ll take my leave,” Lewrie said, and rose to deliver a brief bow. When he looked back for a second, he caught Sir Hew Dalrymple gazing at his maps with a contemplative grin on his face, and his eyes alight with some scheme.
There was nothing for it. As much as he wished rencontre with Maddalena, he would have to go speak with Mountjoy first.
* * *
“Is he in, Mister Deacon?” Lewrie asked at the ground-floor entrance to Mountjoy’s lodgings.
“He is, sir, and was just about to send me to find you,” that craggy-faced, grim, and ever-vigilant worthy replied with a taut grin. “Go right on up. There’s wondrous news to be shared.”
The interior rooms were empty, but there were some plunking noises coming from the rooftop gallery that overlooked the bay, and the Lines, and that was where Mountjoy could be found. Lewrie walked out under the canvas awnings to find the local chief of Secret Branch seated on the settee, with a book of musical notes on the table in front of him.
“Good God, what’s that?” Lewrie asked.
“This,” Mountjoy happily told him, “is what the Spanish call a guitar. I got it down at the markets, once free trade was opened cross the Lines.” He moved the fingers of his left hand and strummed some chords with his right, tapping a foot to keep time, and screwing up his face in concentration. “Haven’t gotten good at it, yet.”
“Aye, so I hear,” Lewrie gybed, sweeping off his hat and going for a comfortable chair. “You’ve been out-done, ye know. Purvis, off Cádiz, and Cotton off Lisbon, have gotten agents of some kind ashore, where you couldn’t.”
“Ah, but in the meantime, I’ve discovered hundreds of patriotic Spaniards, just eager to send letters down, telling me of French movements, and towns that have risen up,” Mountjoy countered, laying his guitar aside. “Almost weekly reports from Marsh in Madrid, and from others at Seville, Córdoba, Málaga, and Granada. It’s definite. Napoleon’s deposed the old king, the new king, and put them under a rather comfortable house arrest in France. I’m told that the Foreign Minister, Talleyrand, is saddled with them at his estate, and is not happy with the arrangement. Joseph Bonaparte is on his way to Madrid to be crowned the newest King of Spain, and all’s right with the world, as the old saying goes. There are rebel juntas springing up all over Spain, and there’s been fighting ’twixt the Spanish Army and the Frogs. I’ve gotten reports of victories, though I’ll take those with a grain of salt ’til truthful results are in.
“What’s more intriguing are the reports I’ve gotten concerning the Spanish people, themselves,” Mountjoy gleefully related. “Oh, my manners. Deacon? Fetch us all some wine, will you? That tangy and sparkly white? Thank you.”
“What about the Spanish people?” Lewrie had to ask.
“There are bands of men in the back country who have taken up what arms they own,” Mountjoy said, practically bubbling over with delight. “They’re ambushing despatch riders and small foraging parties where they can, slitting French throats, and taking their arms and ammunition to use against them. They gallop in, kill or capture the French soldiers, loot them, then gallop away, quick as you can say ‘knife,’ and disappear into the hills and woods, and I’ve word that the French are tearing their hair out, unable to chase them very far, or in units small enough to pursue quickly … too many of those have been ambushed and murdered, themselves. Heard of Zaragosa?”
“Went down with the Spanish Armada, didn’t he?” Lewrie japed. “Ye know I haven’t.”
“It’s a city, capital of Aragon,” Mountjoy said, casting his head over to one side and making a face at Lewrie’s idea of wit. “It is under siege, after the citizens rose up and slaughtered the occupying French garrison. Spanish troops marched in to aid them, and the city’s holding out, just laying Frenchmen dead in windrows when they try to break in. I’ve sent a letter about it to London, with a drawing … invented here by an artist with the Chronicle … about a heroine, a girl named Augustina, whom the Spanish report defended her own burned-out house with a sabre, dressed in pantaloons. She’s real enough, even if the drawing’s not. It’s sure to make all the London papers. War by the press, hah hah!”
“Well, that’s all fine…,” Lewrie began to say, but Deacon showed up with a bottle of wine and three glasses.
“Best news of all, Lewrie,” Mountjoy said with a twinkle in his eyes, “the latest mail packet in from England bore word that the peace treaty with Spain has been signed, she’s a British ally, now! We’re united against the French!”
“Well, no wonder they didn’t shoot at me when I sailed in,” Lewrie replied, with less enthusiasm than Mountjoy might have wished. “Aye, that’s toppin’ fine. You pulled it off. Congratulations.”
“A deed that can’t be celebrated often enough, Captain Lewrie,” Deacon said, baring a rare smile as he poured the wine for them.
After drinking half his glass, clinking with the others to celebrate, Lewrie leaned back in his chair and asked, “Now that the Dons are allies, what did you have in mind for me to do?”
“Hmm,” Mountjoy paused, frowning in puzzlement. “Haven’t given it a thought, since you sailed off with Spencer’s convoy. I didn’t know if I’d get you back.”
“There’s the arms, sir,” Deacon suggested. “A lot more than John Cummings’s coastal trader can carry at one go.”
“He’s still alive?” Lewrie blurted. “There’s a wonder.”
“Alive, and thriving,” Mountjoy said with a laugh, “though he still avoids Estepona. Yes, do you recall early on last Summer, that some of our sources on the Andalusian coast requested arms to counter the French invaders? Good. We’ve managed to assemble five thousand muskets, with bayonets and accoutrements, and half a million pre-made cartridges. The requests have come, again, but I have no way to get them where they’re needed.”
Of course, John Cummings, who posed as Vicente Rodríguez, had to avoid Estepona; it was the home port of that dowdy coaster that Lewrie had taken for espionage use the last Summer, and he would’ve been lynched or garrotted had he sailed her in there.
