Текст книги "Kings and Emperors"
Автор книги: Dewey Lambdin
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
“Does Dalrymple know of the arms?” Lewrie asked, wondering if Mountjoy was playing a double game. “After we landed Spencer at Ayamonte, he gave all his spare weapons to the Spanish, but he could only arm about half of ’em, and that was about all that Dalrymple could spare, either, for Spencer, or Castaños. And just where did ye think t’land ’em?”
“Let’s just say that my superiors sent the arms along in case I could get them to the Spanish,” Mountjoy said, going cat-sly as he did so, “and foment an uprising before the real thing happened.”
“Málaga’s forts are still occupied by a French garrison,” Mr. Deacon informed him, “but the junta at Granada could use them. The closest place along the coast would be Salobreña.”
Christ! Lewrie thought; Where we got our noses bloodied last year. What sort o’ welcome would we have after killin’ Spanish troops?
“The road from Salobreña to Granada is decent, and direct. The Spanish could cart them on from there.” Mountjoy added, “I know, it cuts rough to go back there, but I’m assured that there are eager volunteers in need of arms.”
“El Diablo Negro, returnin’ to the scene of the crime?” Lewrie scoffed. That was the sobriquet Sapphire had earned during her raiding forays along the Andalusian coast in 1807.
“They are our allies,” Mountjoy pointed out.
“Anyone told them, yet?” Lewrie countered.
“They’ll chair you through the streets, most-like,” Mountjoy cajoled. “Deacon, here, will go along as my representative. He has excellent Spanish.”
“And I don’t,” Lewrie said with a grunt.
“Bless me, we’re all glad that you can speak English!” Mountjoy hooted.
“How soon must they have their guns, then?” Lewrie said, surrendering.
“As soon as you can take them aboard and sail,” Mountjoy told him. “General Castaños is of a mind to try his hand against General Dupont, now at Córdoba, and he’ll need all the armed troops that he can muster.”
“A day to take on firewood and water, a day of shore liberty for my crew, a day of lading your arms, and I could be off on the fourth day—,” Lewrie decided.
“Wind and weather permitting!” Mountjoy interrupted, using one of Lewrie’s usual qualifiers.
“Aye, wind and weather permitting,” Lewrie agreed.
“Hmm, I fear your crew may have to forgo their liberty for a time,” Mountjoy said upon second reflection. “Getting the arms to the Spanish is paramount. If you could begin taking them aboard as soon as you complete loading your ship’s immediate needs, that would be simply topping.”
Damme, he’s givin’ me outright orders, again! Lewrie thought in a moment of resentment. He knew that he was seconded to the young man, but it did rankle, now and then, to be bossed about by civilians.
“Well, if it’s that urgent, I s’pose I could,” Lewrie drawled. “What? You want the arms off Gibraltar before Dalrymple knows you have ’em?”
Hah, hit a sore spot there! Lewrie thought, congratulating himself as he saw Mountjoy’s cheek wince; Well, at least I get one day with Maddalena.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The sleepy fishing port of Salobreña had not been a victim of HMS Sapphire’s shore bombardments, none of its fishing boats or coastal trading boats had been burned right in the harbour, but some of the prizes which Sapphire had run down, taken, and burned close to shore had surely come from there. Only the semaphore tower high up behind the town had been burned, after a brisk pre-dawn skirmish with Spanish troops who were not supposed to be there, according to Mountjoy’s informers, but some Spanish commander had sent them down from Órgiva on a route march to keep them fit, or to punish them, and they had been there, sleeping in Salobreña’s taverns, when the alarm was raised. For sleepy, half-drunk soldiers, they had put up a decent but brief resistance before breaking and running off into the bracken behind the town.
“That’s the semaphore tower, Captain Lewrie?” Mr. Deacon asked as he peered shoreward with his own smaller telescope. “Doesn’t look like much to die for.”
“I’m sure those who did, or were crippled for life, thought the same, Mister Deacon,” Lewrie replied.
“They never re-built it, it appears,” Deacon said after a longer perusal. “Mister Mountjoy said that his reports tell much the same tale of the others you burned, and the batteries you blew up or shot to bits.”
“The French drained so much from the Spanish treasury that the whole country’s ‘skint,’” Lewrie replied with a shrug. “Now they own Spain as a conquest, it’ll be their job t’re-build. Their soldiers mannin’ and guardin’ the bloody things. Hmm … if I could round up troops, boats, and a transport or two, we could start maraudin’ all over again, against the French this time.”
“If General Dalrymple could spare troops, again, sir, which I doubt,” Deacon told him. “I also doubt the French could man and guard a new line of towers. If the Spanish people are becoming guerrilleros, it might take two companies to each tower to protect them.”
“Gueri…?” Lewrie gawped. “What the Devil’s that?”
“Roughly, guerrilla comes close to ‘little war,’ sir,” Deacon said with a grin, “with irregular fighters, ambushers, throat-slitters, those sort of attacks that Mister Mountjoy was so excited about. The French haven’t seen anything like them in any of their other conquered countries, and it’ll drive them mad. More like Red Indian warfare on the American frontiers.”
“And the French are a very European army,” Lewrie replied with sudden good humour, the opposite of his qualms over how the Spanish would receive their sudden appearance, even if they were bearing them gifts. “God help ’em, then. Saw my share of Indian fighting in Spanish Florida during the Revolution. Brr! Vicious!”
“Seven fathom! Seven fathom t’this line!” one of the leadsmen called back from his post on a foremast chain platform.
“We’ll stand on ’til we strike six fathoms, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie called down to the Sailing Master on the quarterdeck.
“Aye, sir, six fathoms, and we round up,” Yelland agreed.
“I think I see Spanish troops on the quays, sir,” Lt. Westcott pointed out. “The French wear blue uniforms, mostly, and this lot’s white. Do the Frogs wear that colour?”
Lewrie looked to Deacon for an answer; he’d been a soldier in the Guards, and should know, but all he got from that worthy was a shrug and a puzzled face.
“Wish we had a Spanish officer with us, then,” Lewrie said. “I would’ve thought that Mountjoy could whistle one up from General Castaños’ staff.”
“A rush job, Captain Lewrie,” Deacon said, winking. “No time to look for one.”
“Six fathom! Six fathom t’this line!” a leadsman shouted.
“Fetch-to, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie snapped. “Round up into the wind, and ready the best bower.”
“Aye aye, sir!” Westcott called back, then began to bellow orders to steer up into the wind, take in sail, and drop the larboard anchor.
“We’ll take the thirty-two-foot pinnace,” Lewrie told Deacon as they descended from the poop deck to the quarterdeck. “It’s more impressive than a cutter, and has more room for all.”
* * *
They ain’t shootin’ at us, yet, Lewrie thought in trepidation as the pinnace came alongside the quays, as the bow man gaffed the piers and sprang to tie off a line to a bollard, as another sailor did the same at the stern.
Deacon plastered a smile on his craggy face and made cordial noises in fluid, fluent Spanish. A Spanish officer came forward to palaver with him. The Spaniard was an odd bird, Lewrie thought, wearing a cocked hat twice as big as any he’d ever seen, with tall dragoon boots with knee-flaps on his legs, and a long smallsword tucked up under his armpit instead of slung on the hip. His mustachio was long, pointed, and looked waxed. The Spanish officer frowned a lot, then broke out in a smile, turned to face the townfolk who had gathered in curiosity, clapped his gloved hands, and began to babble in rapid Spanish. Whatever he’d told them set off tremendous cheers.
“Commandante Azcárte, it means he’s a Major, sir, says that we and our arms are more than welcome,” Deacon translated as the fellow turned back to face them. “Someone in contact with Gibraltar alerted them that we would be coming, and Major Azcárte was sent from the Granada junta to escort them inland, with waggons, carts, and a strong escort. I’m naming you to him now, sir, though I don’t know how to render ‘Baronet’ in Spanish.”
“Makes no matter,” Lewrie shrugged off, beaming fit to bust, himself, and nodding pleasantly. He made out “Capitano” and “Caballero,” “la Marina Real Británica,” but the rest was higgledy-piggledy. When Deacon drew breath, Lewrie doffed his hat and bowed from the waist; there was no way to make a formal “leg” while still standing in the pinnace.
“Honoured to make your acquaintance, Commandante Azcárte,” Lewrie replied. “Uhm, Deacon, ask him if the locals can help get the arms ashore with their boats. It’d take hours, else.”
“I will, sir,” Deacon said, and launched into more gibberish. Major Azcárte nodded vigourously, replied with more smiles, and turned to the citizens of Salobreña to ask them to help, which launched a rush of fishermen to their boats along the quay, to break out oars, and begin to stroke out towards Sapphire.
Lewrie and Deacon scrambled up atop the quay, and Deacon began to ask many questions anent the local situation, the nearness of the French, and the latest news from Granada. Before he could get any answers, Major Azcárte stepped up to Lewrie, threw his arms round him in a bear hug, and bussed him on both cheeks, babbling away.
He got “muchas gracias,” but the rest was nonsense sounds.
“He expresses his thanks, sir,” Deacon translated.
“Got that part,” Lewrie said, wishing the oaf would let go.
“How grateful all Spain will be … how grand it is to be allies … how despicable the French … their cruelties and depredations,” Deacon said, hitting only the high points. At least Major Azcárte had let him go, and was now stamping a booted foot, gesticulating wildly with his hands, and even going so far as to spit dramatically, fortunately far away. “If you make some agreeing noises, I’ll lay it on as thick as he likes, sir,” Deacon said, sounding as if he found this most amusing.
I’m a Punch and Judy puppet, by God! Lewrie told himself, but he expressed how much he had always hated and distrusted the filthy French, that English people called them Frogs, that the invasion of Spain was outright thievery, and he was more than glad to help the “brave people” of Spain fight them and throw them back across the Pyrenees, killing as many as they could in the process. All of that was just “the nuts” to Azcárte, who was practically cooing by then.
“He invites us to a tavern, sir, for wine and something to eat,” Deacon said at last.
“Hell, yes, let’s go,” Lewrie was more than happy to say.
That, however, involved meeting more of Major Azcárte’s junior officers, all of whom looked to be idling and cooling their heels at the tavern, and may have been for some time, given the sleepy, drunk looks on their faces. Slurred Castilian Spanish with its lisping was hard enough to decypher, and drunk Castilian gave Deacon a trial.
“Boasting of what they’ll do to the French, now they have weapons,” Deacon idly translated as some rough, raw local red wine showed up, and toasts were given. “Major Azcárte suggests that the next time your ship comes, you could bring blankets, boots or shoes, and food. I gather they’re short of everything.”
“Tell him that Great Britain will do what we can, but that all depends on how quickly our Government can gather up the goods and get ’em here,” Lewrie responded. “Don’t promise him the moon.”
“Yes, sir. He apologises for the wine, which even he deems as swill, and suggests we switch to brandy,” Deacon said.
“Tell him I think I’ll go see how the un-loading is going,” Lewrie replied, “and if he has his waggons and such handy. Bad as the wine is, I can’t imagine the local brandy bein’ a whit better.”
He rose, clapped on his hat, and went outside. Between the local boatmen and his sailors, quite a lot of the weapons had gotten ashore already, crate after crate of muskets, of bayonets, of cartridges, and leather accoutrements in bundles were already piled high on the quays. Yellow-jacketed Spanish cavalry were coming down the road from Órgiva, alongside slow, creaking, and squealing ox-drawn waggons.
Another party of cavalry in different-coloured uniforms were clattering into Salobreña from the West on tired-looking horses wet with ammoniac white-foam sweat, shouting something in alert, or joy to find a tavern, it was hard for Lewrie to tell which.
“What’re they sayin’, Mister Deacon?” he asked.
“Ehm, they say the French are coming, sir!” Deacon said with gravel in his throat. “Fifteen miles back, near Almuñécar, at least a demi-brigade. That’d be about two thousand men. Infantry, thank the Lord, so they won’t be here anytime soon. Uhm … they saw no cavalry, and that’s a blessing.”
That news stirred Major Azcárte into a frenzy of shouting and windmilling his arms, sending his junior officers scurrying to leave the tavern, retrieve their shakoes or cocked hats, arm themselves, and disperse to their waiting, drowzing soldiers. Locals began to dart about, some helping to load the waggons, and some to begin hitching up their own waggons so they could flee.
“Major Azcárte says the French garrison at Málaga has been re-enforced, and is sending troops out along the coast roads,” Deacon managed to pick up from Azcárte’s ravings. “He apologises for haste, but he must get the waggons loaded and up into the mountains before they arrive, and God help the people of Salobreña for what the French will do to them when they get here. Tell him Vaya con Dios, sir, and bid him goodbye,” Deacon added in a harsh whisper.
Lewrie did as Deacon bade, doffing his hat and bowing again, then turned to see to his men in the pinnace. The 29-foot launch and both 25-foot cutters were alongside the quays, un-loading the last of the boxed cartridges, under Midshipman Hillhouse.
“That the last of it, Mister Hillhouse?” Lewrie demanded.
“Aye, sir, the very last scrap. What’s the trouble?” the senior Mid asked, looking round at the seeming panic.
“French troops coming from Málaga, in strength,” Lewrie told him, on his way to the waiting pinnace. “Let’s get our people back to the ship.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
“You, there!” someone was bellowing in English. “British officer! Don’t leave without me, for Christ’s sake!”
Lewrie turned about to see a party of armed civilian men, some of the guerrilleros, come clopping into Salobreña. With them on a weary-looking poor prad of a horse was a British Army officer, red in the face, and his elegantly tailored uniform much the worse for wear.
“Mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie spat in shock.
“Escaped before the French slung me in prison,” the man babbled as he almost fell off the horse in his haste. “Was on my parole at Málaga, got helped out of the city … Captain Lewrie?”
“Aye, Major Hughes,” Lewrie replied. “Get your arse in the boat.”
It would have been a toss-up, in point of fact, which of the men was more shocked by the other’s appearance, Brevet-Major Hughes, or Alan Lewrie.
Thought we’d seen the last o’ that bastard fool when the Dons captured him last Summer! Lewrie thought in disgust; Right here up by the semaphore tower!
Hughes had been appointed to command the landing force for the raids along the coast, and a fine muddle he’d made of it once ashore.
Oh God, what’ll Maddalena make of his resurrection? Lewrie had to wonder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Need a Bosun’s chair?” Lewrie asked Hughes as the pinnace came alongside the starboard boarding battens.
“Not a bit of it, Lewrie,” Major Hughes said with a harumph of dis-pleasure. “I’ve been up the side of your ship before. After you, sir.”
“Senior officers are first in, last out, sir,” Lewrie corrected. “Up ye get, then.”
Hughes looked as if he would argue the point, going squinty-eyed, but stood, teetered on the gunn’l, made his leap and grab, and began to scale the battens. Lewrie looked up and smiled a bit at the sight of Hughes’s breeches; elegant white had turned a pale shit-brown round the rump, most-like from a saddle’s badly cured leather. Hughes was not aware of it, but Lewrie thought it a good excuse for a ribbing, for later.
“Major Hughes!” Lewrie heard Westcott say above as he climbed aboard. “Look what the cat dragged in, I must say! Wherever have you been?”
Marines stamped their boots and slapped muskets as Lewrie got to the main deck amid the piping of Bosun’s calls, and hats were doffed by all hands as Lewrie raised his in salute.
“All boats secured for towing, all hands back aboard, sir, and ready for orders,” Lt. Westcott said to Lewrie.
“Very good, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie replied. “Stations to up-anchor and make sail.”
“Aye aye, sir! Bosun Terrell, pipe Stations to Hoist Anchor!” Westcott bellowed, turning away.
“Might I prevail upon your hospitality, Captain Lewrie? I find myself in great thirst,” Hughes said.
“But of course, sir,” Lewrie offered, whether he cared to or not. “Let’s go aft, but only briefly. We’ll be under way in a bit.”
Once in the great-cabins, Lewrie requested Pettus to fetch out some Rhenish, then satisfied his curiosity. “Whatever did happen to you, sir? How the Devil did ye get captured? Once the Dons ran off, we couldn’t find hide nor hair of you.”
“Utter confusion was the cause of it, sir!” Hughes said with a dismissive snort. “Three detachments separated too far, not in one organised line. I had to dash over to the left to see to one of them, rein them in before they got too far away, and tripped over a rock in the dark. Next thing I knew, five or six foul-looking Spanish soldiers were all over me, seized my sword and pistols, gave me a bash on the head with a musket butt, and dragged me away. They took me to their cantonment at Órgiva, first, slung me in their gaol for a few days, then got word to fetch me to the fort at Málaga, where there finally was someone who could speak passable English, and put me on my parole. Ah, a decent Rhenish, at last! ’Til I got my pay sent on from Gibraltar, I was ‘skint,’ hardly had tuppence upon me, and had to drink the vilest peasant reds.” Hughes polished off his glass of wine in four swift gulps and held out his glass for a re-fill. “You sail without the transport, sir? What of our amphibious unit?”
“Dis-banded last Fall, when the French invaded Portugal and Spain, and the Spanish began t’make nice with us,” Lewrie told him, taking a few sips from his own glass. “Dalrymple thought it better that we did not make war on the Dons after that.”
“Pity, we were just getting good at it,” Hughes said.
Did better after we lost you! Lewrie thought.
“You still have that damned cat, I see,” Hughes said with a scowl as he espied Chalky, who was hunkered into a defensive lump on the day-cabin desk. The cat had never taken to Hughes, perhaps sensing Lewrie’s feelings. “Once I got settled in passable lodgings in the town,” Hughes went on, “it wasn’t so bad, but for the fact that Spain doesn’t feature much roast beef on their tables, not where I ate. It was pork, pork, pork, in one form or another, breakfast to supper, and it got tiresome. Then, when Marshal Murat marched into Madrid, and the Dons got so angry, they let me go, just shooed me off to make my own way to Gibraltar.”
“Went the wrong way for that,” Lewrie commented.
“The French were in Córdoba and Seville, by then, and marching down to Gibraltar, so heading East and hoping to throw in with armed irregulars or the Spanish army was my best bet,” Hughes said, shrugging it off. “You’re bound for Gibraltar?”
“Aye, after droppin’ off arms and ammunition for the junta in Granada, a quick out-and-back,” Lewrie replied, setting his half-empty wine down on the brass Hindoo tray table.
“Your turning up was a miracle, sir!” Hughes exclaimed, taking his ease in one of the chairs with his legs stretched out. “I’m damned glad you did, and can’t wait to get back to Gibraltar, let me tell you! Back in my regiment’s mess, clean clothing, decent food, and a romp or two.”
“I must return to the deck,” Lewrie said as he heard calls for “short stays,” and Westcott shouting for topmen to “trice up and lay out” to make sail. “Take your ease here, whilst we get under way, then come join us when you feel like it. There’s a spare cabin in the officers’ wardroom that you can use, and ’twixt the three officers’ servants, I’m sure they can see to your needs.”
“Maddalena, recall her, do you?” Hughes speculated with a grin. “Ever run into her when you were ashore? Poor chit’s probably taken up with another who would keep her. Well, soon as I’m back, I’ll see about that! And, by God, he better not be anyone I know, hah hah!”
“Seen her around,” Lewrie lied, then picked up his hat and left the cabins. That was a conversation for later.
* * *
Once Sapphire was free of the ground and fully under sail, Mr. Deacon sidled over near Lewrie on the windward side of the quarterdeck, something that anyone in the Navy would not dare do unless delivering information.
“Bit of a wrench, his turning up again, sir?” Deacon asked in a low voice. “An efficient fellow, a grand organiser right down to the number of cork musket tompions, but the very worst sort of parade ground officer, as Mister Mountjoy and I agreed.”
“I’ll get it settled,” Lewrie replied, sure that Deacon was talking about Maddalena Covilhā, since both he and Mountjoy had been aware of Lewrie’s taking up with her, and being smitten by her long before Hughes had disappeared.
“Settled, sir?” Deacon said, befuddled. “I was talking of his military qualities, and pitying the rankers of his company after he rejoins his regiment. Oh … that settled!” he went on with a knowing smile.
Lewrie was looking upon Deacon with new eyes. When they were first introduced the Summer before, he had taken Mr. Deacon as just one more of Secret Branch’s hired muscle, a very dangerous and menacing sort who’d do the skulking, house-breaking, head-breaking, and elimination of the King’s enemies. He certainly looked the part; wide-shouldered and slim-hipped, with big, strong hands just made for strangling, and a harsh, craggy face. After this jaunt to deliver arms, though, Lewrie found that Deacon was more than bodyguard or errand-runner. For an ex-Sergeant in the Household Guards, he possessed a brain, and a fine, clever wit, with linguistic skills far better than Lewrie’s own.
“Mountjoy once warned me off her,” Lewrie admitted, “so long as we needed Hughes. Now he’s lazing round my settee, sure that he’ll only have to whistle t’get her back, with an idea to thrash whoever’s taken up with her.”
“Remember the old adage, though, sir, ‘Great talkers do the least, we see,’” Deacon said with a grin that could turn most men’s blood cold. “I doubt his sort will even sulk for more than a day or two, then drop the matter. And, if he doesn’t,” Deacon imparted with a bit of threat in his voice, “he can always be quietly done away with, hmm?”
“Good Lord, Mister Deacon!” Lewrie exclaimed.
“Just saying, sir,” Deacon replied, sporting another evil grin. “I might just do it to spare his troops, if his regiment ever takes the field against the French. I can’t abide his sort of officer.”
“No, Mister Deacon, does it come to a duel, I’d rather do him in, myself,” Lewrie told him. “It won’t get that far, though. You’re right. His sort doesn’t cherish women proper, and most-like doesn’t give a fig for ’em beyond havin’ one handy. He’ll sulk, then search out another.”
“Either way, the offer stands, sir,” Deacon said with a shrug, and turned to go to the lee bulwarks.
“A moment more, Mister Deacon, if ye please,” Lewrie bade with sudden inspiration. “Major Azcárte said that a French demi-brigade was on the road from Málaga. How big is a demi-brigade? I’ve never heard of one.”
“I believe it would be about two thousand men, sir,” Deacon said with his head cocked over in study. “Three regiments of six hundred men each, with some artillery and gun crews. That’s right, he said they had no cavalry, which is odd, sir. I’d think they’d have at least one squadron of horse for scouting, at the least. Azcárte may be in big trouble if the report was wrong. The French could be all over him before he gets his slow waggons into the hills.”
Lewrie looked round the quarterdeck for the Sailing Master, but could not spot him. A few steps aft and he was in the captain’s clerk’s office, which had been converted into a chart room, and waving Deacon to join him. The coastal chart from Málaga to Cabo de Gata was laid out on the angled desk-top, much marked from previous raids, up-dated for their own use with information that Mountjoy’s informers had given them the year before.
“The road from Almuñécar to Salobreña is right along the coast,” Lewrie said, tapping the chart with a pencil, “and there’s a section where the road goes round this steep hill, just a mile or so beyond Almuñécar. Hmm. I wonder.”
“Are you thinking of slowing them down, and giving Major Azcárte some breathing room, sir?” Deacon asked, looking evil and expectant again.
“The shoals, though, hmm,” Lewrie speculated. “If I can get within less than a mile without runnin’ aground, maybe. The chart says six fathoms, some five-fathom stretches.”
“Thirty feet, and you draw about twenty, sir?” Deacon asked.
“You’ve been swotting up on salty stuff,” Lewrie japed. “Best not let Mountjoy know, he’d fear we’d steal you away.”
“I prefer skulking round city taverns, sir, thankee,” Deacon said with a rare laugh.
“The five-fathom line is…,” Lewrie said, picking up brass dividers, then aligning them on the distance scale, “… half a mile offshore. Well within gun-range! Ah hah! Let’s try it.”
He went back out into the fresher air of the quarterdeck, had a squint aloft at the set of the sails and the wind direction which streamed the commissioning pendant.
“We will alter course, Mister Elmes,” he said to the Third Lieutenant, who stood the watch. “We will close the coast, reducing sail as we do so, to within half a mile.” To Lt. Elmes’s puzzlement he added, “There’s a French brigade on the coast road, and I intend t’give ’em a big, noisy greetin’.”
“Aye aye, sir!” Elmes perked up with glee. “Bosun Terrell, pipe hands to stations to alter course, and reduce sail!”
“Pass word for the Sailing Master,” Lewrie ordered.
This’ll give Mister Yelland the “squirts,” Lewrie thought.
The door to the Sailing Master’s sea cabin on the larboard side of the quarterdeck squeaked open and Mr. Yelland stepped out, rumpled and sleepy-eyed from a nap. “Something up, sir?”
“I’ll send for strong coffee for you, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie offered. “We’re goin’ very close ashore, and we’ve need of all your expertise.”
“Ehm … aye, sir!” Yelland said with a grunt of surprise, then winced with dread, scrubbing sleep from his eyes.
* * *
High Summer had drummed upon Southern Spain, browning it and drying it out. The forests looked dusted, and only the growing crops were still green. If there had been a paved Roman road along the coast, it had long ago been ripped up for houses, so the road was dry, packed earth. As HMS Sapphire slowly ghosted shoreward under tops’ls, jibs, and spanker, with her courses brailed up, the dust plume created by the demi-brigade on the march was visible even from the bulwarks. From the poop deck, Lewrie could begin to make out details with his telescope. There were a few mounted riders, which he took for officers and aides. At the rear, making higher and longer-lasting clouds of dust, he could espy several pieces of artillery, and behind them were many supply waggons, some canvas-covered, and some odd two-wheeled carts with wheels taller than a man. He assumed those had been taken from the Spanish and put to use to supplement French equipment. They were painted in gay, bold colours compared to the French waggons.
“Six fathom! Six fathom t’this line!” a leadsman shouted.
“We should be coming onto the five-fathom line soon, sir,” Mr. Yelland said, taking off his hat and mopping his face with a calico handkerchief. “Warm today.”
“And soon t’get warmer,” Lewrie promised. “Assumin’ we don’t touch the bottom.”
“Starboard guns are at Quarters, sir,” Lt. Westcott reported. “Think there’s a need to rig anti-boarding nets?” he joshed.
“Only when pigs, and Frenchmen, can fly, sir,” Lewrie hooted back. He raised his telescope again. He could make out the infantry, not marching but shambling along and scuffing the road, raising more dust. Blue uniforms on the bulk of them, with white, gold, green, or red sleeve markings and epaulets. Their muskets were slung any-old-how, by the hip, over the shoulder, or laid upon the back of their necks with their arms up-raised to hold them like a farmer’s rake.
He’d seen that before, recalling an ambush he made on the Côte Sauvage when blockading the Gironde River, and how the poor French soldiers about to die had shambled along, joshing and sharing tobacco, before his watering party opened fire. It had been a complete surprise for them then, and he hoped that Sapphire’s guns would be an even greater one today.
“Five fathom! Five fathom t’this line!” the leadsman called.
“Alter course to parallel the coast,” Lewrie ordered. “Stay in five fathoms.” The head of the long French column lay about one point off the starboard bows. “Mister Deacon? Enlighten me. How fast can infantry march?”
Deacon had been on the quarterdeck under the overhang of the poop deck, near the doors to Lewrie’s cabins. He poked out in sight and ascended the starboard ladderway to join him.
“March, sir?” Deacon said. “If those people yonder were really marching, they might do two or three miles an hour. Allowed to route-step as they are, maybe only two miles an hour, or a bit less. Hmm, that makes me wonder if they even know about the arms delivery. Did they know, they’d be going a lot faster. Major Azcárte may be safe as houses, after all. Is that smoke yonder, from Almuñécar? What have the French been up to?”
