Текст книги "Kings and Emperors"
Автор книги: Dewey Lambdin
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“Well, first, the French will evacuate all their troops from every inch of Portugal,” Lewrie told him. “We get it all back at one blow.” And as they cheered that, he took a welcome sip of his wine. “But…” he added, sticking a finger in the air, “they get to sail back to France, in British ships, with all their arms, colours, and … personal possessions, which means whatever loot they’d stolen from Portugal. And, their pay chests,” Lewrie said, scowling, as he explained about the portable mints, the ships that Marshal Junot hired for his booty. “I heard that General Wellesley wanted to march down to Torres Vedras at once, keep the initiative, and box the rest of Junot’s troops in at Lisbon, but that was scotched. The whole thing has simply turned to shit, a great, steaming pile of it!”
“My God, the lack-wits!” Mountjoy gravelled, after a minute of slack-jawed amazement. He tossed off his wine at one go. “We’ve been diddled! How incredibly … stupid!”
“Still, we beat them, sir,” Deacon said. “I would have loved to have seen it, myself. And we get Portugal back.”
“I went ashore with my Ferguson rifled musket, and saw it right from the firing line,” Lewrie told him, “and yes, it was grand to see. The French column can’t beat the British line, and rolling platoon volleys.”
“Portugal free, and the Spanish revolt has driven the French North of the Ebro River,” Mountjoy stuck in, seeking any solace. “If Spanish math is to be trusted, ‘Boney’s’ invasion has cost him over fourty thousand killed, wounded, and captured, and King Joseph Bonaparte’s fled Madrid for Burgos, maybe as far as Vitoria.”
“And, we’ve been told that General Sir John Moore is on his way to Lisbon,” Deacon added, looking for another bright spot. “General Sir David Baird is to land another army at Corunna in Northwest Spain, too, and they might be able to unite and drive the French from the rest of Spain.”
“Lisbon’s where your boy, Romney Marsh is, now,” Lewrie took a great joy in relating, loving Mountjoy’s astonishment. “However he managed that. He’s been sending Admiral Cotton useful news.”
“I’d rather not know,” Mountjoy gawped. “The details would scare me out of a year’s growth! I got one note from him from Seville, then another from Ayamonte, then he dropped off the face of the earth. I didn’t know he was fluent in Portuguese, but then he would be, wouldn’t he? French, Spanish, Latin, Greek, he’s as daft as you are, Lewrie. The two of you are of a piece! Playing private soldier, my Lord! You do anything to relieve your boredom, anything to smell gunpowder.”
“Nonsense, I was just witnessing history,” Lewrie demurred.
“Well, there’s a faithless bitch that’ll put you in the ground, if you’re not careful,” Mountjoy cautioned. “History, hah!”
“Can’t do without me, is it?” Lewrie teased as he sat back down with his re-fill. “Me, or your private navy? Speaking of that, I suppose I’m still under your orders? Do ye have anything in the works for me to do?”
“More arms deliveries,” Mountjoy idly said with a shrug. “Do some scouting of the cities along the coast where the French are holed up, the forts. I may have you sail to Lisbon to retrieve our mystery man, now that we occupy the place.”
“I promised Maddalena that she’d see Lisbon someday,” Lewrie said with a fond smile. “Speaking of, if ye have no more questions for now, I’ll see you both at the ball.”
“What ball?” Mountjoy asked with a scowl.
“The garrison officers are poolin’ resources t’throw one, and I’m told I’ll be invited,” Lewrie said, tossing off the last of his glass and getting to his feet again. “I expect you both will be, as well, so … shave close, bathe, and brush your teeth, hmm?”
* * *
Back on the street, Lewrie set a fast pace South along the quayside, threading his way impatiently through carters, barrow men, and half-drunk sailors. As Sapphire had come in under reduced sail, he had peered closely at the rented lodgings, and, sure enough, Maddalena had come out onto the balcony and had enthusiastically waved a tea towel in welcome.
Kept her waitin’ long enough, he thought as he increased his pace as he got closer to her building; Kept me deprived long enough! He felt at a pocket of his coat to assure himself that he had brought a full dozen fresh cundums ashore.
Suddenly, he was there, she was there, at the balcony rails, up on tiptoes, bouncing with eagerness with a wide smile on her face, and as he waved widely back, she reached up to the back of her neck and freed her hair to fall long, lush and lustrous. Yes!
Some bystanders might laugh, but Lewrie didn’t care a fig for their opinions, didn’t care if he was making himself the biggest fool. He practically burst through the ground-floor doors, and pounded up the stairs in a growing eagerness of his own, and it was more than a simple, raging lust; that sudden swelling of intense affection struck him in a rush, almost making him utter “Whoo!”
Down the long hallway to the door that was already swung wide, and there she was with her arms out-stretched, her expression between utter delight and a crumple into tears of joy.
“Alan, meu amor, you are back!” she cried as he hungrily swept her into his arms, lifted her off her feet, and danced her round the parlour, burying his face in her neck.
“Maddalena, minha doce, Lord how I’ve missed you!” he declared. “It’s been too long!” Then he could not say more as she rained kisses on his face almost frantically, ’til he found her mouth and pressed her to a long, deep soul kiss that made her moan and giggle.
“I have missed you so much!” Maddalena whimpered and cooed.
“I bring good news, grand news, minha querida,” he tried to impart. “The French have been beaten, Portugal is … let me tell it, first. The French are leaving Portugal, Lisbon will be ours, and your country’s free, again! We’ve won!”
“Que ke?” she squealed in astonishment. “Sim? Maravilhoso, oh praise God!” she cried, reverting to English.
“You still have that pink gown ye wore when we met Sir John Moore?” he asked with a laugh. “There’s t’be a grand victory ball, sure t’be fireworks with it, and we’re goin’ t’be invited.”
She leaned back a bit in stupefaction, then broke out an even wider smile, and used one hand to brush away more tears.
“’Less ye’d like a new’un?” Lewrie offered.
“My country is free,” she whispered, marvelling, “my people are free.” Her face screwed up as she began to bawl in his arms, and Lewrie held her close, lost and unable to understand all that she managed to say, all in Portuguese. Her cat, Precious, now a mature young tom, sensing her distress, came to paw at the bottom of her gown, and bat at the gilt tassels of Lewrie’s boots.
She calmed, finally, stepped back and reached down to lift her cat to her breast to cuddle it and stroke its head, slowly pacing about the parlour, as if finding comfort, or giving comfort. Lewrie went to close and lock the door.
“Agradececer tu, Alan,” Maddalena said in a meek voice, looking at him with frank adoration. “Thank you for the finest gift you could ever give me, meu amor.”
“I live to please,” Lewrie japed with a lop-sided grin.
She sat her cat down on the settee and came to his arms once more, sliding into his embrace, wrapping her arms round his neck and kissing him long and deep, and her breath went cow-clover musky.
“It has been too long, meu querido,” she whispered. “Vamos para a cama,” she cooed as she un-did his neck-stock.
He knew the word cama; it meant “bed.”
“Hell yes, we will!” he growled in delight.
BOOK FOUR
There are some defeats more triumphant than victories.
–MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE (1533–1592) ESSAIS
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
September mostly was spent at sea, along the coast of Andalusia to probe at Málaga, Cartagena, even as far East as Valencia, to discover if the French garrisons were still there in the forts, and how active they were. Mountjoy’s able assistant, Daniel Deacon, went with Lewrie for most of those probes, so he could be rowed ashore to speak with local Spanish insurgents and get the lay of the land. Deacon was so casual when he spoke about his movements, and the great risks that he faced, that Lewrie feared that he had another Romney Marsh on his hands. Here it must be confessed that, in point of fact, Lewrie was of half a mind to go ashore with Deacon, now and then, for a closer look at Spain than the one from his quarterdeck several miles seaward, or the view through Mountjoy’s rooftop telescope.
Satisfied that he’d done all that he’d been asked to perform, Deacon decided, at last, that Sapphire should return to Gibraltar to impart all that he’d gathered to his superior.
Three days in port, though, to re-provision and provide shore liberty to the jaded crew, three brief nights with Maddalena, and Mr. Mountjoy expressed an urge to go himself to Lisbon, and with a breezy, “I say, Lewrie, might you oblige me with passage to call upon our army in Portugal?” they were off.
* * *
“A pretty place,” Lt. Westcott commented as he peered shoreward with his telescope. “Rather steep going, though. I can see narrow lanes practically zig-zagging uphill.”
“Good,” Lewrie commented, taking a good, long look of his own. “That’ll keep the hands closer to the seafront so they can’t desert. If we give ’em shore liberty here.”
“We might not, sir?” Westcott asked, a tad disappointed.
“Too many soldiers, and that’s a bad mix,” Lewrie explained, recalling the melees and near-riots between bored soldiers and touchy sailors when Sapphire’s people were allowed liberty at Gibraltar.
“I don’t see that many,” Westcott pointed out.
Indeed, the long shorefront teemed with local Portuguese dock workers, busy ferrying mostly military goods from the many supply ships anchored in the Tagus, or berthed alongside the docks, then loading hired waggons and carts to trundle everything elsewhere. But for some officers and enlisted men from the Commissariat, most of the people in sight were civilians.
“Most of Sir John Moore’s troops must be quartered out in the countryside,” Westcott went on, “to keep them from obtaining so much drink that they collapse, or drink themselves to death.”
“Well, we could, I suppose,” Lewrie grudgingly allowed.
“Ah, Lisbon!” Mountjoy exclaimed, coming to the quarterdeck from his borrowed dog-box cabin off the wardroom. “One of the most impressive cities of Europe, gentlemen, one of the most beautiful. I have always longed to see it.”
Almost gushingly, Mountjoy pointed out the sights, the Praça do Comércio by the riverfront with its mansions and vast square lined with pale lemony facades and mosaic cobblestoned streets, the Baixa district where the world’s first gridded streets had been laid out after the destruction wrought by the earthquake, fires, and floodwaters of the All Saints’ Day disaster of 1755. “Upwards of ninety thousand people, one-third of the city population, perished, don’t ye know,” Mountjoy told them, “but thank God for New World gold and silver to pay for the rebuilding. That’s the Barrio Alto, up above, and off to the right is the old Moorish quarter, the Alfama. Had it for ages, they did, ’til Dom Afonso Henríques took it … with the help of mostly British Crusaders. I read that the pillage after was horrid, though.”
“British soldiers, well. What did they expect?” Lewrie japed, sharing a look with Westcott. “They’d steal the coins from their dead mothers’ eyes.”
“I wish to go ashore and see what Marsh has been up to. Might you wish to accompany me, sirs?” Mountjoy asked.
Lewrie shared another look with Westcott, who, in his eagerness, was almost prancing on his tiptoes, and had his brows up as if to plead.
“Aye, I think we will,” Lewrie relented, after pretending to mull that over. “We’d best go armed, even so. Swords, and hidden pistols. You might wish to fetch your own, Mister Mountjoy. Bosun Terrell!” he boomed of a sudden. “Muster my boat crew and bring the cutter round to the entry-port!”
He spotted Lieutenant Harcourt further forward along the larboard sail-tending gangway and summoned him aft to tell him that he would be in temporary charge, then went aft to fetch his own hanger and the brace of single-barrelled pocket pistols.
He found it almost comical to see the younger “master spy,” Mountjoy, with a sword belted round his waist, two obvious bulges in the side pockets of his natty grey coat, with a wide-brimmed Summer straw hat on his head.
“My word, sir,” he commented before they took deparure honours at the entry-port, “what a piratical picture you make. A freebooter, a Spanish filibustero…”
“A British pillager-ruffian?” Westcott slyly added. “Come to emulate Lisbon’s ancient conquerors?”
“Just for that, you buy the wine,” Mountjoy shot back. But he did so with a droll roll of his eyes.
* * *
“Good God, what is that appalling stench?” Lewrie said as he pinched his nose shut, once they were ashore.
“That, I suppose,” Westcott said, pointing to an enormous pile of garbage that almost blocked the entrance to a side street off the impressive plaza. “It looks as if the rains have washed it all down to where it ended up, like a log jam.”
Rather large rats and lesser mice could be seen rooting through the mounds, and it swarmed with thousands of flies. Uphill along that steep side street, it did indeed look as if something had moved that disgusting mess downhill, leaving bits, and a slug trail of filth, in its wake.
“I say, soldier!” Mountjoy called out to a passing member of the Commissariat, a stout little fellow with a sheaf of manifests and ledger book, with a scented handkerchief pressed to his own nose. “Doesn’t anyone tend to the garbage?”
“Sorry, sir?” the soldier said, stopping in his tracks and coming to a rough stance of Attention. “The garbage? That’d be up to the Portygeers, sir. They’re the filthiest folk ever I did see. My officer says ’twas the French did it, shooting all the dogs, soon as they took the place. The Portygeers let thousands of stray dogs do the work for them, if ya can imagine it.”
“Shot the dogs? Why?” Lewrie demanded, astonished.
“Heard they did the same with all the stray cats, too, sir,” the soldier replied, standing a bit stiffer to address an officer. “Feared they was all mad and frothing at the mouth, I reckon.”
“Is the whole city like this?” Mountjoy pressed, whipping out a handkerchief of his own and wadding it over his lower face.
“Well sir, I don’t see all that much of it, but I reckon that it is, or so I hear,” the soldier told him. “The Portygeers live in a pigsty, and think nothing of it. Ehm, beg pardon, sirs, but I’ve chits to deliver, and my sergeant—”
“Aye, carry on, lad,” Lewrie told him, lifting his hat to salute.
“How horrible!” Mountjoy almost moaned in disappointment.
“The dogs and the cats?” Lewrie asked. “Hell of a waste of ammunition. Damn the fastidious French.”
“No, I mean … the whole, beautiful city just tosses all their offal and garbage out the windows into the streets,” Mountjoy mourned, “and leaves it for the beasts to eat before it stinks. What sort of a civilised people do that?”
“They might’ve let hogs roam free, too,” Lewrie attempted to joke. “Fond as they are of ham in Spain and Portugal. Don’t see any, so the French must’ve eaten them, then shot the dogs and cats.”
“Catholic countries, sir,” Westcott reminded with a sneer.
“Dear God,” Mountjoy muttered with sad shakes of his head. “I imagined so much more of this wondrous city.”
“We should’ve asked that soldier where the army has its headquarters,” Lewrie said. “They might know where your man Marsh might be found. Unless he’s gone so native that nobody knows, of course.”
With no better idea, they strolled North from the river to the far end of the Praça do Comércio, where they were met by a party of Provosts doing their rounds, and discovered that the Commandant of Lisbon, General John Carr Beresford, was ensconced in the Castelo, an ancient fortress a long way uphill.
“Beresford!” Lewrie griped once they were on their way. “That fool! Remember him, Geoffrey, from Buenos Aires? He was the one in command, and surrendered his whole army to the Argentine rebels.”
“Wasn’t that much of an army, really,” Westcott scoffed, “or much of a battle when it came.”
“And he couldn’t even manage that,” Lewrie continued in some heat. “Garrison duty’s all he’s good for, though I thought that the Army would’ve sacked him by now. Christ, but they cling to their lack-wits like burrs to a saddle blanket!”
They could see the towers and battlements of the Castelo high above them, but it was a long, slow climb, and the cobblestones were treacherous footing. They passed homes with drying laundry strung cross the streets, tiny shops jammed between, slowly re-filling with foodstuffs from the countryside but still offering little, and an host of locals shopping for what little there was so far, and at inflated prices at that. People swarmed round moneychangers, pawn shops where family treasures were exchanged for money to keep body and soul together, people everywhere making their ways with sacks, crates, and kegs on their shoulders in search of better deals.
Even so, some of those tiny shops were aromatic with the smells of cooking, and Mountjoy would peek in to see what was offered, getting some of his good humour back as he extolled what he found; caldeirada de peixe, a fish stew with tomatoes, potatoes, and rice; cataplana, a shellfish stewed with wine, garlic, and tomatoes; ensopada de enguias, an eel stew; and acorda de camarrāoes, shrimp, garlic, and cilantro thick with bread crumbs. There some grilled strips of spicy chicken, another wee shop no wider than eight feet char-grilling sardines fresh from the sea. There were wine shops selling vinho verde, a crisp white, and reds by the meagre glass. Breads of various sorts, of course, and vegetables, were in others. Pastry shops were laying out hot custard tarts, some sort of cheesecake, and almond and egg custards.
“Damn my eyes, Mister Mountjoy, but you must stop,” Westcott insisted. “No more thrilling descriptions. You’re making me hungry!”
“Well, it ain’t as if we’ve an appointment with Beresford,” Lewrie pointed out, coming to a full stop. “Why not have a bite or two? Look, we’re almost to the Castelo, and there’s a tavern there, where the square opens up, right near one of the gates.”
“You’re still buying the wine,” Mountjoy insisted, this time in wry humour as they entered, took off their hats, and adjusted their eyes to the sudden dimness. The windows were few and small, though the double doors of the entry were as broad as the kind found in a barn. There were tables scattered about, a brace of opposing fireplaces for Winter days, a fair number of candles lit, and several Portuguese scattered about at their sublime ease, or indolence, listening to a musician; sipping wine, snacking on what fare the tavern offered. They found an empty table and sat down.
“That’s a fado he’s singing, by George,” Mountjoy said with a broad grin on his face.
“What, that caterwaulin’?” Lewrie scoffed.
It was in Portuguese, of course, slow for the most part, veering into a minor key, and both ineffably sad and haunting, then suddenly forceful and urgent, with many flourishes on the singer’s guitar.
“Sorrowful as all Hell, but most engrossing. Fados are a fascinating part of the country’s culture,” Mountjoy praised on.
“Then God help the Portuguese,” Westcott said, chuckling.
“Bom dia, senhores,” a waiter said as he came over.
“Ehm, bom dia,” Lewrie ventured, “ah … alguem aqui fala inglese?”
“Speak inglese, senhor?” the waiter puzzled over Lewrie’s horrid accent. “Sim, I do, falo um pouco … the little?” He launched into a lengthy explanation of how he’d become bilingual, all in fast Portuguese, of course, which went right over everyone’s heads. “Ja decidiram … what I get for you?” which sounded very much like zha-dee-see-dee-rowng, he asked at last.
The guitarist must have completed the long, long fado, for the locals in the tavern wearily clapped and whistled their appreciation. He began another tune, much faster paced, with many strums, plucks, and finger-drums against his instrument, head down in deep concentration, with a wide-brimmed country hat hiding his face.
“What the Devil?” Mountjoy asked as the musician began “Rule, Brittania!”
“Somebody likes us,” Lewrie said, turning to the waiter to ask for vinho verde.
“Viva Inglaterra!” the musician shouted, still head down. “Viva las inglese!”, and the local patrons raised a mild cheer to that, too.
“Maybe it’ll be their treat, hey?” Lewrie said, with a wink.
The guitarist suddenly looked up, then stopped playing, sprang off the tabletop to his feet, and swept off his hat. “Hallo, Mountjoy, and how d’ye keep, my good man?”
“Marsh?” Mountjoy blurted, stumbling to his feet and over-turning his chair in his astonishment. “How did you…?”
Knows how t’make the grand entrance, damn him, Lewrie thought as he stood as well.
“Have my ways, don’t ye know,” Romney Marsh/The Multitude said as he came over to shake hands, unable to help himself from dropping into his various guises as he explained himself. “Primero, I left Madrid as ze pobre musico, joos me an’ my guitarra, then from Seville to Ayamonte, I played ze gran caballero, wees deespatches from ze Seville junta. A fisherman, to cross the river and row up the marshes to Portugal … the French pay well for fresh eels and sardines, ye know … switched from Spanish to Portuguese, grounded the boat and walked off homeward with my nets and oars over my shoulder, and just kept on ’til I could steal a cassock and hat, some sandals, and became a Romish priest for most of the way, beggin’ my way, no problems at all, ’til I got close to Sentubal and the French patrols.
“Then, I made myself into a French cavalry officer from near Sentubal to the Tagus,” Marsh preened, changing his accent.
“You what?” Mountjoy exclaimed again.
“Well, the damned fool was just ambling along without a care in the world, looking for old Roman or Moorish ruins to sketch, and with an eye for available young women, too, I expect, as if he was in a park in Paris, not a hostile country. An extreme young’un, no error,” Romney Marsh said with a laugh as he sat down at the table with them and claimed a wineglass and the fresh-fetched bottle. After a deep sip, and an appreciative sigh, he continued his tale.
“I passed myself off to him as a Jesuit who had studied in Paris,” Marsh went on with a sly grin, “which explained my perfect French. There were some ruins, a mile or so off the main road, so I spun him a tale of their antiquity. He on his fine charger, me on my humble donkey, we rode up there. I warned him that what he was doing was dangerous, so … after he hopped about, sketching like mad, and we shared some bread, cheese, and wine, I fulfilled my warning.
“’Twas a warm day, so he’d taken off his coat, laid aside his sword,” Marsh said with a titter, “and I slit his throat and became … him, hah hah! Didn’t even get any gore on his trousers!”
“You got into Lisbon as an enemy officer?” Mountjoy gasped in shock. “Just … killed the bastard and…?”
Good thing he works for us, Lewrie thought, astonished by the callous way that Marsh described his murder; Was he back in London, there’d be nobody safe! He’s seriously twisted!
“No no, old fellow, I couldn’t do that,” Marsh pooh-poohed. “But I could make faster progress on a good horse than I could with a burro. There was a spot of bother when I came across a French cavalry patrol, but I had his sketch pad case, and claimed that I was going to Lisbon with despatches to report the presence of those evil British at Ayamonte, and we rode along together for a bit, and a grand time it was, too, for their officer and his troopers were jolly sorts, and we all knew the same French tavern songs, as it turned out. I got to Montijo, got a remount, and headed for Sentubal, their lodgement South of the Tagus. Around dark, I ran into some armed Portuguese patriots, sold them the horse and the whole uniform kit, got some peasant clothing and this fine new guitarra from them, and took the Lisbon ferry as an itinerant musician, serenading the locals, and the French garrison, for my up-keep, ’til the bastards left and our army marched in. Ah, Alfonso,” he called to the waiter, “another bottle of this excellent vinho verde, and these gentlemen will have…” He ordered for them in fluent Portuguese, which resulted in a pot of sardines, shrimp, and mussels in wine sauce, with crisp bread and smooth cheese.
“Well, I never heard the like,” Mountjoy marvelled, between bites of food. “You astound me, Marsh, you really do. But, how did you manage to turn up at this very tavern the same time as us?”
“Serendipity, Mountjoy,” Marsh told him with a sly grin. “I’ve been haunting Beresford’s garrison headquarters, and Sir John Moore’s outside town, for nigh a fortnight, trying to get someone to listen. The Castelo’s not a hop, skip, or jump from here, you were obviously on your way there, and the rest was fortunate happenstance. What say we order more grilled shrimp, hey?”
“Listen to what?” Lewrie asked, still puzzled. “Now the Frogs have gone, what information do you have for them?”
“Yes, what you learned was most useful, and allowed us to keep the French from making off with all their loot,” Mountjoy praised, “but, now they’ve gone, I’d think you of more use back in Madrid.”
“Madrid, hah!” Marsh objected. “There’s nothing but a circus going on there, full of boasting and self-congratulatory blather! We need solid information for Moore’s thrust into Spain, assurances of Spanish support, and we have neither.”
“You don’t intend to ride into Spain ahead of the army and do a scout, do you?” Lt. Westcott asked.
“No, sir, I’ll leave that to our army to do,” Marsh dismissed the notion with a hoot of mirth. “But, someone should, and soon, but that fact doesn’t strike our generals as important, and what they’ve gotten from Hookham Frere is so much moonshine.”
“Who the Devil’s Hookham Frere?” Lewrie said, scowling.
“John Hookham Frere,” Marsh said with the sarcasm dripping, “is a clueless, inexperienced, fool who believes everything the juntas tell him, and passes it on to Moore. Lord Canning sent him to Madrid to be Ambassador, and a worst choice I can’t imagine. One just can’t believe a word the Spanish promise, but he does. Except for General Castaños at Bailén, the Spanish armies have been beaten like whipped dogs, and the posturing, braggart idiots in fine uniforms claim that they’ll do just as well, when their soldiers are without shoes, shot, powder, weapons, horses, and bread. Frere promises them all they lack, then promises Moore that he’ll find proper allies over the border.
“They can’t arm, feed, or train their own troops, but swear that our army will be amply supplied in Spain,” Marsh sneered, “and on the strength of those empty promises, Frere is urging Moore to get going as soon as dammit, and all is in place, just waiting for him, when nothing has been done to begin to gather any supplies!”
“I cannot believe that Sir John Moore will assume that his march into Spain will be that easy, or so well assisted,” Mountjoy said with a dis-believing shake of his head. “He, and we, well know not to put so much trust into our allies, by now. His Commissariat, his baggage train—”
“Inherited from General Wellesley,” Lewrie interrupted.
“Yes, very well thought out,” Mountjoy quickly agreed. “He’s the best we have, is Moore, the chief reformer of our armies into the modern age. Why, I should think that he has cavalry vedettes out in the field this instant, scouting the roads, making maps…”
“Ever seen Spanish maps, of their own bloody country, sir?” Marsh sneered some more. “Even they don’t trust them, and they show nothing of how passable the roads are, how steep the elevations and descents are, whether the bridges are wide enough to take wheeled waggons or guns, or if they’re even still standing! Cattle paths one steer wide they call roads!”
“You say you’ve tried to speak with Beresford and Moore, sir?” Lewrie asked him, beginning to get a bad feeling.
“I have, Captain Lewrie,” Marsh archly and sarcastically told him, “but, I am a spy, sir … a despicable, sneaking, lying hound not worthy of associating with proper English gentlemen, or of being given the slightest note. Their aides openly sneer at my arrival.”
“Perhaps if you changed your clothes…,” Westcott suggested, a bit tongue-in-cheek, which earned him a sudden squint of anger and warning. Romney Marsh was not quite the half-mad theatrical poseur living out a great game of intrigue; he was murderously dangerous.
“Perhaps if I spoke with our generals of this matter, along with the other topics I came to Lisbon to discuss with them, I might make them see reason,” Mountjoy supposed.
“Someone must, sir,” Marsh agreed, settling back and making free with the wine bottle again, turning in an eye-blink to a mild and reasonable fellow. “You know that General Sir David Baird is to land eight or nine thousand men at Corunna, in Northwest Spain, and is to march to collaborate with Moore’s army? I gather from what I have picked up at headquarters, despite my shunning by one and all, that both armies are to meet at Salamanca, cut the French lines of supply, co-operate with Spanish armies, and drive the French out of Spain altogether.
“Hah!” Marsh erupted in sour mirth, loud enough to startle even a few sleepy whores in the tavern. “With no aid or support from the Spanish, with poor, or only imagined roads to march on, campaigning into Mid-winter … in the mountains of Spain in Midwinter? My Lord! They’ve no idea where the remaining French armies are, and how they might move against them. It’s daft, daft as March hares … as daft as I am!”
“That’s assumin’ that Napoleon’ll let Spain go without a fight,” Lewrie stuck in, feeling even more gloom and trepidation. “He can’t hold his empire if he’s seen bein’ defeated.”
“That’s right, sir,” Mountjoy agreed. “We in the Foreign Office are aware of growing dis-content in his possessions already, nationalist movements growing. Why, he’d have riot and revolution facing him from here to the Russian borders!”
