Текст книги "Kings and Emperors"
Автор книги: Dewey Lambdin
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
CHAPTER TEN
HMS Sapphire entered Gibraltar Bay, firing off a salute to honour the Governor, Sir Hew Dalrymple, and proudly, to draw attention to herself and the four shabby prizes that trailed her to anchorages nearby the Old Mole. As soon as the ship was at rest, Midshipmen Hillhouse and Britton were sent ashore, each bearing reports to Dalrymple at the Convent, and to Thomas Mountjoy’s false-front offices further down the town. They had distinguished themselves in carrying the other two prize dhows and Lewrie felt that they were deserving of some recognition from senior officers, or even from a spy.
Lewrie had certainly drawn the town’s attention to himself and his ship. As his two-decker had ghosted past the Old Mole, he could lift a telescope and pick out the balcony which fronted his rented lodgings, and was delighted to see Maddalena there, smiling fit to bust, and waving a dish cloth in joy of his return.
He could not go ashore right away, though; he was forced to wait for a summons. Midshipman Britton returned aboard with a brief congratulatory note from Mountjoy. It took Midshipman Hillhouse longer to come back aboard. He had a note in his hand, as well.
“Message from General Dalrymple, sir,” Hillhouse reported with a doff of his hat, “and a request that you attend him at Army headquarters.”
“Very well, Mister Hillhouse, and thankee,” Lewrie replied. “I’ll take the boat you used. You’re senior in the Harbour Watch?”
“Aye, sir,” Hillhouse said.
“Carry on, then, and inform Mister Westcott that I will be ashore for some time,” Lewrie ordered, then bounded down to the waist and the opened starboard entry-port.
“All hands!” Hillhouse shouted. “Face aft, off hats! Captain is departing!”
* * *
“My stars, just what did you do, Captain Lewrie?” Dalrymple asked once Lewrie had entered the Convent and the coolness of Sir Hew’s spacious and high-cielinged offices. The old fellow was in good takings; there was a glass of wine offered at once.
“As I said in my report, sir, we put into Tetuán to see if the Dons provisioned there, discovered a brace of dhows loading food for the fortress, chased them down in the dark of night and took them, then repaired them far out to sea, and used them as Trojan Horses the next night. We sailed right up to the piers, boarded and carried two more, and set the last pair afire. The Spanish in Ceuta are now deprived of any means of obtaining food from Tetuán, unless they manage to sneak some vessels out of Algeciras to replace them.”
“Carried them out under fire from the fortress, did you?” Sir Hew goggled.
“It was a hot corner for a time, sir, but, once far enough out from Ceuta, they lost sight of us in the dark. I cannot speak highly enough of Lieutenants Harcourt and Elmes, or four of my Midshipmen … they’re named in the report, Sir Hew,” Lewrie told him, “as well as some of my more energetic and quick-thinking sailors who accompanied them on the cutting-out raid.”
“That’s what the Navy calls it, a ‘cutting-out’?” Dalrymple mused, with one quizzical (and thickly hairy) brow up. “Well, well, well! Took part, did you, Sir Alan?”
Here, that’s nice and chummy of him! Lewrie told himself, glad to hear it.
“Had to stay aboard my ship, Sir Hew,” Lewrie replied. “Have t’let the young’uns make a name for themselves. It rubs raw, but at some point, that’s the drawback of senior command. How else are they to gain notice, and promotion?”
“Exactly so, Sir Alan,” Dalrymple almost cooed. “Might you stay at headquarters for a time, sir? I’ve sent for our young ‘spy-master,’ Mister Mountjoy. There are doings ashore among the Spanish that I must discuss with him, and, now that you’ve reduced the rations of their troops in Ceuta, well … let us say that there are changes afoot.”
“I’d be delighted, Sir Hew,” Lewrie assured him, though he was mystified as to what part he and Sapphire might play. “I’ll wait in the hall ’til he arrives, then? Won’t take up more of your time ’til then.”
“If you’d be so kind, Sir Alan,” Dalrymple agreed.
* * *
There were some very comfortable upholstered chairs out in the hallway, where the thick walls of the Convent, the high cielings and tiled floors made a very cool, and quiet refuge; Lewrie almost nodded off before Mountjoy came breezing in with a jaunty step.
“Captain Lewrie, you rascal!” Mountjoy hooted. “You’ve been a mean boy to the Spanish again, haven’t you?”
“Hallo, Mountjoy,” Lewrie said, grinning. “Aye, I’ve been brutish. Put it down to drink and bad companions.” He tugged his forelock and went into a lower-deck accent. “’Twas drink an’ bad companions wot made me do it, Yer Honour sir, an’ I swear a Bible-oath I’ll never do it agin, hah! Sir Hew hinted there’s something in the works that we both might have a part in,” he added in his normal voice. “Have you anything you’d care to share?”
“Haven’t a clue what he’s in mind … really!” Mountjoy said in response to Lewrie’s skeptical scowl. “If he’s been dabbling in my own ‘trade’ … honestly, it’d be news to me, too.”
One of Dalrymple’s aides-de-camp, a pink-cheeked young Lieutenant, came from the inner office, spotted them, and summoned them in.
“Captain Lewrie, Mister Mountjoy? The General will see you, now,” he said in a thin, high voice.
“Ah, gentlemen, thank you for attending me,” Dalrymple effusively said, “and for your patience waiting, Sir Alan. Tea?” he asked as he waved them toward chairs in front of his desk.
A silver tea service and a set of Delft cups and saucers were close at hand on a campaign table. Dalrymple played “Mother,” pouring cups for all, and stirring in the desired sugar and lemon or cream. He looked very pleased, almost playful, as he sat down again behind his desk and took a sip before beginning.
“Mister Mountjoy, are you aware of a certain distinguished Gibraltarian gentleman, a Mister Emmanuel Viale?” Dalrymple asked, with the air of knowing something that Mountjoy did not, and more than happy to enlighten his ignorance.
That’s the biter bit, Lewrie thought. Usually, it was the game that Mountjoy played on him!
“Only that he’s large in the grain trade, sir,” Mountjoy had to confess, “and an un-official leader of the local business community.”
“Spanish, of course,” Dalrymple said with a pleased nod, much like an Oxford Don’s response to a student’s right answer. “But, you have had no dealings with him, even through your, ah … trading concern?”
“A false-front, Sir Hew, as well you know,” Mountjoy replied, squirming in his chair a tad to have to admit that fact.
“Mister Viale requested a pass to cross the Lines to manage a business matter in San Roque,” Dalrymple went on, “and has just come back, bearing a letter from General Castaños to me. The General wishes to re-open our formerly cordial correspondence, and for Viale to be his emissary.”
“Indeed, sir?” Mountjoy said, perking up at that, though cautiously avoiding too much excitement.
“The recent abdication of King Carlos, the crowning of Ferdinand, and the French … well, call it what it is, a callous invasion of an allied nation, has General Castaños and his contemporaries in a stew,” Dalrymple explained. “He alludes to military and civil authorities in Catalonia, Aragon, and Valencia who have written him with a call to raise an army of one hundred and fifty thousand men, asking him if his forces will join them, and if they can count on Andalusia, as well. Your ah, agents in Spain, Mister Mountjoy … how much have they heard of the sentiments of the Spanish people?”
“Ah, the Tumult of … wherever it was,” Lewrie popped out. Both men stared at him, almost making him blush. “Well, there must be others, what?”
“The news of the new king, the French armies marching South to Madrid, has only just now begun to filter down to Andalusia, as idle rumours, sir,” Mountjoy said, returning his attention to Dalrymple. “In some instances, it has been my people who’ve spread the news, but I cannot yet substantiate any public reaction. The other large concentration of available Spanish troops, other than General Castaños’s, are in Cádiz, and I’ve had little luck getting information from there, or an agent in place. It’s known that the governor of the city and its environs, and its garrison, is decidedly pro-French.”
“Then would it come as a pleasant surprise to you, sir, that General Castaños is asking for help from Great Britain?” Sir Hew slowly said with a beamish grin on his face. “And, that if the French take Madrid, that there is a possibility that the new king, Ferdinand, may have to flee into exile, as did the royal court of Portugal, perhaps to here, at Gibraltar, or even to London?”
“My word, sir!” Mountjoy responded with a gasp as the implications of those events struck him; struck him dumb-founded, in point of fact. “That’d be … world-shaking! Spain would become our ally, at last, and Spain a battlefield.”
“Yayss,” Dalrymple drawled, “and that is why General Castaños is desirous of bringing the entire garrison of Ceuta over to Algeciras to supplement his own forces, as soon as possible. You told me that Marshal Murat already has officers in Algeciras and San Roque, scouting my defences. If Castaños fields an army against the French, there’s no possibility of the French besieging Gibraltar.”
“Ehm, a question,” Lewrie stuck in, his brow furrowed. “What sort of chance do the Dons stand against Napoleon’s Grand Army? Are they any good, or would they fold like the Austrians, over and over?”
“Well … ahem,” Dalrymple hemmed, clearing his throat, scowling heavily in Lewrie’s direction.
From the very first battles along the French frontier in 1793, the much-vaunted Austrian armies, the well-drilled Prussians, and in 1805 even the massive Russian armies, had been beaten like so many rugs. The French marched too quickly, scattered themselves in semi-autonomous divisions across too broad a front, with a knack of concentrating en masse at the vital point at the last minute and shattering everyone with their thick attack columns, supported by massed cannon regiments.
“Mean t’say,” Lewrie blundered on, “does Spain have a general like Sir John Moore, someone the equal of Napoleon and his marshals? Have the Spanish really fought a big battle, the last fifty years or so, or waged a long campaign against anybody?”
“I would strongly imagine, Captain Lewrie, that the Spanish will require the assistance of a British army, perhaps several forces, to ah … stiffen them,” Dalrymple archly replied. “That would be simply grand!”
“Starting with Portugal,” Mountjoy said.
“Yes, Portugal first,” Dalrymple agreed. “Lord Castlereagh has written me that an expeditionary force is being assembled in England to be landed somewhere in Portugal, under a General Wellesley.”
“Not Sir John Moore?” Lewrie puzzled. “Who’s Wellesley when he’s up and dressed?”
“Tell you later,” Mountjoy whispered to Lewrie. Louder, he said, “I would much appreciate was I allowed full access to your correspondence with General Castaños, Sir Hew, and a chance to speak with Mister Viale the next time he returns from San Roque. In that way, I can assure you that all my humble facilities will aid you in this endeavour, to the hilt!”
“But of course, Mister Mountjoy,” Dalrymple beamed amiably, “and I am certain that both your, and my, informations to the Foreign Office, and Horse Guards, will go off on the very next mail packet.”
“Count on that, sir,” Mountjoy assured him.
“We are on the verge of a great change in world affairs, perhaps the beginning of the end of Bonaparte’s despotic tyranny over Europe. And it will all start here, in my patch. Thank you for your attendance, gentlemen. I think that will be all for now. Sir Alan, I may call upon you to carry General Castaños’s orders over to Ceuta, should the time come, when all the arrangements for their transfer have been agreed to. Do stay in harbour awhile longer.”
“Happy to oblige, Sir Hew,” Lewrie agreed, looking forward to an idle spell, hot baths, clean clothes, and some “All Nights In” with Maddalena Covilhā.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Damn my eyes, your news just keeps getting better and better!” Lewrie congratulated Mountjoy as they left the Convent. “Everything’s goin’ your way, and London will be very pleased with you.”
“Well, I can’t really claim that much credit,” Mountjoy said with seeming humility. “It’s not as if I goaded the French into invading, or the Spanish turning against old King Carlos. Those events were beyond my control, and I’m just riding in their wake. But, they are satisfying, even so. I cannot sway General Castaños to join with the others who’ve written him … revolutionary councils, or juntas, or whatever they’re calling themselves, not unless I had face-to-face access with the man. You know, you almost stuck your foot in it, in there.”
“Why? What’d I do?” Lewrie asked. “Because I couldn’t remember the Tumult of Oranges right?”
“Tumult of Aranjuez,” Mountjoy corrected.
“Sounds like oranges,” Lewrie japed.
“No, it’s when you questioned if the Spanish could face a French army, and if they had any decent generals,” Mountjoy told him as they strolled downhill to the main street. “From all I know of Castaños, he’s been a peacetime officer … never fought a battle in his life. The same as the Dowager, d’ye see, and that rankled Sir Hew, who has never participated in one, either.”
“Oops,” Lewrie replied, un-abashed.
“Mind you, Sir Hew dearly desires one,” Mountjoy went on. “He has dreams of martial glory, and a chance to fight and defeat French armies in the field may be within his reach.”
“What? Sir Hew? Don’t joke!” Lewrie heartily scoffed.
“Think of how our British Army chooses officers for their campaigns, sir,” Mountjoy cautioned. “Command always goes to the most senior man available, whether they’re any good or not. Dalrymple is senior to General Fox on Sicily, Sir Brent Spencer cooling his heels here at Gibraltar after the Ceuta siege went bust, even Sir John Moore who sailed home after the French took Lisbon. Horse Guards may promote Dalrymple to Commander-In-Chief for Portugal and Spain.”
“Christ, if they do, we’re just fucked!” Lewrie spat out loud. “Who in their rights minds’d … mean t’say, the Dowager must know his limitations, and leave the fieldwork to someone like Sir John Moore … wouldn’t he?”
“One would hope,” Mountjoy gloomily responded. “Care for some wine? Let’s pop into the Ten Tuns. Some celebratory champagne, if they have any.”
The Ten Tuns did not run to smuggled French champagne, though it did have some fine Italian pinot grigio just in from Genoa.
“So, who’s this Wellesley, then?” Lewrie asked again once he had half a glass inside.
“He’s a ‘Sepoy’ general, made his name in India against the Tippoo Sultan of Mysore, and then later the Maratha princes,” Mountjoy told him. “Of course, his brother, Lord Mornington, was Governor of India at the time, so you can imagine his rapid promotions, and rank nepotism, rankled his fellow officers. He and all his brothers adopted the name Wellesley, because it linked them to aristocracy on one side of the family. When all the Wellesleys left India, he got a knighthood, so he’s Sir Arthur Wellesley, and might have come off with over fourty thousand pounds,” Mountjoy chattily gossipped.
“A chicken-nabob’,” Lewrie said with a smirk. “Must not have been tryin’. A full ‘nabob’ comes home with over an hundred.”
“Don’t I wish!” Mountjoy said with a sigh. “Anyway, Sir Arthur and his family are Irish peers, don’t ye know, so they have to grub harder than English peers. He got elected to Parliament for a time, voting with Pitt, then Grenville, was Secretary-General for Ireland ’til Grenville lost office and Portland took over. He was in command at Copenhagen last year when we had to bombard the city to convince the Danes to surrender their fleet before Napoleon could get hold of it, and did the job very well, so … he’s in favour at the moment, and was fortunate that he and an army were at Cork, waiting to sail to take Venezuela from Spain. Ever heard of a Colonel Miranda?”
“That gad-fly who wants a United States of South America?” Lewrie said with a loud groan. “He was the drivin’ force that put a flea in Commodore Popham’s ear that sent us from Capetown to Buenos Aires, and that series of disasters! The worthless shit-stirrer.”
“I’m sure that the Wellesley family had a lot to do with his appointment for that, and for the expedition to Portugal, too. The senior brother, Lord Mornington, is a pretentious seeker of higher grandeur,” Mountjoy relished in the telling, “more and greater titles, more land, more esteem. Oh! Here’s a tangy tidbit about Sir Arthur … when he was younger and poorer in prospects, he fell in love with one of the most beautiful young ladies in Ireland, Kitty Packenham. Her daddy was immensely rich, mind, and Arthur’s suit was refused, especially by Kitty’s brother, Edward, or ‘Ned.’
“He goes off for years, wins his spurs in India, and has one more go at marrying her, sight unseen,” Mountjoy said, almost tittering with amusement. “This time, he’s rich, knighted, and famous, and Edward Packenham, a soldier himself, agrees. Down the church aisle the bride comes, and Sir Arthur asks Edward, ‘Good God, who’s that ugly brute?’, or something like that, and Edward says ‘It’s Kitty!’ ‘She’s grown damned ugly, by Jove’ says Sir Arthur, but honour demands, and he marries her in spite of her looks. Pig in a poke, what? The years weren’t kind to her, and it’s rumoured that Kitty had turned stiffly religious, to boot, so it’s no wonder that Sir Arthur developed a strong lust for pretty young ladies. Not quite as bad as his brother, who should have been castrated at birth, for his own good, but, he will dally at the drop of a hat, hah!”
“So, he’s senior to other choices, as you said?” Lewrie had to ask as he poured himself another glass, and topped up Mountjoy’s.
“Lord, no! Interest and influence won out, again!” Mountjoy said with a hoot. “There’s dozens of senior Generals on Army List grinding their teeth in rage over it! With any luck, he knows how to soldier. He’s won all his battles before, so … we’ll see.”
“Just how d’ye know all this, his private life and all?” Lewrie groused. “Get it from The Tatler, did ye?”
“Lewrie,” Mountjoy said with an arch grin, “you should know by now that Secret Branch knows everyone, and everything, that matters.”
“Keep a file on me, do ye?” Lewrie asked with an accusing scowl.
“Pages and pages,” Mountjoy said with a laugh.
“Secret Branch keeps lists of useful idiots?” Lewrie gloomed up.
“Old Zachariah Twigg always thought well of you, and said so in his notes,” Mountjoy told him. “That arch manner of his, his biting banter, were just his way with everyone from senior ministers to the footmen. He had no patience for anyone who wasn’t as clever or intelligent as he was. He treated Peel, me, and you the same. What mattered to him was results, and if you got the job done, that was the main thing. He did not praise, ever!”
“You speak of him like he’s dead,” Lewrie joshed.
“I didn’t tell you?” Mountjoy replied, cocking his head over. “He is. Passed away at his country house just after the New Year … pity, ’cause he’d finally been knighted for his long, distinguished service to Crown and Country a bit before Christmas. How remiss of me, not to tell you.”
So, the old cut-throat’s gone, Lewrie thought, and wondered if he felt mournful, or should.
“I’ll wager the announcement was bland and murky,” Mountjoy went on, “and made him sound like a long-serving clerk or barrister!”
Lewrie did feel mournful, after all. Twigg had been a part of half his life, and his conniving had driven Lewrie into some of the grandest neck-or-nothing adventures he’d experienced. Twigg’s demise was a wrenching reminder of his own mortality, and the fact that those experiences were long gone, never to be re-lived.
“To Sir Zachariah Twigg,” Lewrie said of a sudden, raising his glass, “and thanks that we survived his doings.”
“Yes, to Sir Zachariah, the greatest of them all,” Mountjoy agreed, clinking glasses with Lewrie’s.
