Текст книги "Kings and Emperors"

Автор книги: Dewey Lambdin

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The last days of May, and the first days of June of 1808 were spent sailing off-and-on under reduced sail, a bit out to sea of Rear-Admiral Purvis’s ten sail of the line, waiting for word from shore, or further orders from Gibraltar. Aboard HMS Sapphire, live gun drill was held, cutlass drill, pike drill, and the striking and hoisting of top-masts, just to keep the ship’s people’s skills from going rusty. The weather was fairly decent, the convoy was well-protected by the ships that Purvis led, and it could almost be termed “cruising and claret.”

Lewrie was bored, of course.

He tried to bear boredom stoically, with much play with Bisquit and Chalky, and with sword-play with his officers and senior Midshipmen. He’d fetch a chair from the dining-coach and sit out on his stern gallery, with the improvised screen door secured so that Chalky could not dash out, leap onto a cap-rail, and go overboard, and practice on his penny-whistle, quite ignoring the whines and howls from the poop deck above from Bisquit, who was either greatly distressed, or trying to sing along; it was hard to tell which.

In private, stripped to the waist so he wouldn’t sweat up one of his linen shirts, he would exercise with wooden pails with various weights of swivel gun roundshot, lifting, swinging, and grunting with effort, to the amusement (well-concealed, of course) of his steward, Pettus, and cabin-servant, Jessop.

He’d been skewered in the left thigh by a Spanish bayonet up the Appalachicola River during the tail-end of the American Revolution, had had his left arm shot at the Battle of Camperdown, and had been shot in the right thigh off Buenos Aires two years before, and his workouts made them all let him know that he was getting older, and that he was not the hale and hearty fellow he’d been before, but he persisted. Fourty-five was not that old, after all; was it?

“Cool tea, sir?” Pettus asked after his last efforts.

“Christ yes, thankee,” Lewrie eagerly said, sponging himself off then towelling, and flinging himself into a comfortable padded chair. “With lots of sugar. Whew … woof!”

“Keeps you a fine figure of a man, sir,” Pettus commented.

“Lotta work, if yer askin’ me,” Jessop muttered.

“I don’t do half what you do, Jessop,” Lewrie reminded him. “Ye wished t’be more of a sailor, servin’ a carronade, climbin’ the masts, tailin’ on sheets, halliards, and gun-tackle. That’s your exercise.”

“’At’s just work, sir, wot I’m s’posed t’do,” Jessop rejoined.

“Ages ago, aboard my first ship, the Ariadne, there was a Marine officer,” Lewrie told him, “who suggested that the ladies prefer a fit man over a gotch-gut, one who’s light on his feet and can dance well, not thunder round like ‘John Bull.’ All that exercisin’ I did at my father’s farm t’heal up from gettin’ shot two years ago, t’make myself fit for command, again … ye took part in that, and you’re a fit and spry young fellow, yourself. Ain’t he, Pettus?”

“He is, yes, sir,” Pettus agreed as he fetched a tall, cool glass of lemoned and sugared tea, “the delight of all the girls at Gibraltar, the young rogue.”

“All ’at heavin’ an’ liftin’ beat muckin’ out th’ stables an’ barns, sir,” Jessop said with an impish grin. “I wasn’t havin’ any o’ that. I ain’t a farmer, nor wish t’be. Gimme Portsmouth or London, anytime.”

The Marine sentry outside Lewrie’s cabin doors rapped the deck with his musket butt, and stamped his boots. “Midshipman Griffin t’see the Cap’m, SAH!”

“Shirt, Pettus,” Lewrie bade. “Enter!” he called out once he was partially presentable.

“The flag has made our number, sir, and signalled Captain Repair On Board,” Midshipman Griffin reported.

“Well, just damn my eyes,” Lewrie spat. “The Admiral will have t’settle for slovenly, if he wants me straightaway. Thankee, Mister Griffin. Muster my boat crew, if you please, and I’ll be on deck, directly.”

“Aye, sir.”

Lewrie had not shaved that morning, and was dressed in loose and comfortable slop-trousers, white wool stockings, and a pair of buckled shoes, not his Hessian boots. With Pettus’s help, he got a fresh shirt done up and his neck-stock bound, shirt-tails crammed into the trousers’ waist-band, into a waist-coat and a plainer, older coat.

“Dress sword, sir?” Pettus asked from the arms rack.

“No, give me the hanger,” Lewrie decided, “and me older hat.”

“What will Admiral Purvis say, sir?” Pettus fretted as he provided the requested articles.

“That I was prompt?” Lewrie japed. “Keep the cat amused.”

*   *   *

It was a long and nigh-boisterous journey under lugs’l to the flagship, several miles off, but at last he made it and went up the battens and man-ropes to be greeted with the due ceremony. Once on deck, he noted that a Bosun’s chair was being rigged.

“For General Spencer, I presume?” Lewrie asked the Lieutenant who had been assigned to see him aft.

“Aye, sir,” the officer said with a snigger.

When Lewrie arrived in the Admiral’s cabins, he found that he was one among many; the Captains of all ten ships of the line were present, including Purvis’s Flag-Captain.

“Ah, Captain Lewrie … Sir Alan, excuse my casual address,” Purvis said.

“It’s a Captain Lewrie day, sir, and no matter,” Lewrie offered.

“So I see,” Purvis said with a brow up. This day, he did not appear quite so worn or tired as he had upon their first encounter.

Somthing’s lit his fire, Lewrie thought; feagued him like an old horse with ginger up its rump.

Beyond the cabins, there were more Bosun’s calls, the squeals of pulley-blocks. General Spencer was arriving. Right after he was admitted to the great-cabins, he looked for a place to stow his hat, and peered about as if looking for a drink.

“Sir Brent, welcome,” Purvis said. “We have heard from shore, at last. Wine for all, if you please,” he directed his servants, and ordered all to find a seat.

“We’re landing my damned troops, at long last, are we, sir?” Spencer boomed out, clapping his hands in delight.

“Here is what we know,” Purvis went on, standing behind his desk. “The city, and the Spanish garrison of Cádiz, has risen, and the pro-French governor, and some of his aides and hangers-on, have been dragged into the streets and murdered.”

“Huzzah!” one Captain shouted.

“We are not to enter the city, or the bay, however,” Purvis went on, lifting a quieting hand. “Word has come that the Spanish are to deal with the French ships in harbour. They’re moving bomb vessels and gunboats, and positioning fortress guns to take them under fire if they do not strike. The French Admiral, Rosily, seems determined to resist, though there’s little hope for him. If the Spanish don’t set them afire with heated shot, then they’d face us if they sortie, so … in the interests of supporting our new … ally,” he spat the word, “I must leave the honour of capturing those ships to the Spanish.”

“Oh, sir!” one of the officers commiserated. “After all of our hopes, and yours!”

“I know, I know,” Purvis replied, looking stony for a moment, then perked up, possibly for their benefit. “The silver lining to it … the Supreme Junta in Seville has declared war upon France, and upon Napoleon personally, if one can imagine that. General Castaños at San Roque has been named Captain-General of the Army of Andalusia, and I have been requested to allow merchantmen currently anchored in the Bay of Cádiz to sail for Ceuta, to take off a major portion of the fortress garrison and transport them to Algeciras, to augment General Castaños’s forces.

“I have also gotten a request to provide a ship to bear a delegation from the Supreme Junta to London, to begin formal negotiations to end the war ’twixt Great Britain and Spain, and I am eager to do so. Any suggestions?”

“Part of my convoy escort, sir,” Lewrie quickly offered, “the Barbados frigate, a thirty-two. She’s fast and weatherly.”

And, she ain’t the Sapphire, Lewrie thought; Better anybody than me. I want t’stay and see what happens!

“Thank you for the suggestion, Captain Lewrie,” Purvis replied. “Aye, once the French ships have been captured, it will be safe for Barbados to enter port and take the emissaries aboard.”

“Then I can land my troops at Port María?” Spencer pressed.

“Ah … no, Sir Brent,” Purvis had to inform him. “The Junta will not tolerate the presence of British troops in, or near, Cádiz, though if threatened by the arrival of a French army, that may be allowed at a later date. They have suggested Ayamonte, instead.”

“Where the bloody Hell’s Ayamonte?” Spencer groused, turning red in the face.

“It’s a small seaport at the mouth of the Guadiana River, Sir Brent,” Purvis said, almost with a sly look. “Your troops won’t have to be ferried onto a beach, but can land directly on the quays, and the transports may moor alongside, making the un-loading of your artillery and supplies much easier.”

“Wasn’t on my maps,” Spencer gravelled.

But it was on Lewrie’s sea charts, and he recalled where it was; he had to hide his amusement.

“Ayamonte is on the South bank of the Guadiana, Sir Brent,” he took some delight in telling him. “Portugal is on the North. As far as the Spanish want you to Cádiz, and still be in Spain.”

“The stiff-necked, prideful bastards!” Spencer screeched.

“Look on the bright side,” Lewrie quipped. “You can be rowed over the river and liberate Portugal, if you’ve a mind.”

“Rear-Admiral Sir Charles Cotton, blockading Lisbon, reports that his informations place only four thousand French soldiers at Lisbon,” Purvis said with a shrug. “He thinks a British force of six thousand could take the city, though personally, I doubt his figures. They seem too low, to me.”

“We know that Marshal Junot led fifty thousand troops into Portugal, and there is a lot of territory to cover,” General Spencer said with a hopeful note. “Hmm, Lisbon, Oporto, the ah … other cities to occupy. Your man Cotton might be right.”

“Temporarily, Sir Brent,” Purvis cautioned, “but if you march on Lisbon from Ayamonte, Junot could summon re-enforcements quickly, and I believe that we have all seen the Napoleonic way of war, by now, and how quickly French armies can move. Portugal must be left to the expeditionary force under General Sir Arthur Wellesley. On my part, I shall add one of my Third Rates to the escort and retain the Barbados frigate to transport the Spanish delegation to London, when it arrives in Cádiz from Seville. So, you may begin your landing at Ayamonte at once, Sir Brent.”

“Then let’s be about it, shall we, sir?” Lewrie prompted the General, who was still looking peeved. “With weather permitting, we can have you and your troops on dry land by the eleventh or twelfth.”

“A toast all round, gentlemen,” Admiral Purvis proposed, waving his empty glass in the air to summon his cabin servants for re-fills. And once all the glasses had been re-filled or topped up, Purvis paused in thought for a moment, then said, “We could call for victory, or we could call for peace with Spain, but I think a general sentiment may cover the situation presented us. Gentlemen, I give you Death and Confusion to the French!”

“Death and Confusion to the French!” they all chorused lustily, and those seated pounded their fists on their chair arms, stamped their feet on the hard oak deck, and punctuated the air with more huzzahs.

After that, most officers gathered up their hats and made their way to the weather decks to depart. Lewrie was certain that he was the junior-most Captain present, and would be first down the side to his boat, but Purvis crooked a finger at him.

“Bide, Captain Lewrie,” Purvis said. “I shall write orders for the Barbados frigate’s Captain, and would admire did you forward them to that worthy.”

“Of course, sir,” Lewrie agreed.

“Sorry you will not have an opportunity to meet Collingwood,” Purvis said, “but, he’s off to Gibraltar to confer with Dalrymple.”

“It is of no matter, sir,” Lewrie shrugged off.

“Good, then,” Purvis decided. “I will assign the Norwich to be Barbados’s replacement in your squadron. Her Captain caught a fever and passed over, recently, and her First Lieutenant, Abercrombie, is Acting-Captain. I note that you do not fly a broad pendant?”

“No, sir,” Lewrie told him. “My appointment as senior officer was by luck, and a request from General Dalrymple, so Admiralty had nothing to do with it. If a man senior to me had shown up among the assembled ships, I would not be drinking your excellent wine.”

“Had you not made a name for yourself as a fighting Captain, sir, I’d take you for a scape-grace!” Purvis said with a faint laugh.

“Well, it’s still early days, sir,” Lewrie japed back.

“Hah! Whilst I write my orders, you should have another, then,” Purvis decided. “Re-fills here!” he called to his servants.

*   *   *

“Have you any news to share, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked once Lewrie had gained his own quarterdeck, and sent his boat over to the frigate with new orders.

“Grand news, and a fair parcel of it, Mister Westcott, which I will share,” Lewrie told him, grinning, “just as soon as you can call all officers aft to my cabins. Mister Hillhouse?” he asked the senior Midshipman standing watch. “I have need of Mister Harcourt for a while, and would admire did you take charge of the quarterdeck.”

“Aye, sir,” Hillhouse replied, straightening up.

“We’re off to Ayamonte, Mister Westcott, as soon as one of the Third Rates joins us,” Lewrie said.

“Where’s Ayamonte?” Westcott wondered aloud.

“The arse-end of Spain, right by the Portuguese border,” Lewrie said. “If the Dons don’t want us in Cádiz, we’ll have t’go in the back entrance. Mister Yelland? Fetch your charts for the coasts North of Cádiz, will you? We’re landing a British Army in Spain!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Grubby-lookin’ place, ain’t it?” Lewrie mused aloud after a long look through his telescope, now that Sapphire was safely anchored in the Guadiana River, in the middle of the stream and just a few hundred yards from the town of Ayamonte. The troop transports and supply ships, which drew less water, had preceded the two-decker to the town and its piers. Lewrie had thought to leave the sloop of war and brig-sloops at the mouth of the river, several miles below, to guard against the slight risk of the rumoured French squadron at Rochefort appearing to crush his little ad hoc force. They would cruise off-and-on the coast. The 74-gun Norwich he had ordered to anchor in the mouth of the river as a floating battery to deny an enemy an entrance to the river. He would have liked to stay down there with her, but, he had to be close to General Spencer, and had to carefully feel his way up to Ayamonte.

“Anchored fore and aft, sir, with springs on the cables as you wished,” Lt. Geoffrey Westcott reported. “Hmm … the land about the river and the town is fairly level. Should there be French troops in the vicinity, we should be able to support General Spencer ’til he’s got his artillery ashore.”

“Not a lot to the place, is there, Geoffrey?” Lewrie asked the First Officer. “It could be almost picturesque, if somebody thought to re-paint and sweep up the trash.”

“Count on the Spanish for that, sir?” Westcott said, snorting in derision. “Not in our lifetime. It looks to be fairly prosperous, though. Lots of large fishing boats and coastal trading vessels … warehouses, there, behind the quays? They appear not to be locked up and idle, like the ones we saw along the South coast last Summer. It may be there’s a decent trade here.”

Lewrie crossed to the other side of the poop deck and took a long look at the Portuguese side of the river. There was a wee town over there, named Castro Marim on Mr. Yelland’s charts, and they had passed a larger town on the way up-river, Vila Real de Santo António, which also looked fairly prosperous. Evidently, the French invasions of both countries had not reached such un-important places, yet, and the war had left this corner of Spain alone.

There were small boats working the Portuguese side of the river, some heaped with huge mounds of what looked like seaweed or riverbank reeds, and Lewrie wondered what in the world they did with it; eat it? Several curious folk were gathered on the Portuguese shore where a road ended, and a ferry rested, and they were pointing and talking animatedly, but looked like they’d flee like rabbits if anyone glared at them the wrong way.

Ayamonte’s citizens were more in a dither, with some saddling up horses or hitching up teams, and loading immediately necessary belongings into waggons or carts. Others more bold were gathered in taut, angry bunches, some armed with cudgels, swords, kitchen knives or cleavers, and a few firearms. Lewrie could even see a few lances for hunting wild boar being waved aloft, and one ancient pike. Most of the Spanish seemed wary but curious.

Most of the ten companies from one of General Spencer’s battalions were already ashore and formed up in the streets and large plaza that faced the quays, a band was playing, and a colour party was parading the Regimental Colours and the King’s Colours.

Lewrie could spot Spencer and some of his staff in conversation with some well-dressed civilian men and several priests, and he hoped that Spencer had thought to include some Spanish-speaking officers in his force, for there was a lot of head-shaking, hand-talking, shrugging, and confused looks between all. One of the civilians wore a sash cross his chest, perhaps the town mayor, and he began to smile. One of the priests dashed inside the nearby church and bells began to ring as the group of soldiers and civilians shook hands. It was almost comical to watch as the town mayor mounted the church steps and tried to address the crowd while the bells pealed on and on. Finally, the eldest churchman sent another priest inside to silence the clanging.

After a time, the mayor’s address evoked loud cheers, clapping, and huzzahs. Spanish flags appeared from windows and balconies.

“I think it’s safe for heretical English to go ashore, now,” Lewrie declared. “Muster my boat crew, and fetch the cutter up from astern, Mister Westcott.”

“Aye, sir. If you discover some decent wine, the wardroom will appreciate news of it,” Westcott hinted. “Or, if you spot a fetching young señorita or two…?”

“If we’re here for a while, I’ll allow you shore liberty, and you can hunt up your own,” Lewrie assured him. He looked aloft and then peered at the steeple of the church ashore. “Might be a good idea to keep a lookout in the main mast cross-trees. If there are any French forces in the neighbourhood, we’d have a better view of them.”

“I shall, sir,” Westcott agreed.

Once overside and in the cutter, Lewrie looked over his boat crew. “Listen, lads. It’s a small town, a Spanish town, and I warn you t’mind your manners. The girls might be willin’, but I’d wager their menfolk’d not look kindly on any dallying. Stay close to the quays, and do not get drunk. Right, Furfy?”

“Arra, sor,” Furfy moaned. “Iff’n th’ Dons’re grateful for us t’be here, it’d be un-friendly t’turn down a swig or two if they offer.”

“We stay ashore th’ rest o’ th’ mornin’, sor, we’ll miss th’ rum issue,” Furfy’s long-time mate, Cox’n Liam Desmond, pointed out. “Mayhap a cup or two of wine’d make up for it?”

Even the usually-sobre bow man, Michael Deavers, was looking eager to set foot ashore and get a drink. “Aye, it would,” he said.

“Pass word for Midshipman Britton!” Lewrie shouted up to the quarterdeck watch. “He’s to come ashore with me!”

That put his oarsmen in lower spirits. Midshipman Britton was a Tartar when it came to finding sailors “drunk on duty” and have them at Captain’s Mast.

“Aw, sor,” Furfy said with a sad shake of his head.

“If offered by grateful Spaniards … assumin’ they’re all that grateful … you can take a drink, but Mister Britton will see that you don’t get drunk,” Lewrie promised them.

Britton came scrambling down the battens and agilely stepped onto the gunn’l then aft to sit near the stern thwart near Lewrie and Desmond.

“If I need messages passed ’twixt the shore and the ship, I’ll need you to bear them, Mister Britton,” Lewrie told him. “I’ll also want you to mind the men’s consumption of any offered wine.”

“Aye aye, sir!” Britton crisply answered, with a warning glare at the hands.

“Shove off, then,” Lewrie ordered.

*   *   *

“Ah, Captain Lewrie, come to see the sights, have you?” General Spencer boomed as Lewrie strolled onto the plaza.

“I came to see how things are going, sir,” Lewrie replied. “I assume the Spanish are giving you a good welcome?”

“Ah, the bloody Dons,” Spencer griped, snatching off his ornate bicorne hat and running impatient fingers through his hair. “They claim that I must encamp my troops beyond the town, instead of lodging them in houses. There’s some low hills a mile or so to the Northeast and East, and we’ll have to march out there and set piquets on the hills, and set up tents and all behind them. They will allow a small party in town, atop the church tower, but that’s about all the co-operation we’re going to get.”

“I’m keeping lookouts posted aloft, sir,” Lewrie said. “They can see farther than anyone in the tower. They’re higher up. Maybe you could erect a semaphore tower at your camp to speak your sentries in the church tower, and run a message to me, should the French show up. If you have to fall back and be evacuated, my guns could dissuade the Frogs from pressing you too closely.”

“Fall back and evacuate?” Spencer bristled up. “No, Captain Lewrie. Unless an entire French division marches here to confront me, I fully intend to stand my ground and chance a battle. That’s what I was sent to do … even if it’s the arse-end of this shitten country.”

“So, there are no French anywhere close?” Lewrie asked.

“Well, there’s L’Etang’s division at Seville, and there’s General Dupont at Córdoba, but those are rather far off, and couldn’t be here for days,” Spencer allowed, “even if your Admiral Purvis is of the opinion that the French can fly like so many sparrows from one place to the next. The nearest we’re aware of is the brigade under General Avril, and they’re nearer Cádiz than I am, dammit all! Where I should be is Cádiz, but will the Dons allow me? Gawd!”

“How are the locals receiving you, sir?” Lewrie pressed, turning to look at Ayamonte’s residents, who were back to their usual routines, now that most of the excitement was over. “I should think they would be thrilled to hear of the uprisings, the Junta’s declaration of war, and all.”

“Cagily!” Spencer said with a contemptuous snort. “Be careful where you camp, don’t pick fruit, don’t cut any olive trees for firewood, don’t look at our women, don’t go inside their churches. The rich ones are haughty, and the rest are scheming for money … as if your average British soldier has any. I’ve had to hire waggons and carts, teams and drivers, to carry all my supplies and ammunition out to the campsite, and pay dearly! The rest of them goggle at us like we’re lepers, and give us what the Sicilians call the ‘Evil Eye.’ Lord, what a country! Poor as church mice, as illiterate as so many goats, as lazy as butchers’ dogs, yet as testy of their honour and pride as mad bulls. Must be some miasma specific to Mediterranean countries, Sicily, Malta, Italy, Spain, and Portugal, they are all alike. They are just not like the English, the Scots, or even the bloody Irish. A bad race to love, or fight for.”

“I was not aware that the transports didn’t bring along any horse or mule teams, or waggons,” Lewrie said with a frown. That was damned poor planning, to his lights.

“The original plan was to land at Cádiz, and garrison in town,” General Spencer continued to grouse. “At any rate, unless we ordered some from Sicily, there were none available at Gibraltar. I’ll write Dalrymple to be sure that the remainder of my troops coming from Sicily fetch some along. If I am finally allowed into Cádiz, I’ll have to march there, by Christ!”

“You’ll go by sea, sir, it’s fastest,” Lewrie assured him.

“If the French do not come to assail me, I may end up crossing the river and marching on Lisbon,” Spencer said, turning to look over the river into Portugal. “Might be good to place a battalion yonder, anyway. Guard the back door, and my arse, hey?”

“I’m sure the toll for the ferry will be steep, sir,” Lewrie said with a wee laugh.

“You do nothing to reassure me, sir,” Spencer bristled again. “And, I do not need reminding about money.”

“Sorry, sir,” Lewrie apologised. “If you need anything, the Navy’s ready to assist you.”

“If I do, you’ll hear of it,” Spencer assured him. “I must be off. Too much to see to before sundown.”

“I’ll take my leave, sir,” Lewrie replied, doffing his hat in parting salute.

He strolled back towards the quays, taking in the town of Ayamonte, and its citizens. They did indeed seem a wary lot, who would not make eye contact. There were some pointing and laughing, though, as a second of Spencer’s battalions marched out of town. They were making fun of the battalion’s camp followers, the soldiers’ wives.

Every British regiment on Army List usually maintained two battalions at permanent home establishments. When a regiment was ordered overseas, one battalion would pack up to go, while the second would remain in barracks to recruit, drill, and train, and flesh out for the day when, after several years, the first battalion would be ordered home, and the second battalion would sail overseas to take their place. If the deployed battalion suffered casualties in action, or decimating diseases, if enough men were crippled for life, the home battalion would send out a trained draught of replacements.

The cruelty of that system was that when a battalion was sent out, only sixty or so of the soldiers’ wives or camp girfriends were allowed to go with them, chosen by drawing straws or marked slips of paper from a shako. The ones left behind might never see their men again, their children would never see their fathers, and the pay of a soldier was never enough, even at home in peacetime, to support those families, and what little a deployed soldier could allot from his pay couldn’t, either.

“Putas, putas!” some Spanish women were accusing, sure that the women were whores, for who else would follow soldiers overseas.

And, the battalion’s wives were a rough lot, poorly dressed, hard-handed, clumsily shod, and could curse like the women mongers at the Billingsgate fish market, or the coarsest sailor. They did present a rather un-appetising picture, with rarely a fetching one in their ranks, carrying packs like any soldier, cooking utensils, haversacks, and jute bags of possessions. On the march, they would help dress wounds, cook their husbands’ rations, do the sewing and mending, tend their children, and even give birth in camp when the time came upon them.

Lewrie had seen them in action after the battle that had broken the Dutch at Cape Town, two years before. They had swarmed over the dead and wounded Dutch to strip them of anything of value like harpies. They would pick fruit trees and berry bushes bare, forage to steal chickens, goats, or piglets, were as eager as their men for spirits, wine, or beer, and would get just as hoggish, screeching drunk as the men. Many of them marched by chewing quids of tobacco, or had fuming pipes in their mouths.

Lewrie doffed his hat to them, saying “Good morning, ladies.”

“Ahn’t he a grand’un!” one crone commented.

“Ladies me arse!” another hooted.

“Ye drop y’or sister one more time, an’ I’ll tan y’or hide!” one stout hag chid a boy carrying a swaddled baby along with a satchel.

“Arr, make ’em bloody damn’ Papists shut th’ fuck up! They’s poorer ’an we are!”

Lord God, who’d be a soldier in our Army? Lewrie thought; Or marry one! Nothing t’look forward to but lice, fleas and sleepin’ rough.

He went back to the boat, where his sailors were talking with some Spaniards, or attempting to. Bottles of local wine were being passed, despite Midshipman Britton’s loudest efforts to prevent it.

“Sir, I think the whole lot should be put on charges,” the Mid cried as Lewrie approached. “The Spanish gave them drink, and I could not stop them. I wasn’t sure whether I should, not entirely, and it got out of hand…”

“Because the Spanish are being friendly, for a change, and you didn’t wish t’turn them against us, Mister Britton?” Lewrie asked.

“That was my thinking, aye, sir, but…,” Britton sputtered.

“Lads!” Lewrie said in a quarterdeck voice. “Leave off, before ye fall down dead drunk. I said a cup or two, not a barrico.”

An unshaven Spaniard came up to Lewrie and offered him a bottle, gabbling happily away in rapid Spanish, and wheezing a foul, garlicky breath on him.

“Oh, Christ,” Lewrie muttered, but plastered a smile on his phyz and took a swig of what tasted as raw and foul as Navy-issued “Black Strap.” He swallowed it manfully, and patted the man on his back, handing the bottle back. “Gracias, mucho gracias,” he said in his little knowledge of Spanish, but that set the fellow off into a fresh bout of incomprehensible lingo.

“Does anyone know what he’s saying, sir?” Britton asked.

“Hell if I know,” Lewrie told him. “Look here. The army is going to march inland to those hills, yonder, and set up a semaphore tower. They’ll have another in the church tower, and I wish to establish a small shore party here at the quays, should they send any messages to us. We’ll keep one of the cutters here day and night, with one Midshipman and a boat crew to fetch off any news. Someone get this oaf off me, hey? Yes, yes! Sí, sí, buenos mañana, buenos dia? Ehm, Adios? Back in the boat, lads, we’re off. Bye bye!”

The Spaniards seemed sorry to see them go, eager to give them a “stirrup cup” as the hands sat down on the thwarts and un-shipped their oars.

After the cutter was around one hundred yards off the quays, out in the river and stroking for the ship, Lewrie turned a stern and “captainly” glare at his miscreants.

“How the Devil did ye get so much t’drink so quickly?” he asked in a growl.

“Remember, those blank papal dispensations that were taken out o’ the prize afore we got to Buenos Aires, sor?” Liam Desmond asked. “Them that nobody knew what t’do with? The ones we took ashore and doled out like money to the whores and inn-keepers?”