Kings and Emperors (16 page)

“For
real,
Mountjoy?” Lewrie had to ask, wondering if the riots were invented to spur Dalrymple into some rash action, on a par with the false reports of atrocities that Mountjoy had spun out of thin air.

“For
real,
Captain Lewrie,” Mountjoy stressed. “The Spanish heard that their old kings had been arrested after they met Napoleon over the border at Bayonne, and that King Ferdinand was being forced to abdicate in favour of a king of Napoleon's choice, one of his kin, or one of his favourite Marshals.”

“Upon that head, I have heard from General Castaños,” Sir Hew Dalrymple imparted to them all. “There is a rebellious committee forming at Seville, what the Devil do they call it, Mister Mountjoy?”

“A
junta,
sir,” Mountjoy supplied.

“Yes, a
junta,
” Dalrymple continued, “which had been pressing General Castaños to declare for them, and raise a general rebellion in Western Andalusia. Castaños has already written me for British aid should he decide to act. He has raised the idea of evacuating the fortress of Ceuta, and adding those troops, and some of the fortress's lighter cannon to his artillery train, as well.”

“By Jove, that'd be grand!” General Spencer exclaimed. “What's stopping him, then?”

“That would be the
other
largest force of Spanish troops in Cádiz, Sir Brent,” Mountjoy told him, dashing cold water on Spencer's enthusiasm. “The governor of Cádiz is decidely pro-French, and, with the French warships that escaped into port after Trafalgar to count on to defend him, he could put down any rebellion.”

“They can't get to sea, with Admiral Purvis watchin' them,” Lewrie supplied, “but they could add their gunfire to defeat any attempt to take Cádiz … or bombard the city if the citizens arose against the governor. Their crews could hold the port's forts if the troops at Cádiz march on Castaños if he does join the
junta.
”

“You have no news from that quarter, Mister Mountjoy?” Sir Hew asked.

“A tough nut to crack, sir, sorry to say,” Mountjoy said with a frown, and a shake of his head. “I've had no luck at getting an … a source in. Not for long.”

“A
spy,
you're saying?” General Spencer barked as if someone had just cursed him. “That your line of work, is it, sir?”

“Someone must gather intelligence for military operations,” Lewrie said, defending him. “Else, you swan off into
terra incognita,
deaf, dumb, blind, and get your … fundaments kicked.”

“Much of a piece with cavalry videttes making scouts, and gallopers to bring news of enemy movements,” Sir Hew grudgingly allowed. “Regrettably necessary, at times. General Castaños informs me that he is also short of arms to give to volunteers whom he expects to come forward once the
junta
in Seville declares. I have on hand in the armouries at least one thousand muskets, with bayonets, cartridge pouches, and accoutrements, and I think I may spare about sixty thousand pre-made cartridges for that purpose, and shall write London to ask for more, at once. If the Spanish wish to send ships to Ceuta, we will allow them to do so.”

“And I finally get the fortress, without a long siege, ah hah!” General Spencer cried, clapping his hands in delight. He'd spent long months, cooling his heels, once it was realised that Ceuta had been re-enforced, and could not be taken without a larger army.

“Oh, I fear not, Sir Brent,” Dalrymple said with the faintest of smiles on his face. “In light of these new developments, I think that your brigade-sized force would be of more use nearer to Cádiz. That part of your original force, which was sent on to Sicily earlier, I shall recall to join you after you've made a lodgement. To encourage the
junta,
and General Castaños.”

“Ehm … make a lodgement exactly
where,
Sir Hew?” Spencer asked in sudden shock at a new, even more dangerous, assignment.

“Well, so long as the forts are in the hands of the pro-French governor, it would have to be somewhere
near
Cádiz proper,” Mountjoy declared, then turned to Lewrie and raised a brow to prompt him.

“Anyone have a sea chart?” Lewrie asked.

General Dalrymple did not, but an aide-de-camp managed to turn up a map of the city and its environs, after a frantic search.

“Hmm, there's this little port of Rota, though that's a bit far from the city,” Lewrie opined after a long perusal. “Closer into the area, there's Puerto de Santa María, on the North side of the bay.”

“Captain Lewrie became very efficient at landing and recovering troops along the coast last Summer,” Sir Hew said. “If you choose to land near Cádiz, he's your man.”

“Well, we only put three companies ashore at one time, sir, for quick raids,” Lewrie had to qualify, “without packs or camp gear, rations and ammunition, and no artillery, no horses. If you have to depend on your transports' crews to row your men in, it'll take forever, they're so thinly manned, and the number of boats will be limited. How many troops do you have, sir?”

“At present, just a bit over three thousand,” Spencer said, “a little over one brigade. Daunting. Have the French sent one of their armies to Cádiz?”

“General Castaños tells me that there is a French brigade in the city, under a Brigadier Avril,” Dalrymple said. “So far, at least, the French have left San Roque and Algeciras alone.”

“You could not enter Cádiz itself, sir,” Mountjoy warned them, “even if the Spanish
juntas
were suddenly in charge. They would not allow a ‘second' Gibraltar under British rule. Their touchy Spanish pride is too great for that.”

“I will send for transports, and obtain an escort from Admiral Purvis, now blockading Cádiz,” Dalrymple declared. “Boats from those warships, manned by British sailors, will speed the landings, at whichever place you decide, Sir Brent.”

“Or, where the Spanish let you,” Mountjoy cautioned again.

“We have some idle transports in port, already, troopers, and supply ships,” Dalrymple said. “Captain Lewrie, you and your ship will go along as part of the escort. Depending upon whom Purvis sends me, you may be senior in command of the escort, and the co-ordination.”

“I
was
wondering why I was summoned, sir. Aye,” Lewrie said, grinning. “Happy to oblige.”

“Then let us have a drink, to seal the bargain, as it were,” Dalrymple happily proposed.

Well, that's
one
way t'end my bordeom,
Lewrie thought as wine and glasses were fetched;
but if I get pressed into Admiral Purvis's fleet, will I ever see Gibraltar again, or Maddalena?

At least it would beat the sight of Ceuta, or hauling cattle from Tetuán, all hollow.

 

BOOK TWO

Therefore let every man now task his thought

That this fair action may on foot be brought.

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Should we hoist a broad pendant and name you a Commodore, sir?” Lt. Westcott proposed, craning his neck to look aloft. “Even if it'd be the lesser sort—”

“An Army general gave the orders, and he don't count,” Lewrie countered, looking upwards himself. “No, I may command the escorting force … such as it is … but Admiralty'd never stand for it. I'll stand on as I am.”

He lowered his gaze to the clutch of troop ships and supply vessels that wallowed along in passably decent order astern of his two-decker. All that could be scraped up at short notice to protect the convoy was a 32-gun frigate, a Sixth Rate sloop of war mounting but twenty light guns, and two brig-sloops. Lewrie knew that the French warships left over from the Battle of Trafalgar, now closely blockaded in Cádiz, would never come out to harm his charges, but there were still rumours that a large squadron of French ships at Rochefort, and some frigates in the mouth of the Gironde River near Bordeaux, could sortie at any time. Those rumours kept him up at night, and he secretly hoped that he could get General Spencer's troops ashore, and the merchant ships away, without opposition, so they would no longer be his responsibility.

“
Damn
these perverse winds,
and
the currents!” he spat.

Since leaving Gibraltar on the fourteenth of May, and rounding Pigeon Island into the Strait, they had proceeded at a slug's pace, hobbled by the in-rushing current into the Mediterranean. Sailing “full and by” hard on the wind for several days might
seem
swift and bracing, but that was an illusion, for their overall speed over the ground resulted in only a few miles per hour. The convoy's first leg, a long board Sou'west, only got them a few miles West of Parsley Island before they had to tack and cross the Strait to halfway 'twixt Pigeon Island and Tarifa. The second tack Sou'west had fetched them close to the Moroccan city of Alcazar, and the third had gotten them five miles East of Tarifa.

And so it had gone from there, day after day. Lewrie led the convoy out West-Sou'west to get clear of the current, taking advantage of a wind shift, far enough out off the coast of Morocco that a simple turn North would bring the convoy into contact with Admiral John Childs Purvis's blockading ships off Cádiz. Another shift of winds had put a stop to that simple run, that combined with a bout of foul weather, and they all had short-tacked under reduced sail through several half-gales to make their Northing. And, when the gales blew out and calmer winds and seas returned, they ran into a fringe of the Nor'east Trades, into which they butted the wrong way. The Trades were simply grand for
departing
Europe for the Americas or the Caribbean, but nigh a “dead muzzler” for returning.

“Land Ho!” the main mast lookout in the cross-trees shouted down. “Two points orf th' starb'd beam!”

“Any guess as to
what
land?” Lewrie scoffed to his assembled watch-standers. “Mister Yelland?”

“Some part of Spain, sir,” the Sailing Master said, sounding as if he'd made a jest. “If we could send a Mid aloft with my book of the coast, I could tell you more.”

“Fetch it,” Lewrie demanded. “Mister Harvey?” he said to the nearest Midshipman. “Aloft with you and Mister Yelland's book, and tell us what you see.”

“Aye, sir,” Harvey replied, looking eager for a scaling of the shrouds.

“Don't drop it overside, mind, Mister Harvey,” Yelland said as he brought the book of coastal sketches from the chart toom. “Or your bottom will pay for it.”

Midshipman Harvey took the larboard shrouds, the windward side, to the cat harpings, switched over to the futtock shrouds to make his way to the main top, hanging like a spider upside down for a bit, and then up the narrower upper shrouds and rat-lines to the cross-trees, a set of narrow slats that braced the top-masts' stays, to share that precarious perch with the lookout on duty. Harvey raised a telescope to peer landward, flipped pages in the coastal navigation sketchbook, peered some more, then shouted down. “It's Cape Trafalgar, sir! Cape Trafalgar, fifteen miles off!”

“Very good, Mister Harvey!” Lewrie called aloft, cupping hands by his mouth. “Return to the deck,
with
the book.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

“We'll stand on on this tack 'til Noon Sights, then,” Lewrie announced, “when Cape Trafalgar is truly recognised, then go about Nor'west, which'd put us somewhere off Cádiz, and in sight of our blockading squadrons sometime round dusk. Sound right, Mister Yelland?”

“If the winds hold, aye, sir,” Yelland agreed. “That'd place us, oh … round twenty-odd miles off Cádiz, and
sure
to run across one of our ships.”

“I s'pose I'll have t'shave, and dress for the occasion,” Lewrie glumly said, rubbing a stubbly cheek. “Called to the flagship, all that? Mister Westcott, best you warn my boat crew t'scrub up and wash behind their ears. Best turn-out, hey?”

“Aye, sir,” Westcott responded with a faint snigger.

“I'll be aft. Carry on, the watch,” Lewrie said, turning to go to his cabins.

“Why does the Captain dislike dressing in his finest, sir?” Lt. Elmes asked once Lewrie had departed the quarterdeck.

“It's the sash and star of his knighthood he dislikes, Mister Elmes,” Westcott informed him in a low voice. “Officially, it was awarded for his part in a fight against a French squadron off the coast of Louisiana in 1803, but he strongly suspects that it was a cynical way for the Government to drum up support for going back to war, by publicising the fact that the French tried to murder him, and killed his wife instead, when they were in Paris during the Peace of Amiens.”

“Murdered?” Lt. Elmes gawped.

“The Captain was invited to a meeting with Napoleon at the Tuileries Palace,” Westcott explained. “He had five or six swords of dead French officers, and thought to return them to the families, in exchange for an old hanger that Napoleon took off him at Toulon in Ninety-Four, when the Captain would not give his parole and leave his men after their mortar ship was blown up and sunk. It turned to shit, he angered Napoleon somehow, and the next thing he knew, they were being chased cross Northern France to Calais.”

“He's
met
the Ogre?” Elmes marvelled. “Twice? I never knew. What a tale!”

“To make matters worse, when the Captain was presented at Saint James's Palace to be knighted, the King was having a bad day, and got confused and added Baronet,” Westcott went on, making a face. “You can imagine how it all left a sour taste in the Captain's mouth. He
earned
a knighthood,
and
a Baronetcy, a dozen times over during his career, mind, long before I met him, and he's done a parcel of hard fighting, since, but … that don't signify to him. He doesn't like to speak of it, so … don't raise the matter with him.”