Kings and Emperors (4 page)

*   *   *

As merry as Lewrie tried to be with her, though, and as merry as she pretended to be, Maddalena's mood, her sadness and worry, could not rise to the occasion, and she merely picked at her succulent seafood supper.

Worst of all, for Lewrie at least, was later when they returned to her lodgings. When they sat on the settee and began to kiss and fondle, she laid a reticent hand on his chest.

“Alan, I am … how you say, ‘under the moon'?” she whispered.

“Under … ah!” he realised, then deflated. “Damn. Well…?”

It was Maddalena's time of the month, and those cundums in his coat pocket would go un-used. He'd never much cared for tupping any maiden when she was having her bloody flux, and had slept in a separate bed-chamber when his late wife had hers. It was just too messy!

“I am sorry, dear man,” she said, whispering into his neck.

“Don't you be sorry for Mother Nature,” he insisted, trying to laugh it off. “There'll be plenty of other nights. Eh, I don't think I'll sleep ashore, if that's alright with you. I
adore
sleeping with you, mind, but I'd only get tempted, and…”

“Frustrated,” Maddalena finished for him. “
Sim,
I would be frustrated,
também,
” she added with a nervous little laugh.

It was awkward for both of them, but, after a final glass of wine and a few hugs and kisses in parting, Lewrie ended up strolling back to the quays and the landing stage in the dark and mostly empty streets, hand on the hilt of his everyday hanger, and glad to see the Provost patrols who served as the Town Major's police force.

“A boat, sir?” a sleepy waterman at the landing stage asked, rousing himself from a nap.

“Aye,” Lewrie told him. “Out to the
Sapphire.
”

My idle ship,
he thought.

The large taffrail lanthorns at the stern were lit, as well as smaller lanthorns on the quarterdeck and forecastle. The wee street-lights along the quay and the main street barely reached her sides, making the 50-gunned two-decker merely the hint of a wooden ghost out on the calm waters of the bay, and her furled and harbour-gasketted sails seemed more like old parchment.

It's only a day's jaunt, out and back to Ceuta, but I'll take it,
he told himself;
I'll take
any
opportunity t'get under way again.

 

CHAPTER THREE

Lewrie was only half-way through his breakfast, a particularly fine omelet with mushrooms, onions, tomato, and cheese, with toasted slabs of fresh shore bread, when one of
Sapphire
's Midshipmen standing Harbour Watch hailed an approaching boat. Lewrie perked up, chewing a bite of toast thickly slathered with red currant preserves, cocking an ear to what was occurring just beyond his cabin doors. He faintly made out a call from the boat; “Letter for your Captain!” and sat up even straighter, about ready to cross the fingers of his right hand for good luck. Yes! There was the thump of a boat coming alongside, and the scramble of a messenger up the boarding battens!

He picked up a bit of spicy Spanish sausage with his fingers and popped it into his mouth as footsteps could be heard clumping on the quarterdeck, leading to …

“Message for the Captain, SAH!” the Marine Private who stood sentry at the cabin doors cried, stamping boots and musket butt.

“Enter,” Lewrie called out, trying to sound
blasé.

And don't let it be from the bloody dockyards!
he thought.

Midshipman Ward, one of the youngest, came round to the dining-coach with his hat under his arm, and a sealed letter in his hand.

“Yes, Mister Ward?” Lewrie said, between sips of coffee.

“A message from Lieutenant-General Sir Hew Dalrymple, sir,” Ward stiffly said, laying the missive on the dining table.

“Thank you, Mister Ward, you may go,” Lewrie told him, paying it no attention for the moment. As soon as Ward was round the corner into the day-cabin, though, Lewrie snatched it up and tore it open. “Aha! Pettus? Pass word to muster my boat crew, if ye please, I'm called ashore.” He reached for the napkin tucked under his chin and almost shot to his feet, but paused. It really was such a toothsome breakfast, too good to be abandoned entirely. He took a few quick bites more of everything, a last slurp of sugared and creamed coffee, then shrugged into his coat, snatched up his sword belt and hat, and left the cabins, still chewing.

Chalky, who had been feeding from his own bowl atop the table at the far end, took the opportunity to raid what was left, paying close attention to the sausages.

*   *   *

The Convent, headquarters and lodgings for Dalrymple and his staff, did not resemble the dither that Thomas Mountjoy had depicted to Lewrie the night before; it seemed almost somnolent and hushed at its normal routine. Lewrie was shown into Dalrymple's offices by an aide-de-camp. There was no breathless council-of-war going on; there was only Sir Hew, standing before a large map pinned to a board on a stand, musing over Ceuta and its environs.

“Ah, Lewrie,” Sir Hew said, almost absent-mindedly. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I need you to do me a small service, if you can.”

“Happy to, sir,” Lewrie replied, feeling a bit let-down that his imaginings did not match the reality. “What do ye have in mind?”

“
That
bloody place, sir!” Sir Hew spat, jabbing his arm out to tap his map. “London has finally relented to my many suggestions for dealing with Ceuta.” Sir Hew turned to face Lewrie. “Major-General Sir Brent Spencer and an army of seven thousand men are being sent to me to do just that. Lord Castlereagh has sent me formal approval to make the attempt.”

“And you need someone t'give it a fresh look-over, I see, sir,” Lewrie said, his excitement rising.

“That Mountjoy fellow reminded me that you had sailed close to Ceuta several times during your, ah … exertions during the Summer, and thought you might be familiar with the number, and calibre, of its artillery,” Sir Hew said, twitching his mouth; he had not been enthusiastic about the raids, even if they might have led to Spanish troops being syphoned off from the vicinity of Gibraltar to protect the coast.

“It's a fine day for it, sir,” Lewrie chearly said, itching to be back aboard his ship and out of harbour. “I can be off Ceuta by noon and back in port the day after with a report.”

“I've heard some rumours, which that
spying
fellow of yours…,” Sir Hew said with a sniff.

He's mine is he?
Lewrie thought, twitching his mouth.

“… that Ceuta has been re-enforced,” Dalrymple went on, “with more troops and more guns, perhaps two more regiments and two more gun batteries, though there's nothing definite. How that's possible, God only knows. I've observers atop the Rock with strong telescopes.”

Lewrie went to look at the map, searching for the landing place that served the fortress. “Your observers can't see round the other side of the peninsula, sir, the Sou'west side at the narrow neck below the fortress. Ships from Málaga and Cartagena could sail wide, almost level with Tetuán, then coast up to the landing. Do it in the dark … on stormy nights? Those two big frigates I fought were loaded with supplies, food, and arms. They could have been on their way to concentrate with what's left of the Spanish navy at Cádiz, but now I suspect that they were on their way to Ceuta when I ran across 'em. That's most-like how they did it.”

“And our naval supremacy in the Mediterranean could do nought to stop them?” Dalrymple snapped, as if assigning blame.

“Our fleet in the Med, sir, is more concerned with the French, at Marseilles and Toulon,” Lewrie pointed out. “When
Sapphire
raided the coast, it was rare t'run into a naval presence 'til we got up to Barcelona, and, once the raids were suspended…”

That earned him a deep glower from Dalrymple; he'd been the one who'd ordered that the raids cease, to maintain his amicable relations with his counterpart, Spanish General Castaños.

“In any event, I
do
need someone to make a reconnaissance over yonder, Captain Lewrie,” Sir Hew said, stiff-backed and gruffly. “The powers-that-be in London
still
refuse to see the need for a permanent naval squadron at Gibraltar which I may call upon. I thank you for acceding to my request.”

“I'll get right at it, sir,” Lewrie said, turning to go.

“By the by, how is your progress with the gunboat squadron?” Sir Hew called out.

“Bloody awful, sir, truthfully,” Lewrie was happy to tell him. “But Captain Middleton at the dockyard is making adjustments.”

“Be sure that once you return with your report that you bend all your efforts to bringing them to fruition,” Sir Hew sternly told him.

“But of course, sir,” Lewrie had to agree, while wondering if he could send a written report ashore by boat, then sail off to see what was happening off Cádiz, or Lisbon;
anything
but gunboats!

*   *   *

“Welcome back aboard, sir,” First Officer Geoffrey Westcott said to him, in his shirtsleeves and sweaty from sword practise. In Lewrie's absence, the crew had been put to an hour of cutlass drill, and the two-decker had rung with metallic clashes before his boat was hailed, and Lewrie's Cox'n, the “Black Irishman” Liam Desmond, had shouted back “Aye aye!” and held up four fingers to tell the men of the watch that the Captain was returning.

“Had enough tinkling, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked.

“Well, aye, sir,” Westcott said with a puzzled frown.

“Good. Stop the drill and stow the cutlasses away, then pipe Stations for getting under way,” Lewrie told him. “Once we're fully under sail and beyond Europa Point, we'll beat to Quarters, to boot.”

“At
once,
sir!” Westcott shouted with glee. “Ehm … where are we going? Is there a fight ahead?”

“We're ordered to scout Ceuta, and yes, there may be a fight,” Lewrie promised. “It'll be un-equal, of course, but we should survive it.”

Westcott was still puzzled, scowling fiercely, but inside he was pleased.

“Let's get those bloody awnings down!” Lewrie shouted.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

Out at sea, there was a decent amount of wind to carry
Sapphire
over towards Ceuta under fully-spread tops'ls, t'gallants, all of her stays'ls and jibs, with her main course brailed up against the risk of that great sail catching fire from the discharge of her own guns. It had been several months since the 50-gunned two-decker fired her broadsides in action, and Lewrie hoped that that hard-won efficiency and accuracy that his crew had developed, that his gunners had been able to concentrate against a shore fort under construction to the point that its foundations had been undermined, and concentrated so brutally in
Sapphire
's fight against two big Spanish frigates that had utterly disabled one and sunk the other, still existed, even if they were now a bit rusty.

“The ship is at Quarters, sir,” Lt. Westcott reported, sternly and formally, even doffing his hat in salute.

“Very good, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie replied with equal formality, and a doff of his own hat. “Do we have good, deep water with no obstructions, right up to within a mile of the fortress, Mister Yelland?” he asked, turning to the ship's Sailing Master.

“Within a mile, sir?” Yelland replied, sucking at his teeth. “Aye, sir, if you've a mind. Ten fathom right to the shore, except at the narrows, where it shoals to five.”

Lewrie nodded agreement, glad that they did not have to enter the chart room on the larboard side of the quarterdeck, for Yelland did not sponge himself as often as he should, nor did he change his small-clothes often, either. Yelland was an excellent Sailing Master, but by God did he reek!

“Mister Hillhouse, and Mister Fywell,” Lewrie called out to two of his Mids, one in his twenties, and the other still a lad. “I will admire did ye both place yourselves in the main mast fighting top and take a slate, or paper and pencil, with you. We're going to trail our colours before the Spanish bull, and see how he snorts. I want a count of guns in the fortress, t'see if they have more than the last time we got close to the place. A rough guess as to the respective calibres'd be welcome, too.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Hillhouse, the oldest, firmly replied. Fywell merely nodded with a wide-eyed gulp, for the fortress of Ceuta mounted artillery equal to 32-pounders and 42-pounders in British measure, and could range out to
three
miles. There already were some thin skeins of smoke rising within the fortress, where roundshot was being heated to red-hot in the furnaces. They
might
be cooking mid-day dinners, but…!

“Mister Westcott, you and I will be on the poop deck, where we can use our telescopes to spy out the other details,” Lewrie said.

“A grand place to catch a cool breeze, sir,” Westcott agreed, despite his understandable worry. This was damn-fool daft!

“I think we'll begin at three-miles' range, then slowly close to two miles, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie said, “and I'll trust you and trigonometry t'see to that. We'll not make it easy for them.”

“Aye, sir,” Yelland said with a throat-clearing
grumph.

“Just … tempting,” Lewrie added before mounting the larboard ladderway to the poop deck.

HMS
Sapphire
stood on, with the rocky heights and the fortress of Ceuta almost bows-on for some time, 'til the Sailing Master spoke up. “Three miles off, sir!”

“Very well. Hands to sheets and braces, and make her head Due East,” Lewrie ordered, and the Bosuns' calls piped the order, along with loud bawls from Bosun Terrell and his Mates, Nobbs and Plunkett. The helm was put over, and Ceuta swam from being obscured by the fore course and jibs to appear ahead of the bows off the starboard side.