Kings and Emperors (5 page)

A long five minutes passed as
Sapphire
surged along at seven knots, three miles off from the fortress, with nothing happening.

“What, are they asleep?” Lt. Westcott japed, eager for something to happen, even if it would be dire.

“Wish I'd thought t'fetch Mountjoy's astronomical telescope,” Lewrie said, lowering his day-glass in frustration. “I can make out troops on the parapets, sure enough, but evidently they're not tempted yet. Mister Yelland? Alter course and close to two miles' range, if you please, then bring her back to Due East.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

Once more,
Sapphire
swung shoreward, gathering a little speed as she took the winds more on her larboard quarters, then swung back East. “Two miles, sir!” Yelland reported from the quarterdeck below Lewrie's position.

“Very well, carry on,” Lewrie called back, sensing his ship's loss of speed as she took the winds more abeam. He was still getting used to plodding, after years in sloops of war and swift frigates, and
Sapphire,
like all her sister Fourth Rates, definitely plodded!

“Gunfire, sir!” Midshipman Hillhouse shouted down from the main mast fighting top. “The Spanish have opened upon us!”

“Now, that's more like it,” Lewrie said with a satisfied grin.

“The things we do for King and Country,” Lt. Westcott said.

The fortress of Ceuta slowly erupted in flashes of flame from the muzzles of her guns, and large yellowish-grey clouds of gunpowder. It was seconds later that anyone aboard
Sapphire
could hear the explosions, and long seconds later before massive solid iron roundshot came moaning and droning towards the ship. The Spanish were in no hurry, for Ceuta's guns tolled down the length of its northern face as slow and steady as a metronome, or a salute fired to honour an incoming ship. Far ahead of
Sapphire
's bows, far astern, and between Ceuta and
Sapphire,
the shot smacked into the sea, still travelling nigh to eight hundred feet per second, raising great, crystalline pillars and feathers of spray and foam that took forever to collapse upon themselves, and Lewrie thought that they looked quite pretty … so long as they were well wide, or well short!

One ball skipped from First Graze, dapping to Second Graze, and finally sank about a cable's distance to starboard. The fortress's guns were mounted so much higher than the ship that grazing, skipping shot was a rarity, much more common between ships in combat whose guns were much on the same level. The bulk of the Spanish fire came in a descending arc, which created those immense pillars of spray.

Whee-ooh!
First one, then another heavy roundshot moaned overhead to strike the sea beyond
Sapphire,
higher-pitched as they approached, then going
basso
as they soared high over the mast trucks and sailed out to sea.

“Those'll be the big bastards, their version of forty-two-pounders,” Lewrie commented. “Still like the cool breeze, Geoffrey?”

“It's getting hotter,” Westcott replied. “Well, warm-ish.”

“Just so they don't glow red,” Lewrie said, lifting his telescope once more. “Is that everything, East to West, from all their embrasures and the upper parapet, d'ye think?”

“Hmm, it seems to be,” Westcott agreed with his own telescope up to his right eye. “Those last shots came from the Eastern end of the fort.”

“Mister Yelland, alter course to loo'rd, put us on the wind and get back to three miles' range,” Lewrie ordered. “We'll try the East face, next, once we're beyond the point.”

“Aye
aye,
sir!” Yelland shot back, quickly issuing the orders to the helmsmen and hands on the sail-tending gangways. He sounded relieved.

Ceuta's gunners had adjusted their aim, and their elevations, and the North face of the fortress tolled again, lashing the sea with shot, but
Sapphire
's turn to seaward frustrated them. Their 24-pounders and 32-pounders struck well short, and it was only a few of the massive 42-pounders 'roundshot that came anywhere close, but they all missed.

“It doesn't look as if they've had much practice, recently,” Lewrie said with a hopeful note in his voice.

“Good Lord, who'd dare
give
them any, sir?” Westcott muttered. “We just
might
be doing them a favour, damn their eyes.”

A last 42-pounder shot plunged into the sea roughly amidships of
Sapphire
's length and only a long musket-shot off, throwing up so much spray that the starboard side was drenched, and everyone could hear a quick hiss and see a gust of steam as it sank. Heated shot!

“A bit more than three miles off now, sir,” Yelland reported. “Shall we come back to Due East?”

“Aye, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie agreed, noting that the man was fetching his hat from the deck and plopping it back on his wet hair.

The man's had a bath, whether he wanted it or not,
Lewrie told himself with a hidden smile.

*   *   *

They turned South once the ship was three miles beyond the end of the peninsula on which Ceuta was sited, and played their dangerous game down the fortress's East face, ducking in and out of range on a “drunkard's walk” of course alterations, counting the guns fired at them. Lewrie imagined that the Spanish would refuse to co-operate and not be drawn, after a while, seeing the game for what it really was, and loath to waste powder and shot, but, evidently the officer commanding Ceuta thought that he was in need of a live target and practice, or his touchy Spanish pride was pricked too sore, for when
Sapphire
turned Sou'west to run in towards the North African coast within two miles of shore, the South face opened upon her, too. After a quick count of the guns in the lower embrasures and the open-air parapets above, Lewrie finally, and secretly much relieved that his ship had not taken any damage, ordered
Sapphire
to turn South and sail away out of range, halfway to the Moroccan port of Tetuán before wheeling seaward to round the Ceuta peninsula by a wide berth.

“Secure from Quarters, Mister Westcott, and I hope the hands weren't too bored,” Lewrie said, “standin' round the better part of the day with not a shot fired.”

“Oh, I think they'll not mind too much, since there was nothing our guns could've done, even had we gone within a mile or less,” Lieutenant Westcott replied. “Ceuta's a right formidable bastard.”

“Aye, it is,” Lewrie agreed as they descended to the quarterdeck, “and I don't envy anyone who trades fire with it, or tries to take it. The West face, the main gate, and where any besiegers would have t'set up, that's a
killin'
ground. Dalrymple's daft to try.”

“If our Navy can keep the French from getting in there, and it can be blockaded proper, maybe Ceuta could be left to wither on the vine,” Westcott decided, “as you told me what you and Mountjoy spoke of. If the French
do
get a fleet of transports in there and join up with the Spanish garrison, the only shelter from bad weather is on the Southern side, near the landing places, and even that's wide open to a bad blow.”

“Might not have good holding ground, the same as Gibraltar,” Lewrie agreed.

“And, if the mountain, and the fortress, disturb the winds as badly as Gibraltar does, sir, anyone anchored there for any time may suffer a clear-weather gust and end on their beam-ends, the same as happens at the Rock!” Westcott exclaimed.

Gibraltar Bay, from the Old Mole to the New Mole, was littered with the wrecks of ships caught un-awares, and driven ashore onto the rocks as their anchors dragged due to the strong, fluky winds.

“Ah, Mister Hillhouse,” Lewrie said, acknowledging the Mids as they came to the quarterdeck. “What's the count?”

“Formidable, sir,” Hillhouse reported; there was the word, again. “We counted over one hundred fifty guns, altogether, those that fired upon us, and lighter twenty-four-pounders on the upper parapets that could not range us. Fywell's made a sketch—”

“I draw quite well, sir,” Fywell piped up, “or so my tutors told me,” he added with a blush.

“Indeed you do, young sir,” Lewrie congratulated him as he was handed a set of sketches of all three sides of the fortress which had engaged them, and a fourth—sideways view—of the West face and entry gates and the ground at the neck of the peninsula where an army would have to camp, along with the structures along the landing place.

“Sir Hew Dalrymple will be happy to have these, Mister Fywell, and if you hope to advance, would you please put your name on them in a prominent manner? Good,” Lewrie bade him. “He might mention you in despatches. I don't know how many guns Ceuta had before, but we have rumours that it's been re-enforced, and someone will know the original number. Thank you both, you've done good service.”

“Ehm, thank you, sir!”

“We won't be going back to harbour, will we, sir?” Fywell had to ask. “Not right away?”

“Been anchored so long, sir, we've nigh lost our ‘sea legs,'” Hillhouse added.

“No,” Lewrie decided of a sudden. “We'll stand off-and-on for the night, and see what the morrow brings. Carry on, sirs.”

“Enjoy,” Lt. Westcott added.

“Mister Yelland?” Lewrie called out.

“Still here, sir,” that worthy grunted in reply.

“Let's take a look at your charts, sir,” Lewrie said. “Let's see if we can discover where our soldiers could land and encamp.”

“Aye, sir,” Yelland said, heading for the larboard chart room.

Lewrie steeled himself for the stink.

It was late in the day, in the middle of the First Dog Watch, and Yelland lit a candle to see by. They pored over the chart for some time, but neither of them could admit to the slightest clue as to where Dalrymple thought to land his army.

“It looks to me, sir, that the coast is too much bluffs and too little beach,” Yelland said, scratching his chin. “The North shore is too open to weather, and the South's not much better. Maybe they could go ashore far South of Ceuta, and march there.”

“What's this little place?” Lewrie asked, pointing to a mote on the chart. “The Isla de … Perejil. What's a
perejil
? It's Spanish, but I wonder if it means something in Arabic.”

“I think it means ‘Parsley,' sir,” Yelland supplied. “Parsley Island. Spanish, for certain.”

“D'ye think parsley really grows there?” Lewrie asked.

“Haven't a clue, sir. If it does, some fresh, green parsley would be welcome,” Yelland said with a deep chuckle.

“We'll stand off-and-on through the night, but in the morning, I want to take a look at Parsley Island before we head back to Gibraltar.”

“Very good, sir,” Yelland said, blowing out the candle.

Being out in the fresh, cool air again was very welcome, as was Lewrie's joyful greeting from Bisquit, who'd been down on the orlop and shivering in fear. Whenever
Sapphire
went to Quarters, the poor dog no longer needed someone to lead him below to dubious safety; he dashed down the steep ladderways on his own. Now he was prancing on his hind legs, front paws and head on Lewrie's chest, and his bushy tail a'wag, making happy little whines.

“Good boy! Want a sausage?” Lewrie cooed. Bisquit did!

 

CHAPTER FIVE

HMS
Sapphire
ghosted her way to Parsley Island just after dawn the next morning under tops'ls and jibs, with leadsmen in the foremast chain platforms sounding for the shallows. The only charts available were copies of very old Spanish charts—make that
ancient
Spanish charts—borrowed from the dockyard superintendent. Certainly, no Arabic seamen had made surveys or soundings in the time when the Moors held Spain, Portugal, or North Africa, and made their corsair voyages on “fishermen's lore.” To make sure that the ship did not strike some submerged rock or shoal, one of the twenty-five-foot cutters led
Sapphire
by several hundred yards, under a lugsail, with two leadsmen in her bows, as well, and armed with a swivel gun to be fired should they run into any measure less than five fathoms. So far all was well.

“We're really looking for parsley, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked between yawns. “It looks a damned dry place, to me.”

“I did a little fiddling over the charts last night,” Lewrie told him, “and it appears that this little island
might
not be visible from Ceuta … straight-line ruler, bulge of the mountains 'twixt here and there? But, still close enough to Ceuta to be able to take any approaching Spanish or French ship under fire, if there's any way t'mount guns ashore.”

“If there's any way to
get
guns ashore, sir,” Westcott countered. “It looks damned steep.”

The island was not all that big, really, and it put Lewrie in mind of a half-sunk scone, with bald rock cliffs all across the side that they were approaching. Atop of its ragged, erose surface there were hints of desert-like scrub and sere grass, but there didn't seem a way up to the top.
Africa, North Africa,
he thought;
who'd want it?

“Eight fathom! Eight fathom t'this line!” a leadsman wailed.

Sapphire
drew nigh twenty feet right aft, slightly less at the bows, so he considered the going safe for a time more, but the best bower anchor was ready to be let go should the men in the chains call out five fathoms, crewmen stood by to seize upon the sheets and braces, and a pair of experienced helmsmen were prepared to put the ship about into the wind in a twinkling.

“The cutter is showing numeral flag Six, sir!” Midshipman Griffin shouted aft from the forecastle.

“We're about half a mile off the island now, sir,” the Sailing Master, Mister Yelland, reported, after a quick peek with his sextant and some figuring on a chalk slate.