Kings and Emperors (9 page)

“My, sir … so morose of a sudden,” Mountjoy said.

“So bored,” Lewrie amended, “and daunted by the prospects. Is there anything in your line that needs doing?”

“Can't think of anything off-hand,” Mountjoy told him. “And for now, Sir Hew needs you off Ceuta. You know … the duty you invented for yourself to avoid the gunboat squadron?”

“Ouch!” Lewrie spat, going for the champagne bottle.

“Now, how far afield you carry that task, that may be up to you,” Mountjoy suggested with a sly wink. “You never know, Sir Hew may send you to Tetuán to fetch the garrison an hundred head of cattle.”

What that filth would do to his ship didn't bear thinking about; there'd be cow piss dripping onto the mess tables and hammocks of the upper gun-deck for days, and cow pats piling up as high as the weather deck gun-ports!

“Tetuán, hmm,” Lewrie mused aloud. “Ye know, I've not been to that port, yet. It might be a good idea t'make myself familiar with it.”

“Well, if you like slave-markets, and insults 'cause you're an infidel, perhaps,” Mountjoy chortled. “If you ain't a Muslim, you'll get the evil eye from one and all, even if they like your money.”

“Not much by way of melons, grapes, or vegetables this time of year,” Lewrie mused some more, “but surely they'd still have grain in storage … wheat, millet, that
couscous
? Sheep, goats, cattle, hmm.”

“What are you thinking?” Mountjoy asked, puzzled by the sudden change in Lewrie's mood from despondent to scheming-impish.

“They trade with anyone, right? Even the Spanish if they've solid coin?” Lewrie asked.

“Well, yes, but—,” Mountjoy replied.

“Sir Hew's convinced that Ceuta's been re-enforced, with more guns, and at least two new regiments of troops,” Lewrie said. “That means more gunners, more mouths to feed. I don't know how much they had in their stores before the re-enforcements, but I doubt that the ships that sneaked them there, from Algeciras, Tarifa, or Malaga, can keep 'em fed. They can't sneak in a second time! It's what, only ten miles by sea from Tetuán to Ceuta? Where
else
can the Dons get their provisions? I think I'll wander a bit more far afield, as you said.”

“I stand amazed, Captain Lewrie,” Mountjoy announced, standing up and bowing to him with his arms widespread. “Utter boredom inspires and awakens your slyness!”

“Sly? Me?” Lewrie scoffed, goggling at him.

“Or do you prefer … low cunning?” Mountjoy teased.

“I'll call it curiosity t'begin with,” Lewrie said, laughing, “and if that leads to a little adventure—a successful adventure, mind—I may settle for the low cunning, later.”

“We must open another bottle of champagne,” Mountjoy decided, turning his upside down to see one lone drop dribble out, frowning in disappointment.

Aye, drunk as a lord in an hour,
Lewrie judged him;
as drunk as an emperor by the afternoon.
Lewrie figured that Mountjoy had earned himself a good drunk, after a year or more of scheming, planning, disappointments, and set-backs. The spy trade didn't allow all that many successes, and the few had to be savoured and celebrated, one way or another.

“You'll have t'drink without me, sorry,” Lewrie told him as he got to his feet and fetched his hat. He did drain his glass of champagne to “heel-taps,” though. “I think I'll ramble down to Maddalena's to see if she'd like to dine out.”

“I see,” Mountjoy said, sniggering. “I celebrate my way, and you will celebrate your own way.”

“Something like that, indeed!” Lewrie told him, grinning.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Boat-work, I see, sir,” Lieutenant Harcourt, the ship's Second Officer, said, leaning over an old chart on Lewrie's desk in his day-cabins.

“We draw too much water to go right to the docks,” Lewrie told him, tapping the chart with a pencil stub. “Tetuán's a full two miles inland, up this long inlet, which is also too narrow for us. I asked round ashore with various merchants, and they all said it's best to anchor off the mouth of the inlet and send boats in, or a single boat to place orders with the Moroccan traders, and wait for them to barge the goods out. They're used to British ships putting in to purchase foodstuffs, so your presence won't seem remarkable. I wish you to accompany Mister Cadrick, the Purser, who'll buy flour and
couscous,
to give us a good reason to be there, but … I want you to keep a sharp eye out for any Spanish buyers, any boats along the quays, to see if the Dons cooped up in the fortress of Ceuta use Tetuán as a source for provisions. With all those new arrivals, they're sure to be on short-commons, and need food from somewhere.”

“I'm to ‘smoak' them out, sir? Aye, I see,” Harcourt agreed.

“All the men in your boat party will be armed, just in case,” Lewrie went on, “but the last thing I wish is swaggerin', so keep the men close, and the arms out of sight unless they're
really
needed. I don't have to mention that there's no drink to be had in an Arabic port, so the people in your party must be warned about that. I don't know what Arabs think about whorin', so you'll have to caution them on that head, too. Once Mister Cadrick's business is done, come back out to the ship, making it appear to be business as usual, with your report. Who will you have?”

“Able Seaman Crawley and his old boat crew, sir, and one of the cutters,” Harcourt decided quickly, playing old favourites from the ship's former Captain's days.

“Take Midshipman Fywell along,” Lewrie told him before Harcourt could request his ally, Midshipman Hillhouse. “He draws well, and art work could be useful.”

“Aye, sir,” Harcourt agreed, but that was rote obedience.

“The Moroccans have no way to enforce the accepted Three Mile Limit, so once we round Ceuta and come to anchor off Tetuán, we will do so one mile off the mouth of the inlet, where most of our traders and warships do. As I said, business as usual, and no one suspecting what we're really about.

“We'll also take a peek at the dock area on the South end of the neck of land below Ceuta, to see if they've any vessels there,” Lewrie continued. “If there are, there may be more boat-work, a cutting-out raid in the dark of night, but that's for later. Right?”

“Right, sir,” Harcourt said. “And thank you for the duty, sir.”

“Good. Go brief your chosen hands, and we'll be about it,” Lewrie told him in conclusion, and dismissal. He lingered after the Second Officer had left the great-cabins, studying the chart for a bit longer, noting that close inshore of the Moroccan coast 'twixt Ceuta and Tetuán there were soundings indicating six or seven fathoms. If
Sapphire
had to chase Spanish coasters into those waters, there would be no refuge for them; his ship could still swim in there!

Satisfied at last, he rolled up the chart, grabbed his hat, and went out to the quarterdeck and the larboard-side chart room to place it back in a slot, then went to the helm, the compass binnacle cabinet to take a peek. At last, he ascended to the poop deck for a long look about.

Sapphire
was two miles Sou'east of Gibraltar's Europa Point, on her way to Ceuta once again. She ploughed along at a slow five or six knots under tops'ls, fore course, spanker, and jibs. There was no rush to cross the Strait; it was only twelve miles to the fortress.

Now that Spring had arrived, he found the seas and winds mild and pleasant, the skies bright blue, with no ochre clouds of dust in the air from the Sahara for a change. In high Summer, and even in the Winter when the winds howled out of North Africa, the remnants of dust and sand storms cut visibility to almost nothing, and left
Sapphire
strewn with gritty dust that got into the food and water.

God, who'd live in such country,
Lewrie thought;
Unless they have nowhere else to go.

He'd been to many foreign places during his long naval career, some of them exotic, some dismal, and always got a strong longing for the ordered gentleness of England. He'd even tolerate the rain, if it made the countryside greener!

“Yar, dog, 'at's filthy,” a sailor in the After-Guard griped. “
I
won't throw it for ye, fer all th' rum in th' Indies!”

Disconsolate, Bisquit picked up his oldest plaything, a rabbit hide stuffed with wool batt. Half the hair was missing, by now, and Bisquit had mouthed it so long that it was permanently slimy. With a faint hope, he padded to Lewrie's side and made some pleading whines.

“Alright, alright,” Lewrie said, ruffling the dog's fur, and taking the damned thing from his mouth, which set Bisquit to prancing. He threw it aft, and off the dog dashed to pounce on it, give it some shakes, then trotted back to drop it at Lewrie's feet. A feint left and right, and Lewrie hurled it again, right to the taffrail flag lockers, resulting in another mad dash. That game went on for five minutes before Bisquit's tongue was lolling.

At least
somebody's
gettin' some exercise,
Lewrie thought, glad that the game was over. He wiped his hands on a handkerchief and left the toy on the deck. “Thirsty, Bisquit? I'll bet you are. Let's go down to the scuttle-butt.”

Bisquit followed Lewrie down to the quarterdeck, then to the waist, where Lewrie used the long dipper to pour water into his hand so the dog could lap. He knew he was making a comical spectacle of himself, but he didn't care; Bisquit needed a drink.

*   *   *

Sapphire
rounded Ceuta and the fortress's guns by four miles, just out of gun-range, to frustrate the Spaniards, then shaped course for Tetuán. She came to anchor a mile off the mouth of the inlet in six fathoms of water. Bosun Terrell took one cutter to row round the ship to see that all the yards were squared, and all the running rigging was set at the right angles, with no lubberly slackness. The other cutter set out for the inlet, first under a single lugs'l, and later oars once they entered the long slash of an inlet, hacked out of the dry hills to either side by centuries of fresh water from some inland river. Just off Tetuán's quays, the waters would be brackish, but that small stream of fresh water had guaranteed Tetuán's existence for all those centuries.

“It seems we have the anchorage to ourselves, sir,” Westcott idly commented as they strolled the quarterdeck. “There's no one else in sight. No Spanish merchantmen, certainly.”

“They need grain, they get it smuggled out of Gibraltar by any
number
of traders who'd oblige 'em,” Lewrie cynically said. “Spies on the side, who knows? Sir Hew Dalrymple has a bee under his bonnet, sure that there's mutiny or civilian revolt just waitin' to explode. For all I know, he may be right. Keeps him up, nights.”

“Like a Trojan Horse?” Lt. Westcott scoffed. “Up against the Rock's garrison? Sounds iffy to me.”

Lewrie picked up a telescope from the binnacle cabinet rack and went to the quarterdeck's landward side to peer shoreward. “Hmm, there's some shallow-draught boats of decent size up the inlet, just off the quays, it appears. Arabic, I think. Lots of lateen sails furled up round their booms.
Feluccas,
or
dhows
? Here, have a look for yourself, Mister Westcott.”

“Hmm,” Westcott dared to speculate after a good, long look of his own. “There's one almost big enough to make me suspect that it's a Barbary Corsair's pirate craft. It's hard to tell any more, they've so many captured brigs, schooners, and such, but a big lateener would be fast enough to run down a prize. The rest? We'll know once the cutter's back. If she is a Corsair, we should keep an eye on her, too, sir. Just 'cause we pay tribute for safe passage doesn't mean we can't have a go at one of them if we catch them red-handed.”

“At least the Americans had the will to take them on and end
their
paying tribute,” Lewrie said, enviously. “Christ, one'd think that with our Navy so big, we could spare a squadron of brig-sloops to put an end to North African piracy, once and for all.”

“Now, there's a duty I'd relish,” Westcott said with some heat. He bared his teeth briefly in one of his quick, savage grins, looking positively wolfish.

“I think I'll go aft and have a well-needed nap, perhaps play with Chalky,” Lewrie decided aloud. “The weather's fair, there's no threat in sight, and the Mids of the Harbour Watch can cope.”

“I may emulate you, sir,” Westcott said.

“Later, Mister Westcott. Alert me when the cutter's back.”

“Aye, sir.”

*   *   *

His cat had been in need of a bout of play, too, a full half-hour of chasing and pouncing and leaping after a champagne cork on a length of twine, 'til he was panting. And when Lewrie stretched out on the settee, Chalky settled down on his chest for pets and praise 'til he slunk down to one side of Lewrie's leg for a well-earned nap of his own. Pettus, his cabin steward, and Jessop, the cabin servant, did their puttering about the cabins quietly, to allow Lewrie perfect rest, at least an hour's worth before there was the rap and shout from the Marine sentry.

“Midshipman Harvey, SAH!” the sentry bawled.

“Uhmph … enter!” Lewrie called back, sitting up and getting to his feet.

“The First Officer's duty, sir, and I am to inform you that the cutter is returning,” Harvey reported.

“My compliments to Mister Westcott, and I will be on deck, directly,” Lewrie replied. A quick trip to his wash-hand stand for some splashes of water on his face, and a quick drink and rinse, and he was awake and headed for the quarterdeck, impatiently waiting for the boat to come alongside, and for Lieutenant Harcourt and Midshipman Fywell to come and report.