Hostile Shores

“Naturally, Capitáo Lewrie, all of Funchal took notice of your arrival in port,” Gilbao began as he tinkled a china bell for service. “As for Madeira being the assembly point for Commodore Popham, it was determined that the actual presence of his squadron, and his transport convoy, in harbour could be taken as a violation of Portuguese neutrality … a violation on our part of our own neutrality to the French. For that reason … reasons, rather … Commodore Popham only cruised close offshore as his transports arrived in dribs and drabs.”

“Oh Lord,” Lewrie groaned, sitting up straighter. “My bringin’ my ships into port could be deemed a violation, too? No one at Admiralty said a single word about that!”

To Lewrie’s relief, Gilbao threw back his head and laughed out loud, then looked at him with a merry grin.

“My dear Capitáo, could such a generous and hospitable people as we Portuguese deny mariners in need of succour entrée to our ports for firewood and water?” Gilbao amusedly posed. “As far as I can see, you have no hostile designs upon Funchal, or the Azores, you do not seem to be acting in any threatening ma

“When I called at Charleston, South Carolina, in the Spring, I got chapter and verse in high dudgeon from the French Consul there,” Lewrie told him. “Sail out within three days, or else … wait weeks before entering another American port … can’t lurk offshore beyond the Three Mile Limit?”

“The French once had a Consular representative here, but when the war began again in 1803, they ceased to pay him, so he resigned the office,” Gilbao said. “Ah! Concepcion! Will you have tea, or wine, senhor? From Lisbon, I recently received a cask of a splendid wine, very light, a touch sweet, and of a remarkable pale yellow tint. Most refreshing!”

“I will try the wine, upon your recommendation,” Lewrie said, secretly ogling the maid, who was casting shy eyes at him as Gilbao ordered wine for both.

“In point of fact, Capitáo Lewrie,” Gilbao went on as the maid departed to fetch the wine, “the English and the Portuguese people have always enjoyed the most amicable and mutually agreeable relations, in diplomacy, and in trade. We are a small nation, smaller than the British Isles, but have never possessed the large armies such as these of the French, or the Spanish in the old days. Neither did we ever have large fleets, not even approaching those of the Dutch, the Swedes, or the Danes. There is a general assumption that should any other power attempt to seize our colonies, even Brazil, or invade Portugal itself, our good friends the English would side with us, and come to our aid.”

“If only to have another good bash at the Frogs and the Dons,” Lewrie agreed with a laugh. “I am mortal-certain that did the French try to conquer Portugal, we’d be in it in an instant.”

Lewrie had never actually been to Portugal, but his father, Sir Hugo, had. Portugal was the only place that British debtors could run before their creditors could nab them and throw them into prison! Lewrie suspected that that was why the wine, port, and spirits trade had arisen in the long-agos; all those bankrupt British scoff-laws on their “skint bottoms” in need of a job, and quick profits! Why, most of the port in the world bore English brand names!

“You enquire about the whereabouts of Commodore Popham and his expedition, senhor?” Gilbao said. “He is bound for another Portuguese port on the coast of Africa, San Salvador.”

Lewrie had to shrug in ignorance; he’d never heard of it.

“It also is Portuguese,” Gilbao said with an airy wave of his hand, as if that was of no matter. “Any chandler in Funchal may sell you charts, including approaches and safe anchorages. It is a minor, out of the way place, you see? Of no interest to anyone.”

Meanin’, no enemy consuls t’spy Popham’s presence out, Lewrie told himself; Out of sight, and out of mind. Put in, load firewood and water, then out again before anyone notices. That’s real hospitable of the Portuguese!

While waiting for the promised wine, Gilbao told Lewrie of how his family had settled in the Azores in the 1600s, and of how charming and delightful the climate was. Yes, the house was old, but they had the wealth to keep it up. Several generations lived in it, along with his own wife and growing family, and Lewrie had to compliment him on its grandeur, noting how Greco-Roman or Mediterranean it was.

Concepcion entered the offices, at last, with a silver tray and icing bucket, in which stood the bottle, and two crystal glasses. She set it down between them on the low table and poured.

“Iced!” Lewrie exclaimed in pleasure.

“Sweden is good for something, Senhor Lewrie,” Gilbao laughed, “though I ca

“Ehm … what victory?” Lewrie had to ask, his glass held a few inches below his mouth.

“Why, Admiral Nelson’s victory over the combined French and Spanish fleets, senhor! You do not know of it?” Gilbao exclaimed. He all but slapped his forehead. “But of course, you must have left England before the news could arrive, and have been at sea, out of touch with anyone. My pardons for presuming.”

“Tell me of it … once we sample this wine,” Lewrie urged.

“To victory!” Gilbao responded, allowing them to drink deeply. It was a heavenly white wine, light, flower-scented, and with hints of the slightest sweetness, much like a German Riesling.

“That is good,” Lewrie agreed, almost smacking his lips.

“The newspapers from Lisbon and Oporto arrived only three days ago,” Gilbao informed him, “both in Portuguese, and the mercantile papers printed in English for the many expatriates. I have a copy of the mercantile paper, if you would like to read it. Or, take it with you to your ship.”

“You are most gracious, Senhor Gilbao, thank you,” Lewrie told him with a smile and a seated bow as Gilbao finished his wine, then rose to cross to his desk to shuffle through a neat pile of correspondence to fetch the newspaper.

“I must warn you that not all the news is good, senhor,” Gilbao said as he returned and handed the paper to Lewrie. “The French and Spanish lost at least twenty ships, but … the gallant Admiral Nelson sadly perished.”

“Nelson? Dead?” Lewrie exclaimed, dropping his hand and the newspaper to his lap in shock.

“Shot down by a French Marine in the fighting tops and taken below to the surgeons, who could do nothing for him,” Gilbao said with a sombre tone, shaking his head in sorrow as he sat back down to pour them top-ups.

“The little minikin,” Lewrie muttered, shaking his own head. “He always did say, ‘Death or Glory’ … ‘Victory or Westminster Abbey’. At Cape Saint Vincent, he ordered me to join him in facing the entire Spanish van, just his sixty-four and my sloop of war. ‘Follow me, Lewrie,’ he yelled. ‘We’re bound for glory!’ I suppose he’s got his spot in Westminster Abbey, at last.”

“You knew him, senhor?” Gilbao marvelled. “You must tell me all of what you know of such a hero.”

“I did not know him well, sir,” Lewrie said in preface, cautioning Gilbao that he could not relate all that much—quite unlike the supper ball at Nassau—and heaving a small shrug. “We ran across each other several times, but he was always senior to me, and I doubt if I mattered to him. I was not in his intimate circle.”

And, I’ll not mention Emma Hamilton unless he asks, I won’t say a word about how vainglorious he was, or how pettish he could be, either, Lewrie chid himself.