Hostile Shores

“God, I’m weak as a kitten,” Lewrie said through gritted teeth, freezing in place to let the pain subside. Westcott, Pettus, and young Jessop took him by the armpits and dragged him up, making things even worse, bad enough for Lewrie to growl at them.

“Your cocoa, sir,” Yeovill a

“Aye,” Lewrie agreed, once his leg quit screaming and merely ached. “Whew! The Commodore wants more troops, instanter, does he? Any idea what’s happening up at Buenos Aires?”

“Only what Captain Downman told me, sir, and it doesn’t sound all that good,” Westcott said, frowning as he sat back down. “Troops from the Montevideo garrison and local volunteers are getting over to Buenos Aires at night in fishing boats, in the shallows where Popham can’t get at them. He’s only Encounter and her boats and crew, and she can’t swim that high up the estuary. They’re joining up with volunteers under Sobremonte, the Viceroy of La Plata, and a man by name of Pueyrredón. There’s a Frenchman, Liniers, commanding them, too, and the Commodore’s sure that it’s all a nasty Napoleonic plot. General Beresford beat about fifteen hundred of them, but that was on the defensive, and he’s unable to chase them down and drive them off.

“The city isn’t safe at night, so all Beresford can do is to patrol,” Westcott growled, “maybe dig some entrenchments, and wait for the shoe to drop. It sounds rather grim, in all.”

“Popham still has five transports,” Lewrie said, frowning at that news. “If it’s that bad, he should pull Beresford’s men out, fall down to Point Quilmes, take ’em off the Cuello’s banks, and sail back to Montevideo, before he loses the whole lot.”

“And admit defeat, sir?” Westcott snickered. “Fail, and admit rashness and bad judgement, more to the point? After his glowing reports, and that open letter to the London merchants, I can’t see him withdrawing.”

“Here’s breakfast, sir!” Yeovill sang out, placing a plank over Lewrie’s lap to span the bed-cot, upon which was a plate of eggs and a basket of fritters. “You’ll be happy to know, sir, that Mister Mainwaring said you could take as much red wine as you wished, as it’s grand for building up the blood and your strength.”

“Whisky?” Lewrie hopefully asked.

“With sugar and raw eggs, and medicine, only at bed-time, he said, sir,” Yeovill informed him.

“Damn his eyes a second time,” Lewrie grumbled, taking a first, delicious bite of eggs and a fritter that dripped fairly fresh butter.

“He saved the bullet for you, sir. Interested?” Yeovill asked.

“Christ, no!” Lewrie barked. “That’s … ghoulish!”

“Nothing to be done for your breeches. sir,” Pettus told him, “but, if you don’t mind that the tail of your silk shirt is shorter, it’s quite serviceable.”

“It’ll be a while before I’ll need either, but thankee kindly, Pettus,” Lewrie said with a smile.

“We’ve still some of those fresh-casked Argentine beef steaks, sir,” Yeovill happily babbled on. “You’ll be ready for some of them in a week or so.”

“And, once we anchor at Cape Town, there’ll be all ma

“I hope I’m able t’totter, by then,” Lewrie said, “and not end up a gimp.”

“Well, time heals all wounds, sir,” Westcott teased, “both the physical and the wounds of the heart. Mister Mainwaring is sure that you’ll recover fully. He took great care, he said, to extract every thread of cloth, and a few wee slivers that the bullet nicked off your thigh bone. You just rest easy and take your time, sir, and we’ll have you dancing by the time we get to Table Bay!”

“Well, if Mister Mainwaring insists on bed-rest!” Lewrie said with another wide grin. “After all, the ship is in the best of hands.”

“Thank you for saying that, sir,” Westcott said, bowing his head for a moment. “Long naps, catch up on your reading, amuse your cat, and enjoy a sea voyage, sir, with nought to do but plan what you will do when we get back to England. At any rate, our part in Commodore Popham’s fiasco is over and done, and we’re well shot of all that.”

Lewrie’s jaw dropped as he peered owlishly at Westcott.

“Geoffrey … did you have t’say ‘well shot’?” he asked.

“Oh Lord, my pardons, sir, I—!”

Lewrie could keep his stern expression for only so long, then began to laugh out loud. “Well shot, mine arse! Hah!” which set Westcott to relieved nervous laughter, and amused the others, too.

Damme, but it hurts t’laugh so hard! Lewrie thought, wincing and yet unable to stop or calm his cackling.

“Yeovill, ye say I’m allowed red wine?” he asked. “Well, pour me a mug. I have it on the best authority that I’m well-shot, and prescribed it! I might even have earned it. Well-shot, my God!”

AFTERWORD

If there had been shrinks around in 1805–1806, they could have diagnosed the British people as schizophrenic, swinging from elation to despair in mere months, with nary a bottle of Valium in sight.

Since the end of the brief Peace of Amiens in the spring of 1803, they had lived in dread of a gigantic army which Napoleon Bonaparte, now the self-crowned Emperor of France, had assembled along the Cha

When Lewrie is still in the Bahamas, he had no way of knowing that the presence of Admiral Villeneuve’s massive fleet was not there to conquer anything in the Caribbean, but to lure off the Royal Navy so that that massive army and invasion fleet would meet little opposition during that “six hours of mastery of the English Cha

There was great elation at first, followed by woe that Nelson was gone, and there were no other senior naval officers of his fame and stature in the wings to take his place.

Since that climactic defeat, Napoleon Bonaparte might have been in need of some Xanax or Valium, too, after spending so much money on his invasion forces, and seeing his grand scheme dashed to pieces. It was rumoured that Bonaparte groused that Villeneuve had lost because “I ca

At any rate, what is a tyrant and conqueror to do after such a setback? Why, go bash his enemies in Europe, on the ground!

Austria was still a threat, itching to avenge itself upon the French for earlier embarrassments in the field since 1792, and could not abide that Napoleon had gone down to Italy and crowned himself the king of that patchwork land, where the Austrians thought that they ruled the roost. The young Alexander, Tsar of All the Russias, despised Napoleon, feared his ambitions, and personally wished Napoleon punished for the murder of the Duc de Angoulême, and when the British offered lashings of silver for every hundred thousand troops, he took the deal eagerly. Along with Austria and Russia, the Prussians—well, they were Prussians, of the same sort that brought the delights of World Wars One and Two, almost as militaristic and despotic as the French had become, and the money sounded sweet to them, too.