Kings and Emperors

HMS Sapphire entered Gibraltar Bay, firing off a salute to honour the Governor, Sir Hew Dalrymple, and proudly, to draw attention to herself and the four shabby prizes that trailed her to anchorages nearby the Old Mole. As soon as the ship was at rest, Midshipmen Hillhouse and Britton were sent ashore, each bearing reports to Dalrymple at the Convent, and to Thomas Mountjoy’s false-front offices further down the town. They had distinguished themselves in carrying the other two prize dhows and Lewrie felt that they were deserving of some recognition from senior officers, or even from a spy.

Lewrie had certainly drawn the town’s attention to himself and his ship. As his two-decker had ghosted past the Old Mole, he could lift a telescope and pick out the balcony which fronted his rented lodgings, and was delighted to see Maddalena there, smiling fit to bust, and waving a dish cloth in joy of his return.

He could not go ashore right away, though; he was forced to wait for a summons. Midshipman Britton returned aboard with a brief congratulatory note from Mountjoy. It took Midshipman Hillhouse longer to come back aboard. He had a note in his hand, as well.

“Message from General Dalrymple, sir,” Hillhouse reported with a doff of his hat, “and a request that you attend him at Army headquarters.”

“Very well, Mister Hillhouse, and thankee,” Lewrie replied. “I’ll take the boat you used. You’re senior in the Harbour Watch?”

“Aye, sir,” Hillhouse said.

“Carry on, then, and inform Mister Westcott that I will be ashore for some time,” Lewrie ordered, then bounded down to the waist and the opened starboard entry-port.

“All hands!” Hillhouse shouted. “Face aft, off hats! Captain is departing!”

*   *   *

“My stars, just what did you do, Captain Lewrie?” Dalrymple asked once Lewrie had entered the Convent and the coolness of Sir Hew’s spacious and high-cielinged offices. The old fellow was in good takings; there was a glass of wine offered at once.

“As I said in my report, sir, we put into Tetuán to see if the Dons provisioned there, discovered a brace of dhows loading food for the fortress, chased them down in the dark of night and took them, then repaired them far out to sea, and used them as Trojan Horses the next night. We sailed right up to the piers, boarded and carried two more, and set the last pair afire. The Spanish in Ceuta are now deprived of any means of obtaining food from Tetuán, unless they manage to sneak some vessels out of Algeciras to replace them.”

“Carried them out under fire from the fortress, did you?” Sir Hew goggled.

“It was a hot corner for a time, sir, but, once far enough out from Ceuta, they lost sight of us in the dark. I ca

“That’s what the Navy calls it, a ‘cutting-out’?” Dalrymple mused, with one quizzical (and thickly hairy) brow up. “Well, well, well! Took part, did you, Sir Alan?”

Here, that’s nice and chummy of him! Lewrie told himself, glad to hear it.

“Had to stay aboard my ship, Sir Hew,” Lewrie replied. “Have t’let the young’uns make a name for themselves. It rubs raw, but at some point, that’s the drawback of senior command. How else are they to gain notice, and promotion?”

“Exactly so, Sir Alan,” Dalrymple almost cooed. “Might you stay at headquarters for a time, sir? I’ve sent for our young ‘spy-master,’ Mister Mountjoy. There are doings ashore among the Spanish that I must discuss with him, and, now that you’ve reduced the rations of their troops in Ceuta, well … let us say that there are changes afoot.”

“I’d be delighted, Sir Hew,” Lewrie assured him, though he was mystified as to what part he and Sapphire might play. “I’ll wait in the hall ’til he arrives, then? Won’t take up more of your time ’til then.”

“If you’d be so kind, Sir Alan,” Dalrymple agreed.

*   *   *

There were some very comfortable upholstered chairs out in the hallway, where the thick walls of the Convent, the high cielings and tiled floors made a very cool, and quiet refuge; Lewrie almost nodded off before Mountjoy came breezing in with a jaunty step.

“Captain Lewrie, you rascal!” Mountjoy hooted. “You’ve been a mean boy to the Spanish again, haven’t you?”

“Hallo, Mountjoy,” Lewrie said, gri

“Haven’t a clue what he’s in mind … really!” Mountjoy said in response to Lewrie’s skeptical scowl. “If he’s been dabbling in my own ‘trade’ … honestly, it’d be news to me, too.”

One of Dalrymple’s aides-de-camp, a pink-cheeked young Lieutenant, came from the i

“Captain Lewrie, Mister Mountjoy? The General will see you, now,” he said in a thin, high voice.

“Ah, gentlemen, thank you for attending me,” Dalrymple effusively said, “and for your patience waiting, Sir Alan. Tea?” he asked as he waved them toward chairs in front of his desk.

A silver tea service and a set of Delft cups and saucers were close at hand on a campaign table. Dalrymple played “Mother,” pouring cups for all, and stirring in the desired sugar and lemon or cream. He looked very pleased, almost playful, as he sat down again behind his desk and took a sip before begi

“Mister Mountjoy, are you aware of a certain distinguished Gibraltarian gentleman, a Mister Emmanuel Viale?” Dalrymple asked, with the air of knowing something that Mountjoy did not, and more than happy to enlighten his ignorance.

That’s the biter bit, Lewrie thought. Usually, it was the game that Mountjoy played on him!

“Only that he’s large in the grain trade, sir,” Mountjoy had to confess, “and an un-official leader of the local business community.”

“Spanish, of course,” Dalrymple said with a pleased nod, much like an Oxford Don’s response to a student’s right answer. “But, you have had no dealings with him, even through your, ah … trading concern?”

“A false-front, Sir Hew, as well you know,” Mountjoy replied, squirming in his chair a tad to have to admit that fact.

“Mister Viale requested a pass to cross the Lines to manage a business matter in San Roque,” Dalrymple went on, “and has just come back, bearing a letter from General Castaños to me. The General wishes to re-open our formerly cordial correspondence, and for Viale to be his emissary.”

“Indeed, sir?” Mountjoy said, perking up at that, though cautiously avoiding too much excitement.

“The recent abdication of King Carlos, the crowning of Ferdinand, and the French … well, call it what it is, a callous invasion of an allied nation, has General Castaños and his contemporaries in a stew,” Dalrymple explained. “He alludes to military and civil authorities in Catalonia, Aragon, and Valencia who have written him with a call to raise an army of one hundred and fifty thousand men, asking him if his forces will join them, and if they can count on Andalusia, as well. Your ah, agents in Spain, Mister Mountjoy … how much have they heard of the sentiments of the Spanish people?”

“Ah, the Tumult of … wherever it was,” Lewrie popped out. Both men stared at him, almost making him blush. “Well, there must be others, what?”

“The news of the new king, the French armies marching South to Madrid, has only just now begun to filter down to Andalusia, as idle rumours, sir,” Mountjoy said, returning his attention to Dalrymple. “In some instances, it has been my people who’ve spread the news, but I ca