Kings and Emperors

“Then would it come as a pleasant surprise to you, sir, that General Castaños is asking for help from Great Britain?” Sir Hew slowly said with a beamish grin on his face. “And, that if the French take Madrid, that there is a possibility that the new king, Ferdinand, may have to flee into exile, as did the royal court of Portugal, perhaps to here, at Gibraltar, or even to London?”

“My word, sir!” Mountjoy responded with a gasp as the implications of those events struck him; struck him dumb-founded, in point of fact. “That’d be … world-shaking! Spain would become our ally, at last, and Spain a battlefield.”

“Yayss,” Dalrymple drawled, “and that is why General Castaños is desirous of bringing the entire garrison of Ceuta over to Algeciras to supplement his own forces, as soon as possible. You told me that Marshal Murat already has officers in Algeciras and San Roque, scouting my defences. If Castaños fields an army against the French, there’s no possibility of the French besieging Gibraltar.”

“Ehm, a question,” Lewrie stuck in, his brow furrowed. “What sort of chance do the Dons stand against Napoleon’s Grand Army? Are they any good, or would they fold like the Austrians, over and over?”

“Well … ahem,” Dalrymple hemmed, clearing his throat, scowling heavily in Lewrie’s direction.

From the very first battles along the French frontier in 1793, the much-vaunted Austrian armies, the well-drilled Prussians, and in 1805 even the massive Russian armies, had been beaten like so many rugs. The French marched too quickly, scattered themselves in semi-autonomous divisions across too broad a front, with a knack of concentrating en masse at the vital point at the last minute and shattering everyone with their thick attack columns, supported by massed ca

“Mean t’say,” Lewrie blundered on, “does Spain have a general like Sir John Moore, someone the equal of Napoleon and his marshals? Have the Spanish really fought a big battle, the last fifty years or so, or waged a long campaign against anybody?”

“I would strongly imagine, Captain Lewrie, that the Spanish will require the assistance of a British army, perhaps several forces, to ah … stiffen them,” Dalrymple archly replied. “That would be simply grand!”

“Starting with Portugal,” Mountjoy said.

“Yes, Portugal first,” Dalrymple agreed. “Lord Castlereagh has written me that an expeditionary force is being assembled in England to be landed somewhere in Portugal, under a General Wellesley.”

“Not Sir John Moore?” Lewrie puzzled. “Who’s Wellesley when he’s up and dressed?”

“Tell you later,” Mountjoy whispered to Lewrie. Louder, he said, “I would much appreciate was I allowed full access to your correspondence with General Castaños, Sir Hew, and a chance to speak with Mister Viale the next time he returns from San Roque. In that way, I can assure you that all my humble facilities will aid you in this endeavour, to the hilt!”

“But of course, Mister Mountjoy,” Dalrymple beamed amiably, “and I am certain that both your, and my, informations to the Foreign Office, and Horse Guards, will go off on the very next mail packet.”

“Count on that, sir,” Mountjoy assured him.

“We are on the verge of a great change in world affairs, perhaps the begi

“Happy to oblige, Sir Hew,” Lewrie agreed, looking forward to an idle spell, hot baths, clean clothes, and some “All Nights In” with Maddalena Covilhā.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Damn my eyes, your news just keeps getting better and better!” Lewrie congratulated Mountjoy as they left the Convent. “Everything’s goin’ your way, and London will be very pleased with you.”

“Well, I can’t really claim that much credit,” Mountjoy said with seeming humility. “It’s not as if I goaded the French into invading, or the Spanish turning against old King Carlos. Those events were beyond my control, and I’m just riding in their wake. But, they are satisfying, even so. I ca

“Why? What’d I do?” Lewrie asked. “Because I couldn’t remember the Tumult of Oranges right?”

“Tumult of Aranjuez,” Mountjoy corrected.

“Sounds like oranges,” Lewrie japed.

“No, it’s when you questioned if the Spanish could face a French army, and if they had any decent generals,” Mountjoy told him as they strolled downhill to the main street. “From all I know of Castaños, he’s been a peacetime officer … never fought a battle in his life. The same as the Dowager, d’ye see, and that rankled Sir Hew, who has never participated in one, either.”

“Oops,” Lewrie replied, un-abashed.

“Mind you, Sir Hew dearly desires one,” Mountjoy went on. “He has dreams of martial glory, and a chance to fight and defeat French armies in the field may be within his reach.”

“What? Sir Hew? Don’t joke!” Lewrie heartily scoffed.

“Think of how our British Army chooses officers for their campaigns, sir,” Mountjoy cautioned. “Command always goes to the most senior man available, whether they’re any good or not. Dalrymple is senior to General Fox on Sicily, Sir Brent Spencer cooling his heels here at Gibraltar after the Ceuta siege went bust, even Sir John Moore who sailed home after the French took Lisbon. Horse Guards may promote Dalrymple to Commander-In-Chief for Portugal and Spain.”

“Christ, if they do, we’re just fucked!” Lewrie spat out loud. “Who in their rights minds’d … mean t’say, the Dowager must know his limitations, and leave the fieldwork to someone like Sir John Moore … wouldn’t he?”

“One would hope,” Mountjoy gloomily responded. “Care for some wine? Let’s pop into the Ten Tuns. Some celebratory champagne, if they have any.”

The Ten Tuns did not run to smuggled French champagne, though it did have some fine Italian pinot grigio just in from Genoa.

“So, who’s this Wellesley, then?” Lewrie asked again once he had half a glass inside.

“He’s a ‘Sepoy’ general, made his name in India against the Tippoo Sultan of Mysore, and then later the Maratha princes,” Mountjoy told him. “Of course, his brother, Lord Mornington, was Governor of India at the time, so you can imagine his rapid promotions, and rank nepotism, rankled his fellow officers. He and all his brothers adopted the name Wellesley, because it linked them to aristocracy on one side of the family. When all the Wellesleys left India, he got a knighthood, so he’s Sir Arthur Wellesley, and might have come off with over fourty thousand pounds,” Mountjoy chattily gossipped.

“A chicken-nabob’,” Lewrie said with a smirk. “Must not have been tryin’. A full ‘nabob’ comes home with over an hundred.”

“Don’t I wish!” Mountjoy said with a sigh. “Anyway, Sir Arthur and his family are Irish peers, don’t ye know, so they have to grub harder than English peers. He got elected to Parliament for a time, voting with Pitt, then Grenville, was Secretary-General for Ireland ’til Grenville lost office and Portland took over. He was in command at Copenhagen last year when we had to bombard the city to convince the Danes to surrender their fleet before Napoleon could get hold of it, and did the job very well, so … he’s in favour at the moment, and was fortunate that he and an army were at Cork, waiting to sail to take Venezuela from Spain. Ever heard of a Colonel Miranda?”