Kings and Emperors

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And so went the rest of April and early May of 1808; calling at Parsley Island, now garrisoned and equipped with batteries of 24-pounder ca

It came as a great relief one morning, just after Sapphire was gotten under way, when a small boat came dashing cross the Strait in her direction. Someone aboard the boat had jury-rigged a short staff ahead of her fores’l upon which she flew a British boat jack.

Lewrie abandoned a fine breakfast to go on deck to await the boat’s arrival, leaving his coat and hat in his cabins in curiosity.

“A request for our services from General Dalrymple, might we imagine, sir?” Lt. Westcott said with a hint of eager hope.

“Be careful what ye wish for, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie japed. “It could be your tailor sending a demand for immediate payment.”

The last time Lieutenant Westcott came back aboard from a jaunt ashore, he’d been sporting a new coat and waist-coat, with a parcel of new shirts and breeches.

The boat crossed Sapphire’s stern and surged up alongside of her starboard side, her bow man hooking onto the main-chain platform with a gaff. There was an Army Lieutenant in the boat, one whom Lewrie recognised; the same young pink-cheeked lad he’d seen attending at Dalrymple’s offices.

“God, the lubber can’t figure out how to scale the side,” Lieutenant Harcourt said with a snicker.

The Army officer had one booted foot on the gu

“Mister Ward?” Lewrie called to the nearest Midshipman. “Do you go down and gather what correspondence he has, so he won’t fall in and drown himself.”

“Aye, sir!” Ward replied crisply, dashing to the entry-port and down the battens as spryly as a monkey, gri

“Thankee, Mister Ward,” Lewrie said, tapping his forehead to acknowledge the Mid’s doffed-hat salute. He went to the bulwarks of the quarterdeck to look down into the boat. “Hoy, there, sir! Might you wish to return to Gibraltar aboard this ship?”

“Ehm, no thank you, sir!” the young officer called back. “I’m comfortable where I am, thank you!” He was re-seated, in the middle of the centre-most thwart, with both his hands gripping the thwart as if for his very life.

“Very well, then,” Lewrie called down to him. “Follow us.”

He broke the seal of the letter and unfolded it.

“Aye, we are requested to return to harbour, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie told him. “The note does not say why, but I am to attend the General at my earliest opportunity. Shape course for the Rock, sir, and crack on sail.”

“Aye aye, sir!” Westcott happily agreed, and as he bawled out his orders to make more sail and alter course, the on-watch hands raised a small cheer that they would soon be back among the taverns and brothels of Gibraltar Town. Getting there would take hours, for the East-set current was dead against the course, making entrance to the Mediterranean easy, but an exit to the Atlantic a long trial. If the winds were light, an all-day’s sail could result in a progess measured in a few miles.

“You have the deck, sir,” Lewrie told Westcott. “There’s my breakfast to finish, and, I s’pose I’ll have t’dress up for the occasion.”

“Might shave close, too, sir,” Westcott said with a grin.

“Pettus! Jessop!” Lewrie shouted as he re-entered his cabins. “Heat an iron for the sash, pin the bloody star on my best coat, and black my bloody boots!”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lewrie found the usually quiet Convent headquarters building a bee-hive of activity, with junior officer clerks moving between various offices with more despatch, boot or shoe heels clacking on the old stone flags or tiles. There were Colonels, Lieutenant-Colonels, and regimental Majors present, gathered in small groups, mostly with their own sort, recognisable by the detailing and colours of their uniform coats’ lapel facings and their button-hole lace. Officers turned their heads to peer at him as he approached Dalrymple’s office, muttering among themselves.

“The Navy’s here,” he heard one Colonel bray. “That means we’re going somewhere, haw haw!”

Lewrie a

Lewrie entered the offices and left his cocked hat on a side table where there were already several ornately laced and feathered Army officer’s bicornes, and one civilian hat.

“Ah, Sir Alan,” General Dalrymple said in greeting, waving him to come forward. “Do allow me to name to you General Sir Brent Spencer; Sir Brent, this is Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, Captain of HMS Sapphire.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” Lewrie and Spencer said almost as one, and offering their hands briefly.

“Mister Thomas Mountjoy of the Foreign Office, you already know,” Sir Hew went on. “It is his news that prompted this meeting. Do inform us of what you have heard, or learned of, Mister Mountjoy.”

“Gladly, Sir Hew,” Mountjoy said, springing from a chair with alacrity. He was beaming fit to bust. “I have gotten a report from a source in Madrid that, on Dos de Mayo, the second of this month, the people of the city rose up en masse against the French, hunting down and killing every off-duty Frenchman they could find, arming themselves as best they were able, and slaughtering them. Marshal Murat turned out his troops and resorted to using artillery against the mobs. The riots were put down after three hours’ fighting, then the French had a riot of their own, entering every building in sight and dragging suspected rioters out to be shot or bayonetted. It was a great slaughter, ’mongst the guilty and the i

“For real, Mountjoy?” Lewrie had to ask, wondering if the riots were invented to spur Dalrymple into some rash action, on a par with the false reports of atrocities that Mountjoy had spun out of thin air.

“For real, Captain Lewrie,” Mountjoy stressed. “The Spanish heard that their old kings had been arrested after they met Napoleon over the border at Bayo

“Upon that head, I have heard from General Castaños,” Sir Hew Dalrymple imparted to them all. “There is a rebellious committee forming at Seville, what the Devil do they call it, Mister Mountjoy?”

“A junta, sir,” Mountjoy supplied.