Kings and Emperors

“Nigh five thousand, sir,” Lewrie crisply replied. “Sir Hew Dalrymple added the Sixth Foot, and some artillery from Gibraltar’s garrison. There are more being ordered from Sicily, to come later. Sir Hew sent these latest appreciations for you, sir, and all the intelligence he could gather up.”

“Ah, thank you, sir,” Purvis said, sitting back down to open the thick packet and scan through them. “Do sit, Sir Alan. Wine?”

“Please, sir,” Lewrie replied.

“Hah!” the Admiral scoffed after reading through the gist of Dalrymple’s packet. “Dalrymple is rather precipitate to send along the troops so soon. Land in, or near, Cádiz? At present, the place is firmly in the hands of the French, and a pro-French lackey government. I see that he is aware of the French brigade under General Avril, though not of the division at Córdoba under a General L’Étang, who could march to re-enforce Avril rather quickly, should Spencer land.”

“Perhaps it was General Dalrymple’s intent to precipitate, to goad the Spanish into action, sir,” Lewrie suggested as his wine came. “As you can see, sir, the Spanish have already rebelled in several cities besides Madrid. Their General Castaños is almost ready to act, if he can get the garrison from Ceuta into Algeciras or Tarifa to re-enforce—”

“I am aware of those developments,” Purvis peevishly cut him off, “but Cádiz has not rebelled, and until it does—”

He was cut off, himself, by a rap on the doors to the cabins. The same Lieutenant stepped in. “Admiral, sir, General Sir Brent Spencer is come aboard, and wishes to speak with you.”

“He has, has he?” Purvis snapped, scowling heavily, then let out a much-put-upon sigh. “Very well, very well, have him come in.”

Purvis and Lewrie shot to their feet as General Spencer blew in, beaming. “Admiral Purvis!” Spencer bellowed.

“Sir Brent,” Purvis replied, rather laconically. “Wine, sir?”

“Relish a glass, thankee!” Spencer answered, coming to the desk with a glad hand out. Purvis waved both of his guests to sit, then plopped himself down behind his desk, again.

“B’lieve Sir Hew Dalrymple wrote you of our coming, and what my little army’s to do, hah?” Spencer began.

“He has, sir, but, as I was just explaining to Captain Lewrie, here, that until the situation in Cádiz changes, there is no chance of that,” Admiral Purvis declared.

“But, my men are cooped up, elbow-to-elbow, and as crop-sick as so many dogs, sir!” Spencer protested. “I must get them off those damned ships soon! If we land somewhere near Cádiz, surely the Dons would rise up and welcome us, and kick the French out!”

“Well, I will allow that I’ve gotten word from sources ashore that the city’s taken on a distinctly anti-French mood, of late,” the Admiral cautiously said, “so much so that the French consul has abandoned his residence and offices, and taken refuge aboard one of the French warships anchored in the sheltered bay behind the peninsula on which the city, and the fortifications, sit.”

“You have agents in Cádiz, sir?” Lewrie asked, amazed. “That would be welcome news to Mister Thomas Mountjoy, at Gibraltar. He’s tried to place agents inside, so far with poor results.”

“Mister Mountjoy would be one of Foreign Office’s … shadier sorts, hey?” Purvis asked with faint amusement.

“He is, sir,” Lewrie admitted.

“As I say, ’til the Spanish rise up, I fear your troops must stay aboard their transports, Sir Brent,” Admiral Purvis repeated. “And, even if they do, and declare themselves allies of Great Britain, you would not be allowed in the city, or the forts.”

“Captain Lewrie, here, mentioned some alternatives, sir,” Spencer blustered on, fidgeting where to place his ornately egret-featherd bicorne hat as a cabin steward fetched him a glass of wine. “Somewhere near Cádiz? What were they, Lewrie? Porto-something, or … started with an R?”

“Puerto de Santa María, or Rota, sir,” Lewrie supplied. “But, with the French warships, there’d be no safe way to enter the Bay of Cádiz. Same for Puerto Real, on the same bay. There’s San Fernando, South of the city, but quite close. Rota is North of the city by some eight to ten miles.”

“Oh, totally unsuitable, then,” Spencer quibbled. “But, there must be some place. God knows I’m fed up with ships, already. Even getting aboard this one, brr! Being slung up and over like a cask of salt-meat? Mean to say!”

General Spencer meant that he’d not tried to scale the battens and man-ropes, but had been hoisted aboard the flagship in a lubberly Bosun’s chair, like a cripple, or drunk. Admiral Purvis and Lewrie shared a brief smirk of amusement.

“San Fernando is near the base of the peninsula, and landing there might cut off the land route to the city,” Admiral Purvis said, “but, that would be up to the Spanish, once they do rebel, and manage to oust the French on their own. At any rate, the situation may not be my responsibility much longer. My active commission is coming to an end, and Admiralty has informed me that Admiral Cuthbert Collingwood is to relieve me on this station.”

“Admiral Collingwood, sir? I’d dearly love to meet him!” Lewrie gushed out with boyish enthusiasm.

“What, Captain Lewrie, am I not famous enough for you?” the Admiral rejoined with a peevish look.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that, sir!” Lewrie gasped. “Perish the idea! I merely meant, ehm…!”

“It is of no matter,” Purvis said, waving a hand to dismiss any thought of being insulted. “Perhaps General Dalrymple, being an Army man, has not enlightened you, Sir Brent, on Sir Alan’s adventurous accomplishments at sea. He’s reckoned as one of our most daring frigate captains, and even saddled with command of a poor older ‘fifty,’ he’s still raising devilment. The Naval Chronicle featured action reports of his doings along the Andalusian coast last Summer, which were bold.”

“You do me too much credit, sir,” Lewrie replied, putting on his modest face. “Just raising some mischief.”

Ye going t’fill Spencer in on some, or will I have t’dine him aboard and do my own braggin’? Lewrie thought.

“I dearly wish that I could have remained on-station just long enough to see Cádiz fall to us,” Purvis said with a weary sigh. “And sail in and make prize of those damned French ships that escaped us at Trafalgar.”

“That’d be grand, sir,” Lewrie told him. “Though, after anchored idle so long, they might not be in good material condition, and there’s little the Spanish yards could do to keep them up.”

“Even so, it’s more the satisfaction than the price a Prize-Court places upon them,” Purvis countered. “Claim them, and rub the Corsican Ogre’s nose in it one more time, remind Bonaparte of his worst defeat at sea, in a long string of them. Know what he is rumoured to have said when he heard about Trafalgar? ‘I ca

“Well, if he had been, sir,” Lewrie slyly replied, “we’d have bagged the lot of ’em, French and Spanish, captured ‘Boney,’ and hung him in chains at Execution Dock!”

“Hear, hear!” General Spencer crowed.

“I had pla

He sounded as if he’d rather not, but could be gracious.

“Topping!” Spencer cried. “Sure to be better than the swill I get aboard my transport, what? I accept with pleasure, sir.”

“I’d thought to return to Sapphire, sir,” Lewrie begged off, sure that that was the right thing to do. Any time with General Sir Brent Spencer was too much time, he was learning.

“Oh, if you insist, Sir Alan,” Purvis replied, much too quickly, and with a relieved grin.

“I am certain that you may regale Sir Brent,” Lewrie said.

“Oh … indeed,” Purvis said, almost pulling a face.