Kings and Emperors

Lewrie crossed to the other side of the poop deck and took a long look at the Portuguese side of the river. There was a wee town over there, named Castro Marim on Mr. Yelland’s charts, and they had passed a larger town on the way up-river, Vila Real de Santo António, which also looked fairly prosperous. Evidently, the French invasions of both countries had not reached such un-important places, yet, and the war had left this corner of Spain alone.

There were small boats working the Portuguese side of the river, some heaped with huge mounds of what looked like seaweed or riverbank reeds, and Lewrie wondered what in the world they did with it; eat it? Several curious folk were gathered on the Portuguese shore where a road ended, and a ferry rested, and they were pointing and talking animatedly, but looked like they’d flee like rabbits if anyone glared at them the wrong way.

Ayamonte’s citizens were more in a dither, with some saddling up horses or hitching up teams, and loading immediately necessary belongings into waggons or carts. Others more bold were gathered in taut, angry bunches, some armed with cudgels, swords, kitchen knives or cleavers, and a few firearms. Lewrie could even see a few lances for hunting wild boar being waved aloft, and one ancient pike. Most of the Spanish seemed wary but curious.

Most of the ten companies from one of General Spencer’s battalions were already ashore and formed up in the streets and large plaza that faced the quays, a band was playing, and a colour party was parading the Regimental Colours and the King’s Colours.

Lewrie could spot Spencer and some of his staff in conversation with some well-dressed civilian men and several priests, and he hoped that Spencer had thought to include some Spanish-speaking officers in his force, for there was a lot of head-shaking, hand-talking, shrugging, and confused looks between all. One of the civilians wore a sash cross his chest, perhaps the town mayor, and he began to smile. One of the priests dashed inside the nearby church and bells began to ring as the group of soldiers and civilians shook hands. It was almost comical to watch as the town mayor mounted the church steps and tried to address the crowd while the bells pealed on and on. Finally, the eldest churchman sent another priest inside to silence the clanging.

After a time, the mayor’s address evoked loud cheers, clapping, and huzzahs. Spanish flags appeared from windows and balconies.

“I think it’s safe for heretical English to go ashore, now,” Lewrie declared. “Muster my boat crew, and fetch the cutter up from astern, Mister Westcott.”

“Aye, sir. If you discover some decent wine, the wardroom will appreciate news of it,” Westcott hinted. “Or, if you spot a fetching young señorita or two…?”

“If we’re here for a while, I’ll allow you shore liberty, and you can hunt up your own,” Lewrie assured him. He looked aloft and then peered at the steeple of the church ashore. “Might be a good idea to keep a lookout in the main mast cross-trees. If there are any French forces in the neighbourhood, we’d have a better view of them.”

“I shall, sir,” Westcott agreed.

Once overside and in the cutter, Lewrie looked over his boat crew. “Listen, lads. It’s a small town, a Spanish town, and I warn you t’mind your ma

“Arra, sor,” Furfy moaned. “Iff’n th’ Dons’re grateful for us t’be here, it’d be un-friendly t’turn down a swig or two if they offer.”

“We stay ashore th’ rest o’ th’ mornin’, sor, we’ll miss th’ rum issue,” Furfy’s long-time mate, Cox’n Liam Desmond, pointed out. “Mayhap a cup or two of wine’d make up for it?”

Even the usually-sobre bow man, Michael Deavers, was looking eager to set foot ashore and get a drink. “Aye, it would,” he said.

“Pass word for Midshipman Britton!” Lewrie shouted up to the quarterdeck watch. “He’s to come ashore with me!”

That put his oarsmen in lower spirits. Midshipman Britton was a Tartar when it came to finding sailors “drunk on duty” and have them at Captain’s Mast.

“Aw, sor,” Furfy said with a sad shake of his head.

“If offered by grateful Spaniards … assumin’ they’re all that grateful … you can take a drink, but Mister Britton will see that you don’t get drunk,” Lewrie promised them.

Britton came scrambling down the battens and agilely stepped onto the gu

“If I need messages passed ’twixt the shore and the ship, I’ll need you to bear them, Mister Britton,” Lewrie told him. “I’ll also want you to mind the men’s consumption of any offered wine.”

“Aye aye, sir!” Britton crisply answered, with a warning glare at the hands.

“Shove off, then,” Lewrie ordered.

*   *   *

“Ah, Captain Lewrie, come to see the sights, have you?” General Spencer boomed as Lewrie strolled onto the plaza.

“I came to see how things are going, sir,” Lewrie replied. “I assume the Spanish are giving you a good welcome?”

“Ah, the bloody Dons,” Spencer griped, snatching off his ornate bicorne hat and ru

“I’m keeping lookouts posted aloft, sir,” Lewrie said. “They can see farther than anyone in the tower. They’re higher up. Maybe you could erect a semaphore tower at your camp to speak your sentries in the church tower, and run a message to me, should the French show up. If you have to fall back and be evacuated, my guns could dissuade the Frogs from pressing you too closely.”

“Fall back and evacuate?” Spencer bristled up. “No, Captain Lewrie. Unless an entire French division marches here to confront me, I fully intend to stand my ground and chance a battle. That’s what I was sent to do … even if it’s the arse-end of this shitten country.”

“So, there are no French anywhere close?” Lewrie asked.

“Well, there’s L’Etang’s division at Seville, and there’s General Dupont at Córdoba, but those are rather far off, and couldn’t be here for days,” Spencer allowed, “even if your Admiral Purvis is of the opinion that the French can fly like so many sparrows from one place to the next. The nearest we’re aware of is the brigade under General Avril, and they’re nearer Cádiz than I am, dammit all! Where I should be is Cádiz, but will the Dons allow me? Gawd!”

“How are the locals receiving you, sir?” Lewrie pressed, turning to look at Ayamonte’s residents, who were back to their usual routines, now that most of the excitement was over. “I should think they would be thrilled to hear of the uprisings, the Junta’s declaration of war, and all.”

“Cagily!” Spencer said with a contemptuous snort. “Be careful where you camp, don’t pick fruit, don’t cut any olive trees for firewood, don’t look at our women, don’t go inside their churches. The rich ones are haughty, and the rest are scheming for money … as if your average British soldier has any. I’ve had to hire waggons and carts, teams and drivers, to carry all my supplies and ammunition out to the campsite, and pay dearly! The rest of them goggle at us like we’re lepers, and give us what the Sicilians call the ‘Evil Eye.’ Lord, what a country! Poor as church mice, as illiterate as so many goats, as lazy as butchers’ dogs, yet as testy of their honour and pride as mad bulls. Must be some miasma specific to Mediterranean countries, Sicily, Malta, Italy, Spain, and Portugal, they are all alike. They are just not like the English, the Scots, or even the bloody Irish. A bad race to love, or fight for.”