Kings and Emperors

“Christ, you can’t even ogle them,” Westcott carped, “else the men of the town threaten to tear you limb from limb! Breaking into a Sultan’s hareem would be easier!”

Lewrie dipped into his own funds and sent the Purser, Mister Cadrick, ashore with orders to fetch back sufficient hogs, fruit, and baked bread for a feast, or don’t come back at all, and Cadrick managed to haggle, plead, and succeed at his task. There was not a single pence that came back in change.

Fast cutters or packet brigs came in every now and then with orders or news, and everyone got their hopes up that London or Gibraltar would send word for a change in their condition. Sometimes there was mail for Sapphire included, and Lewrie could take his mind off his e

There were letters from old friends, too; Benjamin Rodgers, Anthony Langlie, and his wife, Sophie, formerly Lewrie’s orphaned ward after the evacuation of Toulon, Ralph Knolles also in the Med in his Sixth Rate frigate. There was one breezy, chatty letter full of gossip from his father, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, and a packet of letters from Maddalena back at Gibraltar; fond ones that made him wish most fervently for a quick return there. Anywhere!

If we’re anchored in this bloody river, anchored to Spencer and his damned army, much longer, I’ll go mad! he told himself; Swear I will!

At the very least, he could occupy himself answering all those letters, scribbling away for hours on end, so engrossed in the doing that he could forget his miserable circumstances.

*   *   *

“The cutter’s coming offshore, sir, and there’s an Army officer aboard her,” Lieutenant Harcourt a

“Umph!” Lewrie replied, rising from his collapsible chair on the poop deck, and laying aside his book. “So there is. Thankee, Mister Harcourt. D’ye think they’ve run out of mustard for the officers’ mess, and wish t’borrow a pot or two?” he added as he sauntered down to the quarterdeck.

“They’ll not get mine, sir!” Harcourt said with a short bark of a laugh.

“Boat ahoy!” Midshipman Spears called to the boat.

“Letter for your Captain!” came the shouted reply.

The boat came alongside the main mast chains, the Army officer managed to scramble up to the entry-port and take the hastily gathered salute from the side-party, then came aft and doffed his hat to Lewrie, and handed over a sealed letter.

“What’s this in aid of, sir?” Lewrie testily asked.

“General Spencer has just received orders from London, sir, and informations from Cádiz,” the young Lieutenant replied with an eager smile. “General Sir Arthur Wellesley’s army is to land in the Tagus, but we will not be marching to join him at Lisbon.”

“That was the plan?” Lewrie said.

“It was contemplated, yes, sir,” the army man said, “but it seems that London is of a mind that our brigade would be of more use closer to Cádiz, to aid and encourage the Spanish Army of Andalusia, and the Spanish have finally agreed to allow us to do so.”

Lewrie ripped the letter open and turned away briefly to read it. “Thank bloody Christ!” he whooped after a moment. “Puerto de Santa María! Not Cádiz exactly, but it’ll do. General Spencer is packing up and ready to go aboard the transports?”

“As we speak, sir,” the Lieutenant happily told him. “He wishes to be away in three days, weather permitting.”

“I can’t wait t’shake the dust of Ayamonte from my boots, either,” Lewrie told him, feeling like breaking out in a hornpipe dance of glee, “not that I gathered much dust in the bloody place. Assure the General that the transports await, and we’ll be ready to sail as soon as he’s got all his force off. And, inform him how delighted that every hand is t’hear of it, me included.”

“I shall relate that to him, sir,” the Army officer promised, equally pleased that they would go.

“Pettus,” Lewrie called, spotting his cabin-steward idling on the larboard gangway and fiddling with a fishing line, “do you fetch this officer a glass of wine before he returns ashore. We’ll liquour his boots for his ride.”

“Thank you, sir!” the Lieutenant exclaimed.

Word quickly spread, as it usually did aboard ship, fetching off-watch officers from below, with Westcott in the lead, even before Pettus could pour that glass of wine.

“Do I hear right, sir?” Westcott asked, looking hopeful.

“Hear what, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie could not help teasing.

“Why, that we’re out of this flea-ridden hovel!” Westcott replied.

“We are,” Lewrie assured him. “Off for Puerto de Santa María on the Bay of Cádiz, as soon as the Army can be got off.”

“I hope you pack quickly, sir,” Westcott said to the stranger.

“Closer to a larger city, your odds’ll be better,” Lewrie japed. “For your … hunting?”

“Perhaps the ladies of Cádiz bathe more often than the women of Ayamonte, aye,” Westcott said, sniggering.

“Oh, Lord,” Lt. Harcourt said, shaking his head, for Harcourt was a man who could be described as a Decent Sort, one more prone to seek a wife, should he ever get a command of his own and more pay.

As the army officer drank his wine, Lewrie could hear a stir among the crew. Off-watch men were coming on deck, people were whispering behind their hands, breaking out in grins, and looking aft for confirmation of the “scuttle-butt.” A fiddler even struck up “One Misty, Moisty Morning”!

Aye, they’re ready t’sail away, Lewrie thought; more than ready t’go somewhere else!

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Cádiz had fallen, the French were ousted, and the important naval port was back in the hands of the Spanish, and the Supreme Junta in Seville. The Bay of Cádiz, sheltered and protected by the peninsula on which sat the old city and the fortresses, was crowded with ships. There were Spanish Navy ships of war, too-long blockaded in port and neglected for lack of supplies and money, looking positively dowdy by then. In only slightly better condition were the French navy warships which had survived the Battle of Trafalgar, their Tricolour national flags drooping low on their sterns, with Spanish royal colours flying atop them to show just who had forced them to strike.

Spanish merchantmen, also trapped in harbour and unable to make a profit, were hastily being fitted out for voyages to Spain’s colonies in the Americas to re-assert Spain’s complete dominance of trade ’twixt them and the home country. When ready for sea, they would most likely bear officials and royal orders to colonial goverors to bar any intra-colonial trade except for Spanish ships, and stop mercantile activities with anyone else.

The revolution against French conquest had arisen so quickly that British, or other neutral European, merchants might take months to make their appearance at Cádiz with valuable, greatly desired, cargoes, but they would come later. For now, it was only the hired transports and troopers of General Spencer’s little army which were present.