Kings and Emperors

“A day to take on firewood and water, a day of shore liberty for my crew, a day of lading your arms, and I could be off on the fourth day—,” Lewrie decided.

“Wind and weather permitting!” Mountjoy interrupted, using one of Lewrie’s usual qualifiers.

“Aye, wind and weather permitting,” Lewrie agreed.

“Hmm, I fear your crew may have to forgo their liberty for a time,” Mountjoy said upon second reflection. “Getting the arms to the Spanish is paramount. If you could begin taking them aboard as soon as you complete loading your ship’s immediate needs, that would be simply topping.”

Damme, he’s givin’ me outright orders, again! Lewrie thought in a moment of resentment. He knew that he was seconded to the young man, but it did rankle, now and then, to be bossed about by civilians.

“Well, if it’s that urgent, I s’pose I could,” Lewrie drawled. “What? You want the arms off Gibraltar before Dalrymple knows you have ’em?”

Hah, hit a sore spot there! Lewrie thought, congratulating himself as he saw Mountjoy’s cheek wince; Well, at least I get one day with Maddalena.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The sleepy fishing port of Salobreña had not been a victim of HMS Sapphire’s shore bombardments, none of its fishing boats or coastal trading boats had been burned right in the harbour, but some of the prizes which Sapphire had run down, taken, and burned close to shore had surely come from there. Only the semaphore tower high up behind the town had been burned, after a brisk pre-dawn skirmish with Spanish troops who were not supposed to be there, according to Mountjoy’s informers, but some Spanish commander had sent them down from Órgiva on a route march to keep them fit, or to punish them, and they had been there, sleeping in Salobreña’s taverns, when the alarm was raised. For sleepy, half-drunk soldiers, they had put up a decent but brief resistance before breaking and ru

“That’s the semaphore tower, Captain Lewrie?” Mr. Deacon asked as he peered shoreward with his own smaller telescope. “Doesn’t look like much to die for.”

“I’m sure those who did, or were crippled for life, thought the same, Mister Deacon,” Lewrie replied.

“They never re-built it, it appears,” Deacon said after a longer perusal. “Mister Mountjoy said that his reports tell much the same tale of the others you burned, and the batteries you blew up or shot to bits.”

“The French drained so much from the Spanish treasury that the whole country’s ‘skint,’” Lewrie replied with a shrug. “Now they own Spain as a conquest, it’ll be their job t’re-build. Their soldiers ma

“If General Dalrymple could spare troops, again, sir, which I doubt,” Deacon told him. “I also doubt the French could man and guard a new line of towers. If the Spanish people are becoming guerrilleros, it might take two companies to each tower to protect them.”

“Gueri…?” Lewrie gawped. “What the Devil’s that?”

“Roughly, guerrilla comes close to ‘little war,’ sir,” Deacon said with a grin, “with irregular fighters, ambushers, throat-slitters, those sort of attacks that Mister Mountjoy was so excited about. The French haven’t seen anything like them in any of their other conquered countries, and it’ll drive them mad. More like Red Indian warfare on the American frontiers.”

“And the French are a very European army,” Lewrie replied with sudden good humour, the opposite of his qualms over how the Spanish would receive their sudden appearance, even if they were bearing them gifts. “God help ’em, then. Saw my share of Indian fighting in Spanish Florida during the Revolution. Brr! Vicious!”

“Seven fathom! Seven fathom t’this line!” one of the leadsmen called back from his post on a foremast chain platform.

“We’ll stand on ’til we strike six fathoms, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie called down to the Sailing Master on the quarterdeck.

“Aye, sir, six fathoms, and we round up,” Yelland agreed.

“I think I see Spanish troops on the quays, sir,” Lt. Westcott pointed out. “The French wear blue uniforms, mostly, and this lot’s white. Do the Frogs wear that colour?”

Lewrie looked to Deacon for an answer; he’d been a soldier in the Guards, and should know, but all he got from that worthy was a shrug and a puzzled face.

“Wish we had a Spanish officer with us, then,” Lewrie said. “I would’ve thought that Mountjoy could whistle one up from General Castaños’ staff.”

“A rush job, Captain Lewrie,” Deacon said, winking. “No time to look for one.”

“Six fathom! Six fathom t’this line!” a leadsman shouted.

“Fetch-to, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie snapped. “Round up into the wind, and ready the best bower.”

“Aye aye, sir!” Westcott called back, then began to bellow orders to steer up into the wind, take in sail, and drop the larboard anchor.

“We’ll take the thirty-two-foot pi

*   *   *

They ain’t shootin’ at us, yet, Lewrie thought in trepidation as the pi

Deacon plastered a smile on his craggy face and made cordial noises in fluid, fluent Spanish. A Spanish officer came forward to palaver with him. The Spaniard was an odd bird, Lewrie thought, wearing a cocked hat twice as big as any he’d ever seen, with tall dragoon boots with knee-flaps on his legs, and a long smallsword tucked up under his armpit instead of slung on the hip. His mustachio was long, pointed, and looked waxed. The Spanish officer frowned a lot, then broke out in a smile, turned to face the townfolk who had gathered in curiosity, clapped his gloved hands, and began to babble in rapid Spanish. Whatever he’d told them set off tremendous cheers.

“Commandante Azcárte, it means he’s a Major, sir, says that we and our arms are more than welcome,” Deacon translated as the fellow turned back to face them. “Someone in contact with Gibraltar alerted them that we would be coming, and Major Azcárte was sent from the Granada junta to escort them inland, with waggons, carts, and a strong escort. I’m naming you to him now, sir, though I don’t know how to render ‘Baronet’ in Spanish.”

“Makes no matter,” Lewrie shrugged off, beaming fit to bust, himself, and nodding pleasantly. He made out “Capitano” and “Caballero,” “la Marina Real Británica,” but the rest was higgledy-piggledy. When Deacon drew breath, Lewrie doffed his hat and bowed from the waist; there was no way to make a formal “leg” while still standing in the pi

“Honoured to make your acquaintance, Commandante Azcárte,” Lewrie replied. “Uhm, Deacon, ask him if the locals can help get the arms ashore with their boats. It’d take hours, else.”

“I will, sir,” Deacon said, and launched into more gibberish. Major Azcárte nodded vigourously, replied with more smiles, and turned to the citizens of Salobreña to ask them to help, which launched a rush of fishermen to their boats along the quay, to break out oars, and begin to stroke out towards Sapphire.

Lewrie and Deacon scrambled up atop the quay, and Deacon began to ask many questions anent the local situation, the nearness of the French, and the latest news from Granada. Before he could get any answers, Major Azcárte stepped up to Lewrie, threw his arms round him in a bear hug, and bussed him on both cheeks, babbling away.

He got “muchas gracias,” but the rest was nonsense sounds.