Kings and Emperors

“Utter confusion was the cause of it, sir!” Hughes said with a dismissive snort. “Three detachments separated too far, not in one organised line. I had to dash over to the left to see to one of them, rein them in before they got too far away, and tripped over a rock in the dark. Next thing I knew, five or six foul-looking Spanish soldiers were all over me, seized my sword and pistols, gave me a bash on the head with a musket butt, and dragged me away. They took me to their cantonment at Órgiva, first, slung me in their gaol for a few days, then got word to fetch me to the fort at Málaga, where there finally was someone who could speak passable English, and put me on my parole. Ah, a decent Rhenish, at last! ’Til I got my pay sent on from Gibraltar, I was ‘skint,’ hardly had tuppence upon me, and had to drink the vilest peasant reds.” Hughes polished off his glass of wine in four swift gulps and held out his glass for a re-fill. “You sail without the transport, sir? What of our amphibious unit?”

“Dis-banded last Fall, when the French invaded Portugal and Spain, and the Spanish began t’make nice with us,” Lewrie told him, taking a few sips from his own glass. “Dalrymple thought it better that we did not make war on the Dons after that.”

“Pity, we were just getting good at it,” Hughes said.

Did better after we lost you! Lewrie thought.

“You still have that damned cat, I see,” Hughes said with a scowl as he espied Chalky, who was hunkered into a defensive lump on the day-cabin desk. The cat had never taken to Hughes, perhaps sensing Lewrie’s feelings. “Once I got settled in passable lodgings in the town,” Hughes went on, “it wasn’t so bad, but for the fact that Spain doesn’t feature much roast beef on their tables, not where I ate. It was pork, pork, pork, in one form or another, breakfast to supper, and it got tiresome. Then, when Marshal Murat marched into Madrid, and the Dons got so angry, they let me go, just shooed me off to make my own way to Gibraltar.”

“Went the wrong way for that,” Lewrie commented.

“The French were in Córdoba and Seville, by then, and marching down to Gibraltar, so heading East and hoping to throw in with armed irregulars or the Spanish army was my best bet,” Hughes said, shrugging it off. “You’re bound for Gibraltar?”

“Aye, after droppin’ off arms and ammunition for the junta in Granada, a quick out-and-back,” Lewrie replied, setting his half-empty wine down on the brass Hindoo tray table.

“Your turning up was a miracle, sir!” Hughes exclaimed, taking his ease in one of the chairs with his legs stretched out. “I’m damned glad you did, and can’t wait to get back to Gibraltar, let me tell you! Back in my regiment’s mess, clean clothing, decent food, and a romp or two.”

“I must return to the deck,” Lewrie said as he heard calls for “short stays,” and Westcott shouting for topmen to “trice up and lay out” to make sail. “Take your ease here, whilst we get under way, then come join us when you feel like it. There’s a spare cabin in the officers’ wardroom that you can use, and ’twixt the three officers’ servants, I’m sure they can see to your needs.”

“Maddalena, recall her, do you?” Hughes speculated with a grin. “Ever run into her when you were ashore? Poor chit’s probably taken up with another who would keep her. Well, soon as I’m back, I’ll see about that! And, by God, he better not be anyone I know, hah hah!”

“Seen her around,” Lewrie lied, then picked up his hat and left the cabins. That was a conversation for later.

*   *   *

Once Sapphire was free of the ground and fully under sail, Mr. Deacon sidled over near Lewrie on the windward side of the quarterdeck, something that anyone in the Navy would not dare do unless delivering information.

“Bit of a wrench, his turning up again, sir?” Deacon asked in a low voice. “An efficient fellow, a grand organiser right down to the number of cork musket tompions, but the very worst sort of parade ground officer, as Mister Mountjoy and I agreed.”

“I’ll get it settled,” Lewrie replied, sure that Deacon was talking about Maddalena Covilhā, since both he and Mountjoy had been aware of Lewrie’s taking up with her, and being smitten by her long before Hughes had disappeared.

“Settled, sir?” Deacon said, befuddled. “I was talking of his military qualities, and pitying the rankers of his company after he rejoins his regiment. Oh … that settled!” he went on with a knowing smile.

Lewrie was looking upon Deacon with new eyes. When they were first introduced the Summer before, he had taken Mr. Deacon as just one more of Secret Branch’s hired muscle, a very dangerous and menacing sort who’d do the skulking, house-breaking, head-breaking, and elimination of the King’s enemies. He certainly looked the part; wide-shouldered and slim-hipped, with big, strong hands just made for strangling, and a harsh, craggy face. After this jaunt to deliver arms, though, Lewrie found that Deacon was more than bodyguard or errand-ru

“Mountjoy once warned me off her,” Lewrie admitted, “so long as we needed Hughes. Now he’s lazing round my settee, sure that he’ll only have to whistle t’get her back, with an idea to thrash whoever’s taken up with her.”

“Remember the old adage, though, sir, ‘Great talkers do the least, we see,’” Deacon said with a grin that could turn most men’s blood cold. “I doubt his sort will even sulk for more than a day or two, then drop the matter. And, if he doesn’t,” Deacon imparted with a bit of threat in his voice, “he can always be quietly done away with, hmm?”

“Good Lord, Mister Deacon!” Lewrie exclaimed.

“Just saying, sir,” Deacon replied, sporting another evil grin. “I might just do it to spare his troops, if his regiment ever takes the field against the French. I can’t abide his sort of officer.”

“No, Mister Deacon, does it come to a duel, I’d rather do him in, myself,” Lewrie told him. “It won’t get that far, though. You’re right. His sort doesn’t cherish women proper, and most-like doesn’t give a fig for ’em beyond havin’ one handy. He’ll sulk, then search out another.”

“Either way, the offer stands, sir,” Deacon said with a shrug, and turned to go to the lee bulwarks.

“A moment more, Mister Deacon, if ye please,” Lewrie bade with sudden inspiration. “Major Azcárte said that a French demi-brigade was on the road from Málaga. How big is a demi-brigade? I’ve never heard of one.”

“I believe it would be about two thousand men, sir,” Deacon said with his head cocked over in study. “Three regiments of six hundred men each, with some artillery and gun crews. That’s right, he said they had no cavalry, which is odd, sir. I’d think they’d have at least one squadron of horse for scouting, at the least. Azcárte may be in big trouble if the report was wrong. The French could be all over him before he gets his slow waggons into the hills.”

Lewrie looked round the quarterdeck for the Sailing Master, but could not spot him. A few steps aft and he was in the captain’s clerk’s office, which had been converted into a chart room, and waving Deacon to join him. The coastal chart from Málaga to Cabo de Gata was laid out on the angled desk-top, much marked from previous raids, up-dated for their own use with information that Mountjoy’s informers had given them the year before.

“The road from Almuñécar to Salobreña is right along the coast,” Lewrie said, tapping the chart with a pencil, “and there’s a section where the road goes round this steep hill, just a mile or so beyond Almuñécar. Hmm. I wonder.”

“Are you thinking of slowing them down, and giving Major Azcárte some breathing room, sir?” Deacon asked, looking evil and expectant again.