Kings and Emperors

“Lower gun-deck, by broadside … fire!”

The carters and waggoners had long fled their charges as the three shattered regiments swarmed round them in their haste, some of the fleeing soldiers cut reins and harnesses to try to ride to safety, but most of the draught horses were also panicked, and not broken to the saddle, or the weight of a rider, and would have none of it. The colourful, high-wheeled Spanish carts sat cocked down on their tongues, and the French army waggons sat at all angles as their waggoners had tried to turn round or force a way through the fleeing throngs before joining the rout.

“Hah! Ah hah!” Major Hughes was shouting at the sight of the waggons or carts being smashed to kindling, of tents, blankets, spare boots, and cook pots being hurled into the air. Subsequent broadsides caused ammunition waggons to explode and burn, scattering burning bits among the whole close-packed train. “That’s the way! Oh, capital, look at that! Whoo! Burn, you devils!”

“Damn my eyes,” Lewrie groaned. “I’ve made him happy!”

“Well, that won’t last, will it, sir?” Deacon cagily said.

At last, Sapphire sailed closer to the seaport town of Almuñécar and ran out of targets. The French were surely taking refuge in the houses furthest from the shore, huddling in the town square, but the risk of killing Spaniards precluded.

“Cease fire, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie called down to the quarterdeck. “Alter course three points to larboard, and secure from Quarters. Fun’s over.”

“Look there, sir!” Midshipman Carey yelped, leaping and pointing shoreward.

The citizens of little Almuñécar had gathered along the quays and docks, and even with angry French soldiers a street or two behind them, were daring to wave caps, hats, bo

“Unfortunately, they’ll pay for that, in lives and torture,” Mr. Deacon sadly concluded. “The French will lash out, and there will be Hell to pay.”

“Aye,” Lewrie agreed with a grim nod.

“Well, sir!” Lt. Westcott said, beaming his harsh smile. “We might emulate that Dutch Admiral, De Ruyter, and sail into Gibraltar with a broom lashed to the main mast truck. A clean sweep, indeed.”

“That’s a damned good idea, Mister Westcott, and I thank you for it,” Lewrie said with a laugh. “Inform the Purser, Mister Cadrick, that the second rum issue of the day will be ‘Splice the Mainbrace.’”

“Aye, sir!”

*   *   *

There had been no need to clear the ship for action, so the great-cabins were as Lewrie had left them. Pettus and Jessop were back from sheltering on the orlop, and so were Chalky and Bisquit. The dog was still shivering and whining his terror of loud noises, eager for stroking and petting from anyone who’d pay him attention. Chalky ran to Lewrie as soon as he sat down on the settee, leapt into his lap and clung to his coat, making fussing noises and butting his head on Lewrie’s chin. Bisquit quit his rapid circling of the cabins and came to the settee, too, hopping up on it and laying his paws and head in Lewrie’s lap, whining for assurance.

“Sometimes I wonder if it would have been kinder t’leave him on my father’s farm,” Lewrie said, stroking both creatures ’til their distresses had ceased. Chalky began to purr, rattling away, and the dog closed his eyes and slunk the front half of his body onto Lewrie’s lap and thighs. His bushy tail began to flit, lazily.

“Cap’m’s Cook, SAH!” a Marine sentry a

“Enter,” Lewrie responded, remaining seated.

Yeovill came in, and Bisquit hopped down and went to him for pets, and a lot of snuffling; Yeovill smelled like good food and was liberal with treats.

“Scrounger,” Lewrie accused the dog.

“I was wondering, sir, if you had plans to dine your officers in tonight, in celebration,” Yeovill posed.

“Aye, I thought I might,” Lewrie told him. “Major Hughes will also be dining here. He’s a roast beef and potatoes sort, but … I wonder. What can you serve that ain’t, Yeovill? Something exotic or foreign.”

“Oh, well, sir,” Yeovill pondered. “Let me think on it for a bit. I found a receipt at Gibraltar for a French dish, Chicken Marengo…”

“Had that in Paris,” Lewrie commented. “Good!”

“Onions, tomatoes, eggs … though I don’t know what to replace the crayfish with,” Yeovill maundered on. “Salt-fish? Hmm. A berry trifle for sweets, and we’ve lashings of fresh green beans. Potatoes with cheese and bacon…”

“Couscous, with cheese sauce,” Lewrie suggested, instead.

“With some chicken gravy to moisten it, yes, sir,” Yeovill said with a nod. “Chick peas, turned to hummus, with stale bread for dipping. And, we’ve more rabbits than God.”

Long ago, Lewrie had served under a Commodore who’d insisted that rabbits and quail made a topping-fine alternative to salt-meat, and he had emulated him. They bred quick, too.

“Sounds good, Yeovill,” Lewrie praised. “I’m certain you will produce a triumph, you always do.”

“Thank you for saying so, sir,” Yeovill replied, smiling with delight. “Exotic and foreign, hey? Then that’s what it will be.”

“Good man,” Lewrie said.

“Cool tea, sir?” Pettus offered, and Lewrie was more than amenable to that, too.

I can’t wait t’see Hughes’s ruddy face when he gets served that! Lewrie thought. He’d seen how much Hughes disliked any foreign “kick-shaws,” and he fully intended to make him as uncomfortable as he could.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The days on passage back to Gibraltar were a trial for Lewrie, since Major Daniel Hughes was aboard, and most of the time as chatty as a li

Worst of all, Hughes had the idea that if he’d been allowed Lewrie’s great-cabins once, and was dined in several times out of teeth-grinding hospitality, then he could breeze in and plunk down on the settee and order up a glass of something every time he felt a thirst. “The Rhenish, Pettus, there’s a good fellow. I’m dry as dust, what?”

The last straw was when Hughes seated himself in Lewrie’s wood-and-canvas collapsible deck chair, propped his feet up, and began reading one of Lewrie’s racier novels! That had resulted in an altercation with Mr. Deacon that went roughly thus.

“I wouldn’t do that, sir,” Deacon cautioned. “Like the windward side of the quarterdeck is only for the Captain, so’s his chair.”

“What?” Hughes had grumped back. “He ain’t usin’ it at the moment.”

“He’ll be dis-pleased does he discover you in it, sir,” Deacon remonstrated.

“Who are you to tell me, Deacon?” the Major barked. “I’ll not be ordered about by a jumped-up ex-Sergeant, or a spy’s ‘catch-fart’ minion! Bugger off!” He returned to his novel, fussily.

“I don’t know whether to challenge you to a duel … sir … or simply kill you where you sit … sir!” Deacon replied, bristling up and exuding a palpable air of menace.