Kings and Emperors

“He made Able, grew a beard, and was one of the mutineers in my crew at the Nore, under a false name,” Lewrie said. “I saw him drowned in chains, as we transferred prisoners once we made our escape. Very … eerie, it was.”

“Didn’t help him along, did you?” Shirke asked, wide-eyed.

“Let’s just say that a lot of eerie things happened with the Proteus frigate, her odd launch, the drowning of her Chaplain, how her first Captain went mad, and swore the ship was out to kill him?”

“Good Lord, a spook ship?” Shirke exclaimed.

“She was t’be Merlin, but she stuck fast on the ways when they called out ‘success to the Proteus,’” Lewrie told him, feeling a bit of a chill run up his spine, even long years after. “An Irish sawyer and his son laid hands on her forefoot, whispered something, and off she went. Her first Captain and Chaplain were Anglo-Irish cater-cousins, and when they boarded one night, the Captain said the man-ropes stung him like wasps, makin’ them both fall into the water. Never found the Chaplain’s body, then the Captain went ravin’ mad a day or two after. I never had a speck of bother from her, but, maybe that’s because some say I’m touched with a lucky cess.”

“And, maybe Proteus killed Rolston,” Shirke slowly said, with his brows knitted in awe. “He was a murderer, and dis-loyal to her! Gives me the shivers to even think about that!”

“There were some, me included, who thought her touched by the old pre-Christian gods,” Lewrie told him. “A better name might’ve been HMS Druid, or Wizard. Ye ever cross hawses with her, doff yer hat to her and speak respectful,” he suggested with a wink.

“Rather stand well aloof to windward,” Shirke confessed. “Well, it’s good to see an old companion from the old days, and know that he ain’t out to gut me. I hope to get under way by tomorrow’s dawn, weather permitting. I’ll dine you in when we drop anchor at Cádiz.”

“Hope ye like Spanish cuisine, Jemmy,” Lewrie said, offering his hand one more time. “It ain’t all bad.”

“On your way, Alan, and good luck,” Shirke said in parting.

*   *   *

Once back aboard Sapphire, and padding round his great-cabins in stockinged feet as he prepared for bed, Lewrie felt a strong urge to reminisce. Yes, he’d been the worst sort of fool when he first went aboard old Ariadne in 1780, sulky, feeling wronged that his father had shoved him into the Navy, just to lay his hands on an inheritance from his late mother’s side to clear his many debts, with him all far away and un-knowing how he’d been cheated. He’d been a right pain, and not for his nautical ignorance, but for his arrogant, cynical, and selfish attitude, feeling surrounded by slack-wit fools or un-feeling brutes.

Fond memories of my Midshipman days? he thought; Not hardly! I can laugh about it, now, but it wasn’t all that much fun. Jemmy Shirke, well. Hadn’t given him a thought in ages! I’ve no hard feelings. His pranks were cruel fun, but he meant nothing by them.

He had released Pettus and Jessop from duty and had the cabins to himself; just him and Chalky. He poured himself a wee dollop of brandy at the wine-cabinet, took the lone lit candle into his sleeping space, and found Chalky waiting for him with his front paws tucked under his chest, slit-eyed with drowsiness. That didn’t last for long. The cat rose and arched his back, going on tip-toes to stretch.

Lewrie finished his brandy, set the glass atop one of his sea-chests, snuffed the candle, and rolled into bed, with Chalky crawling up one leg to his chest to demand pets.

Fillebrowne, now … what t’make of him? Lewrie wondered.

It struck him as odd that Fillebrowne showed no curiosity at the mention of Thom Charlton, Benjamin Rodgers, or his First Officer in Myrmidon, Stroud. The man had tolerated Shirke, Hayman, and himself, and their tales of past experiences, offering none of his own, almost seeming impatient with their supper conversation.

We aren’t good enough for his sort, Lewrie decided, yawning; He thinks himself so far above the bulk o’ Mankind, I wonder if he has a single friend he thinks worthy.

“I just don’t like the bastard, puss,” Lewrie whispered to the cat, stroking its chops and under its neck as Chalky sprawled even closer and began to rumble. “And he doesn’t like anybody. He’s an amateur at this business, and I doubt the Navy was his decision. What’s a second or third son t’do, if your family says ‘go find your career, or else’? Good God, he might’ve been pressed, the same as me! I still don’t like him, though. Don’t trust him, either.”

Chalky belly-crawled up nearer his chin and began to lick and head swipe.

“G’night, Chalky. I love you, too.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Mondego Bay was aswarm with troop transports and supply ships when the convoy bearing General Spencer’s five thousand men arrived, and the few piers in Figueira da Foz had been claimed by the first arrivals, the army under General Sir Arthur Wellesley. Most of his troops and supplies were ashore and encamped, so their convoy vessels could go close to the shore and ferry everything to a broad, deep hard-packed beach. All of Sapphire’s boats, and the larger cutters or launches from Newcastle, Assurance, and Tiger were put to the task.

“Hmpfh!” Lieutenant Geoffrey Westcott said with a snort after looking the scene over with his telescope. “Are we landing an army, or a parcel of visitors to Brighton? Look there, sir, at those soldiers skylarking.”

Lewrie raised his own glass to one eye and beheld what looked to be utter chaos. Dozens of ship’s boats were stroking shoreward to the beaches, soaring as they met the moderate waves of surf, and all crammed with piles of crates, kegs and barrels of rations, and infantrymen sitting upright between the oarsmen with their muskets held vertically ’twixt their tight-squeezed knees. But in the surf, pale and naked men were splashing, swimming, floating, or standing in thigh-deep water to let the incoming waves break over them. Further up the beach, barely dressed and bare-chested men were basking or footballing as if the entire army was having a Make and Mend day of idleness.

“One can only hope that French soldiers are as thin and spindly as ours,” Lewrie said with a sigh. “They look as pale as spooks.”

“They’re in the boats’ way!” Westcott groused.

“Uhm, no, I don’t think so,” Lewrie disagreed after a longer look. “Someone’s planted posts and flags along the beaches to clear a long stretch where the boats can land. The swimming areas are outside of that. Damme! Someone in our army half knows what he’s doing, for a change! The whole affair looks … organised.”

“Oh, now that you point it out, I see it,” Westcott said in a much milder voice, sounding as if he was disappointed that he could not have himself a good rant.

“Ye know, I’ve never been to Brighton,” Lewrie admitted. “I’ve taken the waters at Bath, but they say that saltwater bathing is good for you. Half-freezin’ your arse in the Cha

“As I recall, though, sir, you ca

“I said ‘dip,’” Lewrie replied, “not ‘plunge.’ Wade, perhaps, and let the surf have its way with me, with my feet firmly planted in the sand. On such a warm day, well, it looks refreshin’.”

He swung his telescope back to the boats as they hobby-horsed the last fifty yards or so to ground their bows in the sand, rising on the incoming wave, surging onward as it broke and foamed round them. Sailors leapt out to walk the boats over the last incoming surge and steady them as the soldiers began to debark over the bows. Soldiers from other units came down from the low dunes and barrow overwashes to help the boat crews unload and stack crates, bundles, and kegs ashore.