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Beyond them, lines of four-wheeled waggons and carts with two man-tall solid wooden wheels stood waiting. The half-battalion that had just set foot on shore stacked their arms up by the waggons, and began to carry all those goods to the waggons, where civilian Portuguese drivers and carters began the loading, under the supervision of British officers in shakoes or elegant bicorne hats.
It struck Lewrie that this landing was better organised than any he’d seen before, at Toulon, at Blaauberg Bay two years before at the invasion of the Dutch Cape Colony, certainly that shoddy mess at Buenos Aires. He suspected that the initial landing of General Wellesley’s army a day or two before had been just as efficient. Someone had given a long thought upon how to get troops, guns, waggons, and horses ashore quickly and smoothly, ready for battle the day after if necessary.
And all those waggons and carts … They were definitely not British Army issue, for upon a longer look, he could not discern more than four that looked similar, as if local towns in Portugal built their own styles. They were all the colours of the rainbow, as well, much like the lot that Sapphire had shot to smouldering kindling on the coast road from Málaga to Salobreña.
That must’ve cost Wellesley a pretty pe
When they had landed General Spencer’s small army at Ayamonte, or Puerto de Santa María, the cost of hiring or leasing Spanish carts and waggons was as dear as purchasing them outright, and Spencer was as tight as the worst pe
“They’ll have their supplies in the waggons and be ready to march off in the next hour,” Lewrie predicted, lowering his telescope. “That regiment’s other half-battalion will be ashore with ’em by then, tents, cookpots, and all. We may have all of Spencer’s force off the ships by the start of the First Dog this afternoon.”
“Who knew our army had it in them, sir?” Westcott said in sour wonder. “Is this one of Sir John Moore’s famous reforms?”
“Could be,” Lewrie whimsically replied. He turned away from the starboard quarterdeck bulwarks, put his hands in the small of his back, and peered upward at the long, streaming commissioning pendant for a hint of the wind direction, had a look seaward for signs of a change in the weather, then turned to look back at the beaches. The sea seemed a bit more boisterous further North of the bay, at Cape Mondego, but the bay itself, rather open to the prevailing Westerlies, looked safe, so far, for boat-work, and the surf that growled on the beaches was not too high.
Sea-bathing; it was tempting even if he could not swim a lick. The day was hot, and it wasn’t even close to Noon. He had already shed his uniform coat and hat, but still felt sweltering in waist-coat, shirt, neck-stock, breeches, and boots. The King, “Farmer George,” had begun the fad and made Brighton what it was today, with thousands of people of all classes who thought it fashionable to dunk themselves in perishing-cold water. He’d liked the springs at Bath; they were heated.
George the Third’s as batty as yer old maiden aunt, Lewrie told himself; Perhaps he was daft back then when he took his first dip!
“Signal from Admiral Cotton’s flagship, sir!” Midshipman Kibworth piped up. “Oh! Sorry, sir. It’s Newcastle’s number, and Captain Repair On Board, not Captains.”
“Dinin’ Jemmy Shirke in, is he?” Lewrie quipped. “Well, I’ve seen Jemmy eat with a knife and fork before, and he does it elegant. Oh, this’ll be embarrassin’. All our boats are away helpin’ with the landings, and Newcastle doesn’t have a raft available.”
Lewrie went to the larboard side of the quarterdeck to watch the show. Newcastle’s signal halliards sprouted a series of flags that repeated the flagship’s hoist. They remained aloft for a moment, then were struck down to be replaced with a single flag; the Unable.
“Oh, poor bastard!” Westcott whispered under his breath.
Cotton’s flagship sent a new hoist aloft, jerking swiftly to be two-blocked. It was Explain, spelled out.
“No … Boat … Available,” Midshipman Kibworth slowly spelled out, referring to his code book. “Request … Send … Boat.”
Explain was lowered so quickly that it appeared as if Admiral Sir Charles Cotton had tailed on the halliards himself, and in a fit of dire pique.
“Handy bloody word, ‘Request,’” Lewrie smirked. “Oh, do, pretty please?”
“With sugar on it,” Lt. Westcott added, chuckling.
“Send … ing … Boat,” Kibworth read off, at last.
“Whatever was pla
“Then, with you on deck, and the Mids in charge of the Anchor Watch, I think I’ll go below and have a nap, sir,” Westcott said. He tapped two fingers on the brim of his cocked hat by way of salute and departed for the wardroom.
* * *
He read ’til time for his own mid-day di
There was something heavy and warm on his right thigh, and when he opened one gritty eye, he found Bisquit sitting close by his chair with his head and forelegs draped over him, smelling distinctly doggish, and panting with his tongue lolled out. Lewrie gave Bisquit a pat on the head, and ruffled the fur on his throat and ears. That was a mistake, for Bisquit took it as an invitation to hop up onto his chest and stomach like a hot, hairy blanket, and a heavy one, too.
“Oh no, no, me lad!” Lewrie chid him. “That’ll never do. Get off me.” He struggled to rise, to shove the dog off, but Bisquit was having none of it, whining to stay.
“Here, Bisquit, here, boy!” Midshipman Fywell coaxed, snapping his fingers and whistling. “Want a bite of bisquit?” he asked, producing a corner of a half-consumed ship’s bread from a pocket. That freed Lewrie, though the dog’s quick leap and shove with his rear legs made Lewrie let out an “Oomph!”
“Thankee, Mister Fywell,” Lewrie said, getting to his feet, at last. Bisquit flopped down by the forward railings and crunched away.
“Mister Midshipman Hillhouse’s respects, sir, and he sent me to report that our boats are returning.”
“What, the landings are done?” Lewrie asked, scrubbing sleep from his face with both hands.
“Aye, sir, it appears so,” Fywell went on. “The last boat-loads of soldiers and their supplies went in an hour ago, and the General’s transport … the Agent Afloat aboard her, that is … hoisted a Discontinue about a quarter-hour ago.”
“My respects to Mister Hillhouse, and he’s to make sure that all the scuttlebutts are topped off, Mister Fywell,” Lewrie ordered. “The hands’ll be hellish-thirsty when they return. I’ll be in my cabins. Carry on.”
“Aye, sir,” Fywell replied.
Once in the relative coolness of the great-cabins, Lewrie called for a glass of cool tea, and a pint of wash water. He stripped off to the skin, soaked his washcloth, and swiped his body down from head to his toes to freshen and cool himself. He thought of dressing, but the idea of clothing, especially a wool broadcloth uniform coat, just palled. He padded into his bed-space and do