Kings and Emperors

“Oh, good Lord,” Mountjoy had whispered in dread when Captain Hughes was piped aboard. “Not Hughes!”

“It’s worse for you, Mountjoy,” Lewrie whispered to him as the fellow had doffed his bicorne in salute at the lip of the entry-port. “You’ll have t’share that spare cabin off the wardroom with him, hee hee! I’ll dine him in in my cabins, of course, but he’s all yours most of the time.”

“Old Zachariah Twigg was right about you, Captain Lewrie,” the spy-master hissed. “You do have a vindictive streak!”

“Aye,” Lewrie gleefully agreed with that assessment, “and I’ll have my cook, Yeovill, serve as many foreign kickshaws as he can think of when I do feed the bastard.”

Poor Hughes; he seemed full of himself to be entrusted with a mission so vital for the new Commander-In-Chief, strutting about and puffing with pride to be thought useful, again, his abilities fully employed, and ready to tell everyone how he was anticipating that he would be Dalrymple’s aide-de-camp in the field, taking part in grand battles where his skill and experience would be proven.

“I don’t know whether t’feel sorry for the sod, or chuck him over the rails,” Lewrie said with a groan. “But, I am becoming tired of his presence. Where’s our bloody army when ye need it?”

“Pray God that General Wellesley finds him indispensable, then,” Mountjoy commiserated in the privacy of Lewrie’s stern gallery after a mid-day meal. “Then we’re both shot of him. God, how he snores! And, whatever you’re serving him, he’s the windiest fellow ever I’ve had to share a cabin with. That Yankee rebel, Benjamin Franklin, wrote an essay about farting proudly, but God!”

“At least he don’t talk in his sleep … or does he?” Lewrie asked in jest.

“No no, nothing human-sounding,” Mountjoy replied, grimacing. “It’s all grunts, moans, and bear-like rumbles and rattles.”

“Sail ho!” a lookout in the main mast cross-trees shouted. “One ship, fine on the bows!”

Lewrie fetched a day-glass and mounted the poop deck to spy the strange sail out, but found that the i

“No idea who she is, sir?” Midshipman Ward asked at his elbow.

“No, Mister Ward,” Lewrie told him, raising his telescope to an eye again. “Run aft. My respects to the officer of the watch, and he is to hoist our colours and make the Interrogative signal. If she’s one of ours, she’ll make her number in reply. If she’s an enemy, then we’ll see. Off ye go, scamper!”

“Aye, sir!” the lad said, and turned to make haste astern.

The sight of the Captain on the forecastle, the report of a strange sail on the horizon, and Ward’s rapid run aft stopped the men of the watch at their various duties, forcing some to lean far over the bulwarks for a look, others to ascend the shrouds for a view of that strange sail, and caused still others to gather in knots to talk it over and speculate. When Lewrie turned about to look aft to see if their national ensign and signal flag had been hoisted, he was pleased to see how many of the crew were looking eager for action. After the boresome escort-work Sapphire had done under her old Captain in the Baltic, her people had come to expect a good fight, and lashings of prize-money to follow another prideful victory. Lewrie’s mouth curled into a wee smile as he made his return to the quarterdeck down the larboard sail-tending gangway, nodding confidently to the sailors and Marines he met, acknowledging some by name with a cheery “good morning” but not answering any questions, yet. He felt a spurt of pride as he considered that he’d created a happy, confident ship and a crew that knew its business when called to Quarters.

“Any reply?” Lewrie asked Lt. Elmes.

“Not yet, sir,” Elmes replied, casting a quick look aloft to the signal hoist to reassure himself that it was not masked by the sails and upper-works.

“Deck, there!” the lookout shouted. “She makes her number, and shows British colours!”

“Four … Two … Four,” Midshipman Griffin slowly read out as he clung to the mizen’s larboard shrouds, half-way to the cat-harpings.

“Ehm…,” Midshipman Ward said, fumbling this month’s secret signals code book until he’d found a match. “She’s the Sabine, Sixth Rate frigate. Captain … Artemis Fleet.”

“Another hoist, then,” Lewrie said, feeling a little disappointed that they wouldn’t have a fight. “Ask her where we can find the army.”

“Aye, sir,” Ward said, going to the poop deck and the taffrail flag lockers.

“One of ours, then?” Mountjoy asked. “Perhaps she’s standing guard over the army’s latest access to the sea.”

“Might very well be, Mister Mountjoy,” Lewrie agreed. “Useful, the Interrogative flag,” he mused aloud. “We once spoke one of our ships near the Greater Antilles. Neither of us had seen the sun for nigh a week, and we’d both been ru

“That’s much like the one I saw done when I was Fifth Officer in a seventy-four, sir,” Lt. Elmes reminisced with a grin. “We were alongside Gun Wharf, and another ship was waiting to tie up where we were. Her Captain hoists How Long Will You Be, spelled it all out, and our Captain replied with numerals and spelled out Foot. One hundred eighty feet!”

“Good one!” Lewrie chortled.

“Naval humour,” Mountjoy bemoaned. “Like sailors’ slang, it’s indecypherable.”

“Reply, sir!” Midshipman Griffin shouted down to them. “M … A … C … I … E … R … A … Bay! Maciera Bay!”

“Mister Yelland? I’d admire a look at the charts, if you please,” Lewrie asked, steeling himself to be in the cramped chart room on the larboard side of the quarterdeck, and hoping that Yelland had sponged off in the last week.

“Ah, here, sir,” Yelland said, tapping an ink-stained forefinger on the rolled-out chart of the coast of Portugal. “It’s not much of a bay, though. There’s a wee river, or large creek, that runs down to the sea ’twixt these steep, rocky hills. There isn’t much of a beach to speak of, and ah … aye, we’d have to anchor far out, since the chart shows that the bay approaches are shallow and sandy. Maybe not the best holding ground, either. Do you wish a safe five or six fathoms, we’d be at least a mile or better offshore.”

“We’ll go in sounding the leads, and I will feel better if we anchor in six or seven fathoms,” Lewrie decided, not liking the sketchiness of the chart’s information. “We’re about here, now?” he asked as he tapped the chart near Praia de Ariea Branca.

“Uhm, I’d say near level with Lourinhã, sir, a bit further on than that,” Yelland corrected. “Still about twenty miles seaward of the coast.”

“Very well, sir,” Lewrie said, “we’ll alter course to the Southeast ’til we strike this twenty-fathom line, come level with Maciera Bay, then alter course again Due East and find safe anchorage.”