Kings and Emperors

“Very well, sirs,” Beauchamp said with a grin, doffing his hat to them in parting salute. “Leave the horses at the remount station. Don’t know if they’ll be available, later, but, if you wish to come ashore and witness the battle to come, the best of luck to you.”

Lt. Beauchamp put his mount to a stride and headed off for his mess, and his tea, whilst Lewrie and Westcott turned theirs round and ambled back to the beach at a slow walk.

“At least he seems confident, sir,” Westcott commented after a long, quiet moment. “But, he is a younker. All flags and bands, and glory.”

“Aye, we know better by now, don’t we,” Lewrie cynically agreed. “But, ye know … I think I would like to see how this army does when the time comes.”

“I would, too, sir,” Westcott strongly hinted. “If only to relieve the boredom. We’ve spent too long at escort-work, with nary one sight of an enemy sail, or the prospect of a fight. I fear that you have spoiled me, and our crew, you know.”

“We have had a good run at it, haven’t we, Geoffrey?” Lewrie mused. “Until the French went missish, and lurk in port, scared to risk themselves at sea any longer.”

“Five whole years of excitement,” Westcott summed up with a longing sigh. “God, it’s so dull, we might as well be at peace!”

After half an hour, they reached the remount station and surrendered their tired mounts, then continued on foot to the banks of the shallow Maceira River.

“There he is, again,” Westcott pointed out as he espied the mounted man they now knew for Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Wellesley. He was peering out to sea with his own pocket telescope, looking both intent and angry. His horse had its head up, too, looking seaward, as were the hounds that accompanied him, who sat on their hindquarters with their tongues lolling, panting in perfect patience as if awed by their master’s mood, and barely bothering to scratch at their fleas.

“What’s he looking at?” Westcott wondered aloud, but in a soft voice, as if he was daunted, too.

Lewrie pulled out his glass and had a long look, then handed it to Westcott. “There are dozens of ships out there, Mister Westcott, tops’ls and t’gallants above the horizon. They might be hull-up by mid-afternoon. If it ain’t the French, it’s Burrard and his brigades, come at last.”

“No wonder he looks so black, then,” Westcott said with a wee laugh.

Wellesley heard that, and snapped his head about to glare at them both for a second, his face all “thunder and lightning.” Those thin lips half opened for a hurled curse, then clapped shut just as quickly before he returned his steely gaze to the incoming ships.

“Let’s get back aboard,” Lewrie said, “before he has us flogged at a waggon wheel.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

The troop transports, “cavalry ships,” and supply vessels came to anchor off Maceira Bay in droves, with the convoy escorts anchoring further out. HMS Sapphire’s four boats were ma

General Burrard’s re-enforcement did not extend to many pieces of artillery, though, and Lewrie could count only about 240 cavalry horses to add to the 180 or so that Wellesley had had at the Battle of Roliça. And those poor horses, both the cavalry mounts and the gun-team horses! They had been at sea so long that they seemingly had lost the ability to walk. Once they’d been swum ashore and led to assembly points, it was almost comical to see horses saddled up, cavalry troopers swung up astride, and see the horses just fold their legs up and squat to the ground under the weight!

“Hmm,” Lt. Westcott said, his face contorted by a wince as he witnessed that. “That don’t look promising. That Beauchamp fellow told us this morning that the French had scads more cavalry than we do. What use are those poor prads, if they can’t even stand up? If you do go ashore to see the battle, sir, pray Jesus you don’t get offered one of them!”

“A good clue t’that, Geoffrey,” Lewrie said, shaking his head as he watched, “is that the new-come horses all have docked tails, but the local Portuguese horses we got didn’t.”

“Don’t see the sense of that, sir,” Westcott said. “How else do they keep the flies off them, if they don’t have long tails. Poor beasts. A Hell of a thing our Army does with their horseflesh. Not as bad as the French, I’m told, though. They ride them to death, with open saddle sores so bad that you can smell them coming.”

“S’truth?” Lewrie gawped. “There’s another good reason t’hate the French like the Devil hates Holy Water.”

“At least they leave their tails long,” Westcott agreed. “My word, on the riverbank yonder. Where all the torches are lit? Isn’t that Wellesley getting into that boat?”

Lewrie lifted his glass once more and peered intently at the shore. “Aye, I think it is, by God. ‘Captain Repair On Board,’ and all that, hey? The poor bastard’s on his way t’get his marchin’ orders from Burrard, most-like, gettin’ replaced before he’s fought his battle. I wonder if he’s thinkin’ that he’d’ve done better to march off South without waitin’ for extra troops.”

“Sir?” Midshipman Harvey reported from the bottom of the quarterdeck ladderway. “Our boats are returning from their ferry-work.”

“Very well, Mister Harvey,” Lewrie absently took note. “My compliments to the Purser, Mister Cadrick, and he’s to see that the boat crews get their evening rum issue … them only, mind … and that they are fed their proper rations right after.”

They had rotated the hands who ma

“I’ll see to it, sir,” Westcott offered.

“Thankee, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said with an incline of his head. He pulled out his pocket watch and studied it in the light from the taffrail lanthorns. “It’s almost time for your supper, and mine. Sure ye aren’t deprivin’ yourself?”

“The wardroom mess can start without me,” Westcott said with a shrug.

“Then I will leave it to you, sir, and go below,” Lewrie said, closing the tubes of his telescope and trotting down the ladderway to the quarterdeck, and the door to his great-cabins.

He barely had time to hang his hat on a peg before his cook, Yeovill, came breezing in with his heavy covered brass barge, and a cheery “Good evening, sir!” and a description of what he had prepared: beef broth with peas, carrots, and onions; a small roast quail done in herbs; salt-pork well-soaked in fresh water to remove the crusted preservative and fried; with a roasted potato, split and drizzled with a cheese and bacon sauce; and green beans.

Of course, there were some shreds of everything for Chalky, along with his usual wee sausages, and Yeovill assured him that the ship’s dog, Bisquit, had already gotten a bowl of broth, rice, and cut-up sausages, too, which he was devouring in his cubby beneath the starboard poop deck ladderway on the quarterdeck … after a foraging journey along both gun decks among his friends in the crew.

There was a very nice Portuguese white wine with the quail, and Lewrie took a whole glass before his first bite, asking for a re-fill.

“Ehm, before ye turn in tonight, Pettus,” Lewrie said after a few spoonfuls of broth, “I’m still of a mind t’go ashore round dawn, t’see what the army’s up to. I wish my over-under pistols and the brace of single-barrel Mantons cleaned and oiled, and my Ferguson rifled musket seen to.”