Kings and Emperors

“And you need someone t’give it a fresh look-over, I see, sir,” Lewrie said, his excitement rising.

“That Mountjoy fellow reminded me that you had sailed close to Ceuta several times during your, ah … exertions during the Summer, and thought you might be familiar with the number, and calibre, of its artillery,” Sir Hew said, twitching his mouth; he had not been enthusiastic about the raids, even if they might have led to Spanish troops being syphoned off from the vicinity of Gibraltar to protect the coast.

“It’s a fine day for it, sir,” Lewrie chearly said, itching to be back aboard his ship and out of harbour. “I can be off Ceuta by noon and back in port the day after with a report.”

“I’ve heard some rumours, which that spying fellow of yours…,” Sir Hew said with a sniff.

He’s mine is he? Lewrie thought, twitching his mouth.

“… that Ceuta has been re-enforced,” Dalrymple went on, “with more troops and more guns, perhaps two more regiments and two more gun batteries, though there’s nothing definite. How that’s possible, God only knows. I’ve observers atop the Rock with strong telescopes.”

Lewrie went to look at the map, searching for the landing place that served the fortress. “Your observers can’t see round the other side of the peninsula, sir, the Sou’west side at the narrow neck below the fortress. Ships from Málaga and Cartagena could sail wide, almost level with Tetuán, then coast up to the landing. Do it in the dark … on stormy nights? Those two big frigates I fought were loaded with supplies, food, and arms. They could have been on their way to concentrate with what’s left of the Spanish navy at Cádiz, but now I suspect that they were on their way to Ceuta when I ran across ’em. That’s most-like how they did it.”

“And our naval supremacy in the Mediterranean could do nought to stop them?” Dalrymple snapped, as if assigning blame.

“Our fleet in the Med, sir, is more concerned with the French, at Marseilles and Toulon,” Lewrie pointed out. “When Sapphire raided the coast, it was rare t’run into a naval presence ’til we got up to Barcelona, and, once the raids were suspended…”

That earned him a deep glower from Dalrymple; he’d been the one who’d ordered that the raids cease, to maintain his amicable relations with his counterpart, Spanish General Castaños.

“In any event, I do need someone to make a reco

“I’ll get right at it, sir,” Lewrie said, turning to go.

“By the by, how is your progress with the gunboat squadron?” Sir Hew called out.

“Bloody awful, sir, truthfully,” Lewrie was happy to tell him. “But Captain Middleton at the dockyard is making adjustments.”

“Be sure that once you return with your report that you bend all your efforts to bringing them to fruition,” Sir Hew sternly told him.

“But of course, sir,” Lewrie had to agree, while wondering if he could send a written report ashore by boat, then sail off to see what was happening off Cádiz, or Lisbon; anything but gunboats!

*   *   *

“Welcome back aboard, sir,” First Officer Geoffrey Westcott said to him, in his shirtsleeves and sweaty from sword practise. In Lewrie’s absence, the crew had been put to an hour of cutlass drill, and the two-decker had rung with metallic clashes before his boat was hailed, and Lewrie’s Cox’n, the “Black Irishman” Liam Desmond, had shouted back “Aye aye!” and held up four fingers to tell the men of the watch that the Captain was returning.

“Had enough tinkling, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked.

“Well, aye, sir,” Westcott said with a puzzled frown.

“Good. Stop the drill and stow the cutlasses away, then pipe Stations for getting under way,” Lewrie told him. “Once we’re fully under sail and beyond Europa Point, we’ll beat to Quarters, to boot.”

“At once, sir!” Westcott shouted with glee. “Ehm … where are we going? Is there a fight ahead?”

“We’re ordered to scout Ceuta, and yes, there may be a fight,” Lewrie promised. “It’ll be un-equal, of course, but we should survive it.”

Westcott was still puzzled, scowling fiercely, but inside he was pleased.

“Let’s get those bloody awnings down!” Lewrie shouted.

CHAPTER FOUR

Out at sea, there was a decent amount of wind to carry Sapphire over towards Ceuta under fully-spread tops’ls, t’gallants, all of her stays’ls and jibs, with her main course brailed up against the risk of that great sail catching fire from the discharge of her own guns. It had been several months since the 50-gu

“The ship is at Quarters, sir,” Lt. Westcott reported, sternly and formally, even doffing his hat in salute.

“Very good, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie replied with equal formality, and a doff of his own hat. “Do we have good, deep water with no obstructions, right up to within a mile of the fortress, Mister Yelland?” he asked, turning to the ship’s Sailing Master.

“Within a mile, sir?” Yelland replied, sucking at his teeth. “Aye, sir, if you’ve a mind. Ten fathom right to the shore, except at the narrows, where it shoals to five.”

Lewrie nodded agreement, glad that they did not have to enter the chart room on the larboard side of the quarterdeck, for Yelland did not sponge himself as often as he should, nor did he change his small-clothes often, either. Yelland was an excellent Sailing Master, but by God did he reek!

“Mister Hillhouse, and Mister Fywell,” Lewrie called out to two of his Mids, one in his twenties, and the other still a lad. “I will admire did ye both place yourselves in the main mast fighting top and take a slate, or paper and pencil, with you. We’re going to trail our colours before the Spanish bull, and see how he snorts. I want a count of guns in the fortress, t’see if they have more than the last time we got close to the place. A rough guess as to the respective calibres’d be welcome, too.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Hillhouse, the oldest, firmly replied. Fywell merely nodded with a wide-eyed gulp, for the fortress of Ceuta mounted artillery equal to 32-pounders and 42-pounders in British measure, and could range out to three miles. There already were some thin skeins of smoke rising within the fortress, where roundshot was being heated to red-hot in the furnaces. They might be cooking mid-day di

“Mister Westcott, you and I will be on the poop deck, where we can use our telescopes to spy out the other details,” Lewrie said.

“A grand place to catch a cool breeze, sir,” Westcott agreed, despite his understandable worry. This was damn-fool daft!

“I think we’ll begin at three-miles’ range, then slowly close to two miles, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie said, “and I’ll trust you and trigonometry t’see to that. We’ll not make it easy for them.”

“Aye, sir,” Yelland said with a throat-clearing grumph.

“Just … tempting,” Lewrie added before mounting the larboard ladderway to the poop deck.

HMS Sapphire stood on, with the rocky heights and the fortress of Ceuta almost bows-on for some time, ’til the Sailing Master spoke up. “Three miles off, sir!”

“Very well. Hands to sheets and braces, and make her head Due East,” Lewrie ordered, and the Bosuns’ calls piped the order, along with loud bawls from Bosun Terrell and his Mates, Nobbs and Plunkett. The helm was put over, and Ceuta swam from being obscured by the fore course and jibs to appear ahead of the bows off the starboard side.