Kings and Emperors

Lt. Westcott frowned, too, as if sharing his concern. “Aha, sir! What about Mister Mountjoy? We can’t leave him here.”

“Damn my eyes, you’re right,” Lewrie said, all but slapping at his forehead. “Ye know, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since I came back aboard.” He looked about to espy one of the Midshipmen of the Harbour Watch. “Mister Ward, you are to take boat and go ashore to the army encampment, find Mister Mountjoy, and fetch him back so that we can sail.”

“Ehm … Mister Mountjoy, sir?” Ward said with a gulp, turning red in the face, “I, ah … he sent a note aboard late last night and I … I was about to stand the Middle, and…” He felt himself all over, probed all his pockets, and finally produced a wadded piece of lined foolscap. “I’m sorry, sir, I quite forgot about it, being so late, I didn’t wish to wake you, and…”

Lewrie took it from him, un-wadded it, and spread it flat with his palm on the nearest bulwark cap-rail. It was written in pencil.

“Well,” Lewrie said at last, frowning deeply. “It appears that Mountjoy’s left for Gibraltar, already, aboard one of the transports carrying wounded soldiers to the Navy Hospital. Wanted to carry news of the victory quickest, damn him.”

It actually read;

Spies unwelcome, bad food and worse drink, flearidden straw pallet, and barred from negotiations by the “proper” sorts. Gibraltar and Seville must be told at once. See you at the Ten Tuns Tavern, Mountjoy

“Well, that’s a relief,” Lt. Westcott said.

“Mister Ward, though,” Lewrie growled, rounding on the lad. “You’ve been badly remiss, you’ve denied me what amounts to official communication. You know that I should have been roused, or the note sent to my cabins, at once … don’t you, young sir?”

“Sorry, sir,” Ward said, shuddering. It was rare that the Captain lost his temper.

“Mister Terrell?” Lewrie bellowed in his best quarterdeck voice. “Pass word for the Bosun! Mister Westcott, when the Bosun turns up, he is to give Mister Ward a dozen of his best.”

“I will see to it, sir,” Lt. Westcott replied.

Lewrie went aft to his cabins, and only heard the whacks as Midshipman Ward was bent over the breech of a gun and “kissed the gu

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

It really wasn’t all that far from Maceira Bay to Lisbon and the Tagus River, and even the usually plodding HMS Sapphire fetched sight of Admiral Sir Charles Cotton’s blockading ships just after dawn of the next day. Sapphire made her identification number to the flag, then hoisted Have Despatches, quickly answered by the flagship’s demand of Captain Repair On Board, and Lewrie was off in the 25-foot cutter as soon as his ship could come within rowing distance, with his boat crew in their Sunday Divisions best.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” the flagship’s Captain said once Lewrie had attained the deck of the towering Second Rate. “The Admiral is aft in his cabins. If you will come this way? Ehm … we’ve heard some rumours that a surrender has been arranged?” he hinted, as eager as anyone for news from shore.

“I shouldn’t tell tales out of school, sir,” Lewrie demurred, “but aye, there has been. I fear I must leave it to Sir Charles to impart the details, once he’s read it over. Let’s just say that the French will evacuate the whole country, and leave it at that, if you don’t mind waiting a bit more.”

“Hmpfh, well … here you go, sir,” that officer said, irked a bit that Lewrie was not more forthcoming.

He was ushered into the Admiral’s great-cabins, a richly and grandly furnished suite twice the size of his own. Sir Charles Cotton rose from behind his day-cabin desk and came forward to welcome him, a fellow of a most substantial build suitable to his age and rank.

“Despatches, is it, Captain … Lewrie, is it?” Cotton boomed. “Think I’ve heard your name somewhere before. Sit, sir, and will you have tea or coffee?”

“Tea, sir, if you don’t mind,” Lewrie responded, finding a chair in front of the large desk. He looped his canvas bag off before he did so, opened it, and handed over the slim packet inside. “Sir Hew Dalrymple has finalised the terms of the French surrender, sir, and this is your copy of the, ah … Convention of Cintra.”

“That what they’re calling it?” Cotton said, eagerly taking it and ripping it open to read it.

“So I was told, sir,” Lewrie replied. “The largest town near Vimeiro, or something.”

“No, it’s nearer Lisbon, and the coast, where the negotiations have been held,” Cotton countered, with most of his attention drawn to the despatches.

Hughes needs to swot up on his geography, then, Lewrie thought.

“What in the bloody, pluperfect Hell?” Cotton exploded. “My God, what a travesty! Send them back to France, with all their arms and personal…? What a damn-fool joke!” Cotton spluttered. He went red in the face as he flipped through the several pages, then slammed it atop his desk as if touching it was dangerous.

“I was given a separate summary of the agreement, sir, should you have any questions about the broader strokes,” Lewrie offered.

“Talk about snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, hah!” Cotton fumed. “Didn’t think him capable, but Wellesley at least beat the French right proper, and he deserved better than this, England deserves better than this rot. Dalrymple must be going senile, and Burrard, that puff pastry…! Don’t tell me that Wellesley signed this willingly.”

“I was given to understand that he had very little say in it, sir,” Lewrie told him, “and I don’t know, but suspect, that the other gentlemen used their seniority to press him to it.”

Lewrie got his tea from a cabin-servant, a cup and saucer in an intricate and delicate Meissen china pattern, with a sterling silver spoon to stir with, and a tray bearing fresh-cut lemons and a sugar bowl was presented him.

“This will be the utter ruin of them all,” Cotton predicted. “Even Wellesley’s family can’t save him from it, this time. I wish I’d been ashore to see it, though, and how anyone beat the French.”

“I was, sir,” Lewrie said with a grin. “It was all quite cleverly managed. He placed his troops along a long, two-mile ridge, and hid the bulk of his men on the back slope, only summoning them up at the moment the French columns got in musket-shot. Two or three thousand muskets firing down on the front and flanks of the columns just melted them away in a twinkling, and then they followed that up with bayonet charges, for the most part, sending the French stampeding back in complete dis-order. It started round nine in the morning, and it was done by noon, or thereabouts.”

“You went ashore?” Cotton marvelled, squinting.

“I wanted to see it, one way or another, sir,” Lewrie said. “The slopes were carpetted with French dead, and thirteen pieces of artillery were captured. It was … grand!”

“Hmm, well,” Cotton said, referring to that damnable treaty once more. “I don’t see any mention as to the disposition of the French warships, or the Russian squadron, at Lisbon. What were you told of them, Captain Lewrie?”

“Nothing, sir,” Lewrie told him. “I don’t believe that they were even considered, but that’s the Army for you. Perhaps Sir Hew Dalrymple might’ve imagined that the French ships would escort their army back to France, but that would be ridiculous.”

“Damn what Dalrymple imagined, or wants!” Cotton said, slamming a fist on his desk hard enough to make his pens jump. “I have long pla