Kings and Emperors

“Main-well, sir,” Deacon said, pouring all round.

“Celebrating still?” Lewrie asked. “A bit premature, that. As I said, you really should have stayed long enough to hear the details of the terms that Dalrymple, Burrard, and the French thrashed out.”

“Mmm, well … what are they?” Mountjoy had to ask, and Lewrie took joy of being the source of information that the spy-master did not know; it was rare that that shoe was on his foot.

“Well, first, the French will evacuate all their troops from every inch of Portugal,” Lewrie told him. “We get it all back at one blow.” And as they cheered that, he took a welcome sip of his wine. “But…” he added, sticking a finger in the air, “they get to sail back to France, in British ships, with all their arms, colours, and … personal possessions, which means whatever loot they’d stolen from Portugal. And, their pay chests,” Lewrie said, scowling, as he explained about the portable mints, the ships that Marshal Junot hired for his booty. “I heard that General Wellesley wanted to march down to Torres Vedras at once, keep the initiative, and box the rest of Junot’s troops in at Lisbon, but that was scotched. The whole thing has simply turned to shit, a great, steaming pile of it!”

“My God, the lack-wits!” Mountjoy gravelled, after a minute of slack-jawed amazement. He tossed off his wine at one go. “We’ve been diddled! How incredibly … stupid!”

“Still, we beat them, sir,” Deacon said. “I would have loved to have seen it, myself. And we get Portugal back.”

“I went ashore with my Ferguson rifled musket, and saw it right from the firing line,” Lewrie told him, “and yes, it was grand to see. The French column can’t beat the British line, and rolling platoon volleys.”

“Portugal free, and the Spanish revolt has driven the French North of the Ebro River,” Mountjoy stuck in, seeking any solace. “If Spanish math is to be trusted, ‘Boney’s’ invasion has cost him over fourty thousand killed, wounded, and captured, and King Joseph Bonaparte’s fled Madrid for Burgos, maybe as far as Vitoria.”

“And, we’ve been told that General Sir John Moore is on his way to Lisbon,” Deacon added, looking for another bright spot. “General Sir David Baird is to land another army at Coru

“Lisbon’s where your boy, Romney Marsh is, now,” Lewrie took a great joy in relating, loving Mountjoy’s astonishment. “However he managed that. He’s been sending Admiral Cotton useful news.”

“I’d rather not know,” Mountjoy gawped. “The details would scare me out of a year’s growth! I got one note from him from Seville, then another from Ayamonte, then he dropped off the face of the earth. I didn’t know he was fluent in Portuguese, but then he would be, wouldn’t he? French, Spanish, Latin, Greek, he’s as daft as you are, Lewrie. The two of you are of a piece! Playing private soldier, my Lord! You do anything to relieve your boredom, anything to smell gunpowder.”

“Nonsense, I was just witnessing history,” Lewrie demurred.

“Well, there’s a faithless bitch that’ll put you in the ground, if you’re not careful,” Mountjoy cautioned. “History, hah!”

“Can’t do without me, is it?” Lewrie teased as he sat back down with his re-fill. “Me, or your private navy? Speaking of that, I suppose I’m still under your orders? Do ye have anything in the works for me to do?”

“More arms deliveries,” Mountjoy idly said with a shrug. “Do some scouting of the cities along the coast where the French are holed up, the forts. I may have you sail to Lisbon to retrieve our mystery man, now that we occupy the place.”

“I promised Maddalena that she’d see Lisbon someday,” Lewrie said with a fond smile. “Speaking of, if ye have no more questions for now, I’ll see you both at the ball.”

“What ball?” Mountjoy asked with a scowl.

“The garrison officers are poolin’ resources t’throw one, and I’m told I’ll be invited,” Lewrie said, tossing off the last of his glass and getting to his feet again. “I expect you both will be, as well, so … shave close, bathe, and brush your teeth, hmm?”

*   *   *

Back on the street, Lewrie set a fast pace South along the quayside, threading his way impatiently through carters, barrow men, and half-drunk sailors. As Sapphire had come in under reduced sail, he had peered closely at the rented lodgings, and, sure enough, Maddalena had come out onto the balcony and had enthusiastically waved a tea towel in welcome.

Kept her waitin’ long enough, he thought as he increased his pace as he got closer to her building; Kept me deprived long enough! He felt at a pocket of his coat to assure himself that he had brought a full dozen fresh cundums ashore.

Suddenly, he was there, she was there, at the balcony rails, up on tiptoes, bouncing with eagerness with a wide smile on her face, and as he waved widely back, she reached up to the back of her neck and freed her hair to fall long, lush and lustrous. Yes!

Some bystanders might laugh, but Lewrie didn’t care a fig for their opinions, didn’t care if he was making himself the biggest fool. He practically burst through the ground-floor doors, and pounded up the stairs in a growing eagerness of his own, and it was more than a simple, raging lust; that sudden swelling of intense affection struck him in a rush, almost making him utter “Whoo!”

Down the long hallway to the door that was already swung wide, and there she was with her arms out-stretched, her expression between utter delight and a crumple into tears of joy.

“Alan, meu amor, you are back!” she cried as he hungrily swept her into his arms, lifted her off her feet, and danced her round the parlour, burying his face in her neck.

“Maddalena, minha doce, Lord how I’ve missed you!” he declared. “It’s been too long!” Then he could not say more as she rained kisses on his face almost frantically, ’til he found her mouth and pressed her to a long, deep soul kiss that made her moan and giggle.

“I have missed you so much!” Maddalena whimpered and cooed.

“I bring good news, grand news, minha querida,” he tried to impart. “The French have been beaten, Portugal is … let me tell it, first. The French are leaving Portugal, Lisbon will be ours, and your country’s free, again! We’ve won!”

“Que ke?” she squealed in astonishment. “Sim? Maravilhoso, oh praise God!” she cried, reverting to English.

“You still have that pink gown ye wore when we met Sir John Moore?” he asked with a laugh. “There’s t’be a grand victory ball, sure t’be fireworks with it, and we’re goin’ t’be invited.”

She leaned back a bit in stupefaction, then broke out an even wider smile, and used one hand to brush away more tears.

“’Less ye’d like a new’un?” Lewrie offered.

“My country is free,” she whispered, marvelling, “my people are free.” Her face screwed up as she began to bawl in his arms, and Lewrie held her close, lost and unable to understand all that she managed to say, all in Portuguese. Her cat, Precious, now a mature young tom, sensing her distress, came to paw at the bottom of her gown, and bat at the gilt tassels of Lewrie’s boots.

She calmed, finally, stepped back and reached down to lift her cat to her breast to cuddle it and stroke its head, slowly pacing about the parlour, as if finding comfort, or giving comfort. Lewrie went to close and lock the door.

“Agradececer tu, Alan,” Maddalena said in a meek voice, looking at him with frank adoration. “Thank you for the finest gift you could ever give me, meu amor.”

“I live to please,” Lewrie japed with a lop-sided grin.

She sat her cat down on the settee and came to his arms once more, sliding into his embrace, wrapping her arms round his neck and kissing him long and deep, and her breath went cow-clover musky.