Kings and Emperors

And when it came to drink, well! The Navy could substitute wine in foreign waters for their rum, but to do that too often could result in loose ca

“Ah, well, sir, it was only an idea,” Yeovill said, slumping.

“Fresh-slaughtered bullocks’d be best for the holidays, shore bread, and sweet duffs … and of course we could ‘splice the mainbrace’ for the rum issue on Christmas Day,” Lewrie decided.

“Real ale with the meal, sir, not small beer,” Yeovill suggested quickly, “a pint apiece with no ‘sippers’ or ‘gulpers,’ and that might make them happy. There’s pasta available by the bushel, too, and I doubt Ta

“Small beer with the meal,” Lewrie countered. “I’ll not have ’em suckin’ ale down in one go, then turnin’ angry when they don’t have anything more t’drink with their beef. God, next thing ye know, I’d be labelled a ‘Popularity Dick,’ and discipline’d go straight to Hell. By the by, Yeovill, you’ve a cat ready t’climb your leg,” he slyly pointed out.

Yeovill reached down and swooped Chalky up to cradle against his chest, where the cat sniffed eagerly at all the galley aromas on his clothing, then just as quickly tired of being held, and fussed and wiggled to be freed.

“Like I just said, Yeovill … fickle,” Lewrie said, gri

“Aye, sir,” Yeovill said with a grin of his own.

“Yes, we’ll think of something t’brighten their lives when the holiday comes round,” Lewrie began to sum up, but stopped and cocked an ear as someone on deck challenged an approaching rowboat, yelling over the loud drumming of the rain, but impossible to make out what was said in the snug great-cabins.

A moment or two later, though, and the Marine sentry was reporting Midshipman Griffin to see the Captain. Lewrie bellowed for him to be admitted, and rose to his feet as the lad came in, dripping even more rainwater from his tarpaulin coat.

“A letter from shore for you, sir,” Griffin a

“Thankee, Mister Griffin, you may return to duty,” Lewrie said as he tore it open, “and try not t’drown out there.”

“Aye, sir!” Griffin replied with a laugh.

“Mine arse,” Lewrie said, groaning after he had read it. “Get out my boat cloak, if ye please, Pettus. It seems I’m summoned out in the rain. Pass the word for my boat crew to muster, Yeovill.”

“Yes, sir. Uh … your supper?” Yeovill asked as he threw on his tarpaulins once again.

“Not a clue, sorry,” Lewrie said as he fetched his own coat and do

*   *   *

The summons had come from General Drummond, now the commander of the Gibraltar garrison and defences, for him to attend that worthy at the earliest possible moment. It was a miserable and soggy trip ashore in his cutter with his voluminous boat cloak wrapped round him and covering his thighs; even so, water had trickled down the back of his neck, and when the wind got up in a gust or two, and the rain came half horizontal, almost blinded him and soaked his face and his shirt collars. After that, it was a long, wet plod up to the Convent, almost wading through some patches and puddles as rain sluiced downhill along the steep cross streets.

Wonder what the bloody rush is about? he wondered as he handed his hat and cloak over to an attendant, shooting soggy cuffs and readjusting his neck-stock, and looking round. The army headquarters was as hushed as a church on Monday, not stirring to some alarm over a sudden crisis. His boots rang on the stone flooring, though in point of fact, doing so rather squishily as he approached Drummond’s office doors. Lewrie a

“Ah, Captain Lewrie,” Drummond said, looking up from papers on his desk, and rising to greet him. “So sorry to have sent for you on such a day, but … there it is. Tea, sir?”

“Most welcome, sir, thankee,” Lewrie replied.

Uhoh, Lewrie thought, almost wincing as he spotted Mountjoy and Deacon seated apart from the desk, in front of the large fireplace; it must be something hellish if they’re here, too!

“Afternoon, Captain Lewrie,” Mountjoy said, getting to his feet to come shake hands. “A wet day, even for a sailor, hey?”

“Hallo, Mountjoy. Aye, so wet I could paint you a water colour,” Lewrie rejoined, “Mister Deacon, how d’ye keep?”

“Main-well, Captain Lewrie, sir,” Deacon replied, nodding and begi

“So, what’s so important, then?” Lewrie asked, going towards the fireplace. There wasn’t much of a fire laid, more for atmosphere than anything else, but he wished it was roaring—if only to dry his clothes out.

“Of late, we’ve received some disturbing, possibly some very bad information,” Mountjoy hesitantly began, looking towards General Drummond for permission to speak first.

“Tell him, sir,” Drummond gruffly said with a nod as he came to join them with his own fresh cup of tea. “It was your people who first alerted us.”

“Very well, sir,” Mountjoy said, then turned to Lewrie as he took a seat near the meagre fire. “Our source in Paris—”

“That bitch,” Lewrie growled. “Charité, again?”

“Yes, sir, that … bitch,” Mountjoy said with a wince, and another look to General Drummond. “Captain Lewrie and our agent in Paris have crossed swords, as it were, in the past, do you see. She has sent word that the Emperor Napoleon will not let Spain go quite so easily, and is sending massive re-enforcements over the borders to re-conquer what was recently lost, some sixty thousand, doubling his numbers North of the Ebro River. What’s worse, Napoleon himself is coming South with another hundred thousand, with his best marshals … La

“Sorry … heat of the moment,” Lewrie said, abashed, busying himself with his offered tea, cream and sugar. “Damn my eyes, ‘Old Boney’s’ takin’ the field himself?” he blurted again, suddenly realising the import of that move. “Christ, Moore and his army’ll just be trampled in the rush! Is she … is this confirmed?”

“We’ve agents in Northern Spain, and it is confirmed, sir,” Mountjoy told him, rather severely. “The report from Paris, for once, comes behind the times. The Spanish General, Blake, moved to block the French advance, but his army was nigh-massacred at Durango, and we have it on solid terms that Napoleon is already at Vitoria.”

“See here on the map, sirs,” Drummond said, finishing his tea and leading them to his massive map of Iberia. “We don’t know whether Moore and Baird have united their forces or not, round here at Salamanca, as they had pla

“He may not think much of us, even after Roliça and Vimeiro, are you saying, sir?” Mister Deacon asked sharply.

“Napoleon doesn’t think much of the Spanish, even after the defeat at Bailén, either,” General Drummond gravelled back, appearing miffed by the slur on his service’s record against the French. “It is hoped that he considers Moore a side-show to his need to seize Madrid, and thrash what forces the Spanish have in the field. Way off here,” Drummond said, sweeping a hand to the East, over near Zaragoza, “the Spanish Generals Castaños and Palafax, we believe, managed to extract their armies from the disaster at Durango, and might be able to operate against the French supply lines. A damned desolate and forbidding place for the French to be, in the mountains of central Spain in Midwinter, with nothing coming from France to succour them. Should they make the attempt, successful or not, they might draw Napoleon away just long enough for Moore and Baird to retreat back into Portugal. I sincerely hope that they do so, soonest.”