Kings and Emperors

Have to follow the traditions, Lewrie groused to himself; even if we were comin’ in half-sunk or on fire!

*   *   *

Matters were out of his hands, he learned after a brief talk aboard the Second Rate flagship. The captains of the anchored Third Rates and other escorts were already assigned roles to organise the boats from their own ships, and the transports, into flotillas to ferry soldiers and their gear out to the chosen troop ships, sick and wounded first, and those the regimental surgeons had determined to be utterly exhausted and useless for further fighting later. It was only then that fit troops would be sent out to other converted merchantmen for evacuation.

General Sir John Moore was in a cleft stick, really, for though he must rescue his army quickly, a French army under Marshal Soult was pressing close, and if he reduced his strength too quickly, he faced the risk that those still ashore might be overcome and taken, or massacred! Lewrie was told that there might be at least fifteen thousand British troops left from the thirty-two thousand that he, General Sir David Baird, and General Sir Henry Paget’s cavalry, had led into Spain. Some thirty-five hundred had been gotten off from Vigo. He also learned that during the long retreat, many artillery pieces had been abandoned, guns, caissons, limbers, and all as they broke down or the horse teams died. What was left to Moore had to be deployed in defensive positions to counter the French when they arrived, but must be evacuated as a point of honour, finally; the loss of one’s artillery was too shameful to be borne!

Even worse, Moore’s remaining army was in terrible shape, low in morale, dis-spirited and nigh-un-disciplined, the bright uniforms ragged, torn, and filthy, and their footwear (for those who still had them) worn through. Until the lead units had met a large supply convoy of waggons meant for the Spanish armies on the road from Coru

General Sir David Baird had set up a large supply depot when he had landed his smaller army at Coru

Once back aboard Sapphire, Lewrie had gathered his officers and Midshipmen together in his great-cabins and had given them the orders he’d received from the flagship. They would have to be rowed over to a specific set of troop ships that had come into port with them, get all their ship’s boats and the transports’ boats arranged into one group, and row ashore to the quays by Santa Lucía, and pick up soldiers from one certain regiment, then see them aboard those transports and keep it up ’til every last man of that regiment was accounted for and safely aboard. Lewrie volunteered himself to go ashore with the first boats; he was just too curious to sit idle and let events occur round him with nothing to do about them!

*   *   *

“A damned imposin’ place,” Lewrie said to his Cox’n, Liam Desmond, as the cutter was stroked towards the quays.

“Aye, sor,” Desmond agreed. “Fortified walls right down to th’ docks. Like they don’t much care f’r visitors.”

“Might be pretty, in Summer,” Lewrie speculated.

“If ye like rocks, sor,” Desmond slyly teased.

The foul weather might have moderated, as the Sailing Master had said, but Coru

Once he set foot atop the quays he became even more depressed. There were still wounded men laid out on carrying boards and their own blankets awaiting treatment aboard the transports. Beside the obvious combat wounds, there were fellows without shoes or boots, or wool stockings, their toes blackened by frostbite; those who had lacked gloves or mittens showed fingers or whole hands turned blue-black as well, and sure to suffer amputations before the poisons of their frostbite killed them. Once back in England, the army would discharge them with pittances for pensions, where, unable to work to support themselves, they might starve to death in a year.

“You, sir! You, there! Do you have a hospital ship for my wounded?” an army surgeon demanded as he came up to Lewrie.

“I’ve a transport, sir, not a hospital ship,” Lewrie had to tell him, doffing his hat in salute despite the fellow’s rudeness. “My own Ship’s Surgeon and his Mates can be sent aboard her to aid you, but…” He had to end with a helpless shrug.

“Well, Goddamnit!” the peppery little fellow swore. “I’ve done the best I could for them, God witness. There wasn’t much fighting, and those wounds I’ve treated, and those poor fellows that lived to this point only need rest. The exposure cases, though … yes, do send me your man. I fear there will be quite a number of amputations before the day’s done.”

“All these are from your regiment, sir?” Lewrie asked. “We’ve been told t’keep ’em together. Good. Mister Hillhouse?” he called out to his senior Midshipman. “Let’s get all the wounded in this lot into the boats, then make for the Prosperity transport.”

“Aye, sir,” Hillhouse replied, looking round, appalled for a moment before springing into action.

“You’ve attendants t’care for ’em aboard the ship, sir?” Lewrie asked the surgeon.

“Yes, a dozen bandsmen, they’ll help with the loading, and tend to them,” the army surgeon told him. “The rest of the battalion is still up in the hills, yonder, with Hope’s Division.”

“Is there anyone I could speak to who knows what’s going on?” Lewrie asked him. “Some staff officers, or…?”

“My dear sir, nobody knows what’s going on here, or has since we began our bloody retreat!” the surgeon snarled, then turned away.

“Carry on, Mister Hillhouse,” Lewrie called over his shoulder. “I’ll remain ashore for a while and see if I can find anyone who can make sense of this mess.”

“Aye, sir,” Hillhouse said, then paused. “Ehm, if Prosperity isn’t full, do we ferry un-wounded troops out to her?”

“Fill her to capacity, then begin on the next ship, the Blue Bo