Kings and Emperors

“Ah, thankee, Alan, but I’ve already seen to that,” Percy told him, gesturing to some troopers removing kettles from the hand-carts and passing among the sick and wounded with tin mugs. “The depot has lashings of rum that will most-like be burned up or dumped into the harbour, so they’ll all get a portion in their tea, orders and regulations be-damned. They’ve more than earned the wee comfort, the poor devils. Like my horse, do you, Alan?”

“Aye, he looks a go-er,” Lewrie agreed, appraising the grey gelding.

“Thunder, here, is a stout and brave beast,” Percy said, stroking his horse’s neck. “He’s the last of mine that still has shoes. Another of our torments, that … the farrier waggons lost, no nails or horseshoes, along with no grain and no grass to graze. We simply had to shoot the lame ones.

“I started with a string of five in Portugal,” Percy went on, fondling his mount’s forehead and muzzle, “and now I’ve two left, and my mare is lame, and without shoes, so I suppose it’s be kindest to shoot her, too, but…” He broke off and buried his face against his horse’s neck.

“The depot, surely…,” Lewrie tried to encourage.

“They’ve no grain,” Percy told him, leaning back. “We were told the Spanish would provide, and I doubt they could shoe no more than a single squadron before ru

“The big convoy’s due any hour,” Lewrie promised, hoping that there were horse transports; he was an Englishman, a horse-lover from birth, and despised the thought of Percy’s magnificent horse being shot to keep it from the French, or to keep it from starving.

“I must get back to my post,” Percy a

“I get enough o’ that aboard ship,” Lewrie said with a little stab at humour, then offered his hand. “You take care, now, Percy. We’ll do what we can to save you and your men.”

“I count on it, Alan,” Percy replied, shaking hands strongly. “I wonder … if anything does happen to me, would you see to…?” He reached inside his ornately trimmed tunic and withdrew a packet of wax-sealed letters, bound in a short stack with ominously black ribbon.

“Christ, Percy, how would I know when t’mail ’em, not knowin’ whether you’re alive, or fallen?” Lewrie exclaimed. “I might frighten Eudoxia and Lydia to death with false news!”

“Nothing that grim, no, Alan!” Percy told him with his first sign of good humour. “Merely last expressions of love, just in case. I didn’t write me will, for God’s sake, no ‘by the time you get this’ nonsense!”

“Alright, then,” Lewrie promised, taking the packet and putting the letters in a side pocket of his coat. “Though, you’ll be on some transport, and I don’t know where I’m goin’ from here, but I’ll post ’em for you.”

“That’s true, but mail them anyway,” Percy told him, stepping back near his horse’s saddle and gathering up the reins. “I suppose this will be the last chance to see each other, as you say, so … do you take care, yourself, Alan.”

“If the French come, give ’em Hell,” Lewrie replied.

“We’ve already done a good job of that, and I intend to if they dare. Goodbye, old son,” Percy said as he mounted. “And, I think my sister a damned fool for her choices.”

There was no reply that Lewrie could make to that statement; all he could do was doff his hat as Colonel Percy, Viscount Stangbourne, wheeled his mount about and cantered off.

“Boats are coming back, sir,” Midshipman Hillhouse reported as Lewrie paced to the seaward end of the stone quays. “Fresh oarsmen, it looks like.”

“Excellent,” Lewrie told him, looking over the harbour waters. The snow had stopped, and the scudding clouds appeared higher, and lighter in colour, as if the Winter gloom might abate.

“There, sir!” Captain Chalmers shouted, pointing seaward. “See there, sir! Damme, why did I not bring my glass with me?”

Lewrie went to his side and cupped his hands either side of his eyes. “Yes, by God! Yes, thankee Jesus!”

Admiral Hood’s vast armada of over an hundred transport ships was sailing into sight, sail after sail, mast after mast, stacked up against each other from one end of the vista to the other, and stretching far out to sea as if the on-coming columns of ships would never end. The nearest would come to anchor within two hours, whilst the farthest out to sea might take ’til dusk to get into Coru

“Gad, what a magnificent sight!” Chalmers crowed.

“About bloody time,” Lewrie added with less enthusiasm after his initial outburst.

“Oh, surely, Captain Lewrie,” Chalmers countered, “one simply must be awed by such a sight.”

“Oh, I’m awed, no error, Captain Chalmers,” Lewrie said, “but, if the French get here before the army can begin to evacuate, they’ll have to stand under arms, where they are, and perform a fighting withdrawal before we can get ’em into boats and safely aboard all those transports. This ain’t over, not by a long shot.”

“One might think you a pessimist, sir,” Captain Chalmers said rather stiffly.

“Just a simple sailor, me,” Lewrie rejoined with a grin.

CHAPTER FORTY

All the sick, wounded, and exhausted soldiers were aboard the transports, as much of the depot’s supplies were either removed to the ships, and the rest scandalised. The Spanish artillery in the Citadel, the little island castle of San Antonio off the town’s defences, and along the long sea walls were either spiked, levered over into the harbour waters, or turned about to face landward.

Yet, as Lewrie suspected, General Sir John Moore’s army still stood in their positions along the Monte Mero, on Santa Lucía Hill, and upon the Vigo Road approaches. The transports were waiting, the twelve sail of the line were anchored to provide fire should the French swarm over the defences and gain the town, but … everyone waited, and no one would, or could, tell anyone why.

Moore had brought the remnants of his army to Coru

*   *   *

“Good morning, sir,” Sailing Master Yelland said, tipping his hat as Lewrie left his great-cabins for the quarterdeck on the morning of the 16th. “It looks to be a brighter day.”

“Hmmph,” was Lewrie’s comment. The skies were clearer, and a weak Winter sun now and then peeked through the grey clouds slowly scudding inland. The harbour waters were chopped with short, steep waves, strewn with white-caps and white-horses, and were a tad more green than the steel grey of the day before, a sure sign that out to sea there had been heavy weather. Lewrie went to the bulwarks for a look seaward, then to the Second Rate flagship for any signals that might tell him anything, but finally turned his telescope shoreward to see if he could make out what the army was doing, or if the enemy had arrived in the night.

He finally lowered his telescope and collapsed the tubes so he could stow it in a coat pocket, shaking his head in weariness, and disappointment. He heard a hopeful whine by his right knee, and felt a muzzle touch his leg. Bisquit had come for a snack, and a touch of human comfort.

“Yeovill already cooked you a warm breakfast,” Lewrie said to the dog, “and you’re still hungry? Oh, here, then.” For just such an eventuality, he’d put a spare sausage in his pocket, and held it out for Bisquit to whine and jump at, balanced on his hind legs. “Might be too spicy for ye.”