Kings and Emperors

“Take charge of one of the cutters, get ashore, ferry wounded men out to the transports ready to receive them, but … report back to me as soon as you can as to what’s happened ashore,” Lewrie ordered.

“Aye aye, sir!” Hillhouse said, doffing his hat before dashing off, eager to shine, happy to be singled out, and just as curious as his Captain in that regard.

Who the Hell am I dinin’ in t’night? he had to remind himself; Sailin’ Master, Marine officers, Purser, and Mister Elmes, and two of the Mids? Well, the Mids are out, they’ll all be busy.

He thought better of that.

“Gentlemen, I will be dinin’ later than normal,” he a

As soon as he was in the privacy of his cabins, he tossed off his hat and boat cloak and cried for whisky, listening to the clack of his chronometer as it measured the un-ending minutes that he had to bide.

*   *   *

“Midshipman Hillhouse t’see the Cap’m, SAH!” the Marine at his door shouted.

“Enter!” Lewrie barked back, much too loud and eagerly.

Mister Yelland the Sailing Master, Marine Lieutenants Keane and Roe, Mister Cadrick the Purser, and Lieutenant Elmes were already in the great-cabins, sitting or standing round the starboard side settee with wineglasses in their hands. Their already-muted conversations were hushed as Hillhouse entered, hat under his arm.

“Well, Mister Hillhouse?” Lewrie demanded.

“Beg to report, sir, all wounded are now aboard the transports, and our boats are returning,” Hillhouse began, very aware that all eyes were upon him. “The army beat off every French attack, and hold the same positions that they did this morning. I was told it was touch and go round some village called Elvina, the French would take it and we would shove them back out, several times. I was told that they’re fought out … the French, I mean, sir. Shot their bolt, was the way an officer described it. We’ve won, sir!”

Sapphire’s officers began to cheer at that news, but Hillhouse was holding up a hand to indicate that there was more to be imparted.

“It was dearly won, sir,” he said at last when the din had subsided. “General Sir David Baird is among the wounded, had his right arm shattered, and General Sir John Moore, sir … he was hit by a ca

“Baird, good God!” Lewrie gasped. “I knew him, from Cape Town. Poor fellow! I hope he survives his wounds.”

“And, we all met Sir John last year, sir,” Lt. Elmes lamented. “A Devil of a fine fellow, a gentleman, and a soldier.”

“Amen t’that,” Lewrie agreed, taking a sip of his wine that had suddenly lost its sprightly lustre. “Hope is sure that the French are done, they’ve shot their bolt, and can’t interfere with the evacuation?”

“I gathered that they were in very poor shape when they arrived, and fought out of sheer desperation for our rations, sir,” Hillhouse told him, “much as you speculated this morning, that they were fighting for a spoonful of food!”

“Well, then, sirs, let ’em starve some more round their cheerless campfires tonight,” Lewrie said with a grin, “and let us make a point to dine exceeding well! You’ll join us, of course, Mister Hillhouse?” And the Midshipman nodded his thanks, Lewrie raised his glass and proposed a toast; “To Victory, gentlemen!”

“Victory!” his officers shouted back.

“And Confusion, and Famine, to the French!” Marine Lieutenant Roe added on, crowing with glee.

“Ah, supper is laid and ready, sir,” Pettus reported.

“Good! Let’s dine, then, sirs,” Lewrie bade them, waving them to the dining-coach and their places at the table.

Some victory, though, he thought as he took his seat at the head of the table; too dearly won, and we’re still slinkin’ off like thieves in the night. And, there’s still tomorrow. The army ain’t away Scot free, yet!

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The 17th of January dawned cold, mockingly clear, but with boisterous seas out beyond the harbour. It appeared almost too cheerful and su

Word had come during their supper the night before that all of the evacuated troops would not be returned to Lisbon, where they had started, but would be borne back to English ports, as if the entire expedition had been given up as a failure. That prompted speculation that the ten-thousand-man garrison left in Portugal might be withdrawn, as well. “Keep it to yourselves,” Lewrie had cautioned, though “scuttle-butt” would spread, as it usually did, to every man and boy aboard as if he had stood on the quarterdeck and bellowed the news to one and all!

Make the best of your way to English ports, is it? Lewrie reminded himself as he sca

He spotted some movement among the transports anchored close to the quays at Santa Lucía; several were hauling themselves to Short Stays, and begi

“Good morning, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, looking up from the quarterdeck. “The evacuation has begun, then?”

“Good morning, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie replied in kind. “Aye, so it appears. I think I can make out some defensive lines out beyond the town. Come on up and have a look for yourself.”

Westcott joined him and stood by the bulwarks, slowly pa

“No, not yet,” Lewrie glumly agreed, sca

“I say, sir,” Westcott said, “but is that a French flag atop Santa Lucía Hill, yonder? Our troops must have left it during the night. Yes, yes it is a French flag. Damn my eyes, I think I can make out artillery pieces!”

Lewrie straightened up and leaned onto the bulwarks with his telescope to his eye, again, straining to confirm Westcott’s observation. “Damme, you’re right. They’ve a whole battery up there, the snail-eatin’ bastards!”

As they watched, they could hear the rustling of sail-cloth, the distant rumbling of anchor cables, as more transports began to get under way, along with the approved capstan chanties allowed aboard Royal Navy warships as they, too, began to get under way to escort this clutch of ships out to sea and back to England.

“They’re opening upon our transports,” Westcott spat as they both saw the first puffs of gunpowder smoke from Santa Lucía Hill, followed seconds later by the reports of discharges, and the keens and moans of incoming roundshot.