Kings and Emperors (45 page)

“Ehm, I was also wondering if we could do something special for the ship's people, too, sir,” Yeovill went on with his eyebrows up in hope. “A goose or turkey for each eight-man mess, perhaps, with shore bread, puddings or duffs, and fresh vegetables?”

“Good Lord, how would Tanner ever cook all that?” Lewrie jeered. “The only method that one-legged twit knows is ‘boil,' and boiled goose is worse than cold, boiled mutton!”

“I was thinking I could find someplace ashore, sir, to roast whatever I could find, and have it rowed out,” Yeovill went on.

“Hmm,” Lewrie pondered, again, considering the drawbacks of that. On the days that salt-pork or salt-beef was issued to the hands, it came in the form of eight-pound chunks or joints chosen by weekly-appointed messmen from every eight-man dining arrangement. Once chosen, the meat went into that mess's string bag with a numbered brass tab to identify it, and once boiled to a fare-thee-well, it and the accompanying bread or bisquit, duffs or hard puddings, soup, beans or pease, were hand-carried from the galley to the messes. The meat was sliced into roughly one-pound portions—less all the bone and gristle that the crooked jobbers left on—and doled out.

“'Oo shall 'ave this'un, then?” Lewrie said, chuckling, in an approximation of lower-deck accents. “Only two legs on a duck or goose, Yeovill, and everyone'll want one. Then there's the problem of how they'd deal with the carving,
and
what you'd do with the left-overs.”

“Well, perhaps they'd stuff themselves so full, there wouldn't be any, sir,” Yeovill suggested, “and if they slice it off in slabs, they could reach over for seconds.”

“I don't know…,” Lewrie fretted, stroking his chin. “Sailors are a conservative lot, and not exactly welcoming to new foods, as we have learned, hey?”

When his old frigate,
Reliant,
had been off the American coast, the crew had turned their noses up at plain boiled rice, and now his people aboard
Sapphire
weren't fond of
couscous,
either, and had sent a round letter aft to complain, the spokesmen's names arranged in a circle round the margins of the paper so no one could be singled out as the instigator.

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 cannon balls rolling over the lower decks, an ancient precursor to out-right mutiny. No, Jack Tar would have his rum and his small beer, and all else was so much foreign fiddle-faddle!

“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 Tanner could ruin big pots of cheesy pasta. I could see to the melting of the cheese, as a side dish.”

“
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, grinning.

“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 announced, handing over a sealed square of paper.

“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 donned it, and selected his oldest, foul-weather, cocked hat from the pegs. “If I'm back aboard in time for it, I may have t'draw whatever the crew's havin', else I may dine ashore if anyone's feelin' charitable after.”

*   *   *

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 announced himself to a junior officer in the outer office, and was seen in.

“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 beginning to rise 'til Lewrie waved him to stay comfortable.

“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 … Lannes, Soult, Ney, Victor and LeFebre, to erase any resistance in Spain, for good. And, might I conjure everyone in this room to ignore Captain Lewrie's out-burst and forget that our agent's name was ever uttered?” Mountjoy added, casting a stern look in Lewrie's direction.

“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 planned. If Napoleon is already at Vitoria, he'll most likely march on Burgos, next, then right on South to re-take the capital, Madrid. He could, however, move from Burgos to Valladolid to face Moore, first, depending on how threatening he imagines a British army is to him.”

“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.”

“Though there's no way to get a rider to warn them, or order them to retreat,” Lewrie said in a grave tone.

“No, Captain Lewrie, there is not,” Drummond bleakly agreed. “Sir John Moore is senior to me, and Supreme Commander in Portugal and Spain, so I can but advise. Since Moore departed Lisbon I have not heard one word from him.”

“What are these marks, at Lugo and Léon, sir?” Deacon asked.

“Those?” Drummond said with a faint sneer on his face. “Those are two more Spanish armies, one under a General Barclay at Lugo in central Galicia, already defeated and licking their wounds by the way, and the other represents an army under a General de la Romana at Léon.”

“It would seem that
they
are in as good a position to interdict the French supplies as Castaños and Palafax in the East,” Deacon commented.

“Hah!” Drummond said with a derisive toss of his head. “I'll lay you any odds that they won't, sir. Barclay's army, as I said, has been trounced and mauled quite badly, and Romana, so the
junta
in Madrid informs me, may have, ehm … inflated his numbers just to look good to them. They
do
that, you know, perhaps to continue receiving the soldiers'
pay
! Our military attaché in Madrid writes me that it's a safe bet that if a Spanish general reports thirty thousand men on hand, he's more like to only have ten or twelve, and half of them are without proper arms.

“An example, if you will, gentlemen,” Drummond sourly went on. “This year, the returns upon the Spanish cavalry reported a bit over eleven thousand troops … yet they had only a little more than nine thousand
mounts
! God only knows why my predecessor, General Sir Hew Dalrymple, put so much faith in Spanish promises, for I surely don't. Neither does London. Moore and Baird were warned not to attach themselves to Spanish armies, or expect too much from them.”

“Anything from Lisbon, Mountjoy?” Lewrie asked the spy-master.

“Hand wringing and fretting, mostly,” Mountjoy told him, “viewing with alarm. They don't know much more than we do, having gotten the same despatches that we have, and hopefully sending it on to the Army.”

“Napoleon will go after Moore, first,” Lewrie said after a long peer at the large map.

“How come you to that, sir?” General Drummond snapped.

“I've met the bastard twice, sir, and he's all for honour and glory … his, mind,” Lewrie said with a wry smile. “As you say, he's a very low opinion of Spanish armies, and can trounce them any day of the week. He surely knows Moore's reputation, though, and is anxious to avenge how a British army embarassed him at Roliça and Vimeiro, and Marshal Junot's ouster from Portugal. We made him look weak and bad, and that preenin' coxcomb can't abide that. He'll go for Moore with all he's got.”

“He's more than enough troops to re-take Madrid
and
take on Moore, both,” Mountjoy pointed out. “He'll give that task to another of his Marshals, but, you may be right, Captain Lewrie. The honour of defeating a British army in the field will glitter before him like the biblical Star in the East.”