Kings and Emperors (13 page)

“Christ, if they do, we're just fucked!” Lewrie spat out loud. “Who in their rights minds'd … mean t'say, the Dowager
must
know his limitations, and leave the fieldwork to someone like Sir John Moore … wouldn't he?”

“One would hope,” Mountjoy gloomily responded. “Care for some wine? Let's pop into the Ten Tuns. Some celebratory champagne, if they have any.”

The Ten Tuns did not run to smuggled French champagne, though it did have some fine Italian
pinot grigio
just in from Genoa.

“So, who's this Wellesley, then?” Lewrie asked again once he had half a glass inside.

“He's a ‘Sepoy' general, made his name in India against the Tippoo Sultan of Mysore, and then later the Maratha princes,” Mountjoy told him. “Of course, his brother, Lord Mornington, was Governor of India at the time, so you can imagine his rapid promotions, and rank nepotism, rankled his fellow officers. He and all his brothers adopted the name Wellesley, because it linked them to aristocracy on one side of the family. When
all
the Wellesleys left India, he got a knighthood, so he's Sir Arthur Wellesley, and
might
have come off with over fourty thousand pounds,” Mountjoy chattily gossipped.

“A chicken-
nabob
',” Lewrie said with a smirk. “Must not have been tryin'. A full
‘nabob'
comes home with over an hundred.”

“Don't I wish!” Mountjoy said with a sigh. “Anyway, Sir Arthur and his family are
Irish
peers, don't ye know, so they have to grub harder than English peers. He got elected to Parliament for a time, voting with Pitt, then Grenville, was Secretary-General for Ireland 'til Grenville lost office and Portland took over. He was in command at Copenhagen last year when we had to bombard the city to convince the Danes to surrender their fleet before Napoleon could get hold of it, and did the job very well, so … he's in favour at the moment, and was fortunate that he and an army were at Cork, waiting to sail to take Venezuela from Spain. Ever heard of a Colonel Miranda?”

“That gad-fly who wants a United States of South America?” Lewrie said with a loud groan. “He was the drivin' force that put a flea in Commodore Popham's ear that sent us from Capetown to Buenos Aires, and
that
series of disasters! The worthless shit-stirrer.”

“I'm sure that the Wellesley family had a lot to do with his appointment for that, and for the expedition to Portugal, too. The senior brother, Lord Mornington, is a pretentious seeker of higher grandeur,” Mountjoy relished in the telling, “more and greater titles, more land, more esteem. Oh! Here's a tangy tidbit about Sir Arthur … when he was younger and poorer in prospects, he fell in love with one of the most beautiful young ladies in Ireland, Kitty Packenham. Her daddy was immensely rich, mind, and Arthur's suit was refused, especially by Kitty's brother, Edward, or ‘Ned.'

“He goes off for years, wins his spurs in India, and has one more go at marrying her, sight unseen,” Mountjoy said, almost tittering with amusement. “This time, he's rich, knighted, and famous, and Edward Packenham, a soldier himself, agrees. Down the church aisle the bride comes, and Sir Arthur asks Edward, ‘Good God, who's that ugly brute?', or something like that, and Edward says ‘It's Kitty!' ‘She's grown damned ugly, by Jove' says Sir Arthur, but honour demands, and he marries her in spite of her looks. Pig in a poke, what? The years weren't kind to her, and it's rumoured that Kitty had turned
stiffly
religious, to boot, so it's no wonder that Sir Arthur developed a strong lust for pretty young ladies. Not quite as bad as his brother, who should have been castrated at birth, for his own good, but, he
will
dally at the drop of a hat, hah!”

“So, he's senior to other choices, as you said?” Lewrie had to ask as he poured himself another glass, and topped up Mountjoy's.

“
Lord,
no! Interest and influence won out, again!” Mountjoy said with a hoot. “There's dozens of senior Generals on Army List grinding their teeth in rage over it! With any luck, he knows how to soldier. He's won all his battles before, so … we'll see.”

“Just how d'ye
know
all this, his private life and all?” Lewrie groused. “Get it from
The Tatler,
did ye?”

“Lewrie,” Mountjoy said with an arch grin, “you should know by now that Secret Branch knows everyone, and everything, that matters.”

“Keep a file on me, do ye?” Lewrie asked with an accusing scowl.

“Pages and pages,” Mountjoy said with a laugh.

“Secret Branch keeps lists of useful idiots?” Lewrie gloomed up.

“Old Zachariah Twigg always thought well of you, and said so in his notes,” Mountjoy told him. “That arch manner of his, his biting banter, were just his way with everyone from senior ministers to the footmen. He had no patience for anyone who wasn't as clever or intelligent as he was. He treated Peel, me, and you the same. What mattered to him was results, and if you got the job done, that was the main thing. He did not praise, ever!”

“You speak of him like he's dead,” Lewrie joshed.

“I didn't tell you?” Mountjoy replied, cocking his head over. “He is. Passed away at his country house just after the New Year … pity, 'cause he'd finally been knighted for his long, distinguished service to Crown and Country a bit before Christmas. How remiss of me, not to tell you.”

So, the old cut-throat's gone,
Lewrie thought, and wondered if he felt mournful, or should.

“I'll wager the announcement was bland and murky,” Mountjoy went on, “and made him sound like a long-serving clerk or barrister!”

Lewrie did feel mournful, after all. Twigg had been a part of half his life, and his conniving had driven Lewrie into some of the grandest neck-or-nothing adventures he'd experienced. Twigg's demise was a wrenching reminder of his own mortality, and the fact that those experiences were long gone, never to be re-lived.

“To Sir Zachariah Twigg,” Lewrie said of a sudden, raising his glass, “and thanks that we survived his doings.”

“Yes, to Sir Zachariah, the greatest of them all,” Mountjoy agreed, clinking glasses with Lewrie's.

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

At least
somebody
speaks well of me,
Lewrie thought as he read the latest edition of the
Gibraltar Chronicle,
which featured a brief description of
Sapphire
's raid and the captured
dhows.
The newspaper was a thin one, and only came out weekly, sometimes twice a month if short of ink or newsprint paper.

“Here, Maddalena, have ye seen this?” he asked her.

“The
Chronicle
? Pooh,” she said with a dismissive laugh. “It reprints what it gets from English papers, and never says much of what happens here that is important. I think the Army tells them what not to say. I like the imported papers. What is in it?”

Lewrie had purchased some used wooden furniture for the balcony overlooking the harbour, some slatted chairs and a low table, and Maddalena had made some colourful pads for them. That was where he sat at that moment, whilst Maddalena was puttering round her warbler's cage, which she had brought out to let the bird have some fresh air and sunlight.

“An account of my raid, a bit more dramatic than my report to Admiralty, really,” Lewrie told her. “And, they're calling it a deed of remarkable pluck and daring.”

“Hmm, let me read it, then,” she said, sitting down opposite him. “Well, I must cut this out and save it. Bonito,” she said to the bird, “you will have a thinner lining of your cage. No droppings on this. I do not recall any articles of your other raids last Summer, though.”

Lewrie was about to blurt out that they had been Secret Branch doings, but said instead, “I imagine that the authorities feared the Spanish would get hold of a copy and find a way to stop my business. The Governor's got spies on the brain, and he's probably right in his suspicions. Too many foreigners on the Rock … present company excepted,” he added, blowing her a kiss.

He was having a very pleasant morning, at his ease in shirtsleeves, with his neck-stock undone. The town, fortifications, and the harbour lay in a cool shade from the heights of the Rock that towered over all, with a light wind wafting, and it would be late afternoon before the sun's glare made the balcony uncomfortable. Maddalena was dressed down, too, in a white blouse, a colourful woven peasant skirt, and leather sandals, clothing she owned when she'd lived in Oporto and brought with her to Gibraltar years before.

She tapped the side of the coffee pot on the table to see if it was still hot enough, and poured herself a fresh cup, silently offering Lewrie a refill with a tilt of the pot.

“I believe I will, thankee, uhm …
obrigado,
” he replied.

“I am a woman, Alan. It's
obrigada,
” she teased.

“Why, so you are!” he teased back. “That's handy, by God!”

He stirred sugar into his cup, wishing that Gibraltar had any dairy cows, even nanny goats, for a splash of milk. Maddalena leaned back in her chair; she'd taken charge of the
Chronicle
for now, and it was pleasing to watch her reactions to the articles. She'd flash a quick smile, furrow her brow, or move her lips to silently sound out un-familiar words. She suddenly lowered the paper to her lap.

“The riots they speak of, the demonstrations … what can the Spanish people do against French armies, Alan?” she asked.

“Well, if their new king has a
dash
of gumption, he'll tear up that treaty that that arse-lickin' French-lover, Godoy, signed and call out his own armies,” Lewrie told her. “He may even switch sides and call for British help t'kick 'em back over the Pyrenees.”

“Gumption,” Maddalena said with a sudden laugh. “The same as courage?
Bom.
Arse-licking? I did not know you could be crude, Alan,
querido.
”

“Of course I can be crude,
querida,
” Lewrie mock-boasted. “I've been dined out on my crudity for years!”

“Seriously, though,” Maddalena pressed him, after a brief laugh, “is Napoleon Bonaparte attacking us here at Gibraltar, or is he so, oh, what is the word? Arrogant?
Bom.
So arrogant that he thinks he can eat up Spain, too?”

“I'd say it's a little of both,” Lewrie replied with a shrug. “He has the treaty to use Spanish armies alongside his own to take Gibraltar, but he may imagine that if he owns Spain, lock, stock, and barrel, he gets control of the whole Spanish Empire by default. He's an ambitious little bastard, out to rule all of Europe, and the rest of the whole world. He may have bitten off more than he can chew this time, though. If Spain resists, and gets British help—?”

“And my country is free, again,” she interrupted.

“That's coming, dear,” Lewrie told her. “Keep this under your hat, but … there's a British army on the way to do just that, under a good general, Sir Arthur Wellesley.”

“Not that Sir John Moore we met?” she asked with a frown. He'd made quite an impression on her at that supper, as good an impression as
she
had made among the exalted company for her gown, her beauty, and her excellent English skills.

“I'm assured that he won all his battles,” Lewrie said.

“Where?”

“Uhm, in India,” Lewrie had to admit.

“But not against the French. Hmm,” she said with one brow up in skepticism. “Then we must pray that he is skillful.” She turned to stare out at the harbour and the Strait for a long, pensive time.

“Your coffee's getting cold,” Lewrie gently prompted, and she turned her head to face him with a very fond smile on her face.

“I like this very much,” she told him, “how you do not speak to me of only simple things, but treat me as if I have a mind capable of understanding things like … this,” she said, tapping a finger on the newspaper. “You are a very dear, rare man,
meu amor.
”

“Well, you're a rare, and dear, young lady, Maddalena,” Lewrie purred back. “Most women are all about receipts to cook, gossip, and domesticities, and leave the reading and thinking to the menfolk … though back home, most of 'em are into poetry, and long, thrilling novels,” he said with a dismissive snort. “Fetching, but empty-headed.”

“Domestic … hmm,” Maddalena said with a pleased look as she lifted her coffee cup, trying out the word and liking the sound of it and its meaning. “At this moment, I feel
very
domestic.”

Where the Hell's she goin' with that?
Lewrie thought in alarm.

“It is very pleasing,” she added, smiling wider, batting her lashes at him before taking a sip of coffee.

“I'm glad you're pleased,
minha doce,
” Lewrie replied, hoping that she wasn't planning, or scheming, for more
permanent
domesticity.

I quite like her, I'm fond of her, but, mean t'say!
he thought.

Someone rapped on the thick oak and iron-barred door.

“What the Devil?” Lewrie groused. “Who's that?” He sprang to his feet and went through the lodgings to answer it. There was more rapping 'til he flung the door open, and beheld a boy of about twelve.

“Are you Captain Lewrie, sir?” the boy asked.

“I am,” Lewrie gravelled.

“Then this letter is for you, sir,” the boy said, drawing it from inside his loose shirt. As soon as Lewrie had it in hand, the lad dashed off, clattering down the hall and the stairs in a pair of loose, old shoes.

The sender was
T.M.,
so the ornate looping initials said; from Thomas Mountjoy. “Damn!” Lewrie spat as he tore it open, breaking the wax seal. “Damn!” he said again as he read the brief content.