Kings and Emperors (25 page)

“I'd think that they have six or eight twelve-pounders, Napoleon's favourites,” Deacon surmised, “and at least a pair of howitzers.”

“No bursting shot? No shrapnel ‘specials'?” Lewrie pressed.

“The latest intelligence in our possession says not,” Deacon assured him.

“Lower-deck guns, by broadside … fire!” Westcott yelled, and the horrid scene was blotted out by a thick fog of powder smoke. As it cleared, Lewrie could see fresh
heaps
of bodies, round which the lucky survivors fled on.

“Pass word below to target the French artillery, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered. “We can't allow them a single point of pride.”

“Aye, sir. Mister Fywell, pass word to the gunners to target the French guns,” Westcott said, sending the Midshipman dashing off.

“God, it's wondrous, sir!” Midshipman Carey, who had taken the dog to the orlop, marvelled. “Horrible, but wondrous all at the same time.”

“Soldiers just can't fathom a ship's firepower,” Lewrie took time to tell him. “Our twenty-four-pounders are the equivalent of an army's entire siege train, only used to knock down fortress walls. They can't imagine them turned on
them
! Why, one of Napoleon's
armies
fields only
half
our number of barrels.”

“Ooh, look at the pretty ship,” Deacon quipped, “so harmless, and—
ack!
”

“How's Bisquit?” Lewrie asked.

“Curled up and shivering in Pettus's lap, sir,” Carey replied. “And Mister Tanner's much the same, between three kegs of salt-meat.”

Tanner, the Ship's Cook, a veteran Greenwich Pensioner with a leg missing, had no role at Quarters, and was allowed to hide below.

“Shivering?” Lewrie scoffed.

“It's hard to say which whines louder, sir,” Carey said with an impish grin.

“Upper gun-deck, by broadside … fire!”

The French guns had been detached from their limbers and caissons, the horse teams had been led behind, and men were hastily ramming bagged powder and shot down the muzzles. Officers and gun-captains were bending over their crude sights, adjusting the elevation screws, and gunners were lifting the trails of the carriages to adjust their traverses. They were just about to step back and apply their burning linstocks to the touch holes when
Sapphire
's eleven 12-pounders lit off at the top of the up-roll, when the ship poised steadiest. When the smoke thinned and wafted alee, half the battery was wrecked, the barrels knocked off their carriages, wheels smashed and carriages lying at odd angles. Several team horses were down, and many of the others were screaming, kicking, and dashing off among the panicked French soldiers who had been streaming West behind the guns.

“Six-pounders, by broadside … fire!”

That finished the horrid work, slaying dazed gunners, dis-mounting or disabling the rest. A lucky hit on a powder caisson caused a great explosion and a massive yellow-white blossom of powder smoke. Burning embers of the waggon landed on the others, setting them on fire, and the gun battery's powder supply and all its limbers and caissons were destroyed. Even if the gun barrels could be salvaged and carted away later, the French would have to force some Spanish arsenal and its unwilling artificers to build new ones before those guns could be used again.

“Take on the supply train, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered. “Let's make it a clean sweep. Let 'em starve.”

“Aye, sir,” Lt. Westcott happily agreed. He and Lewrie shared a look, and both men's faces were wolfish with success and feverish delight; “gun-drunk.”

“Five fathom! Five fathom t'this line!” a leadsman intoned.

“Alter course a mite to starboard,” Lewrie said. “I recall that this five-fathom line takes a turn seaward, and a four-fathom line lies ahead. Do you concur, Mister Yelland?”

“That should be about two cables afore the bows, sir,” Yelland told him. “Aye, it's a good time to edge seaward.”

“See to it, if ye please,” Lewrie bade. “I will tend to the smashing. Shift aim to the waggons, Mister Westcott.”

“Pass word below to take on the waggons, Mister Fywell,” the First Officer ordered, and Midshipman Fywell, who had barely returned from his last task, knuckled the brim of his hat and dashed off, with nary a chance to witness or savour their destruction. Carey, who was still on the quarterdeck, shot him a smug look.

“Lower gun-deck, by broadside … fire!”

The carters and waggoners had long fled their charges as the three shattered regiments swarmed round them in their haste, some of the fleeing soldiers cut reins and harnesses to try to ride to safety, but most of the draught horses were also panicked, and not broken to the saddle, or the weight of a rider, and would have none of it. The colourful, high-wheeled Spanish carts sat cocked down on their tongues, and the French army waggons sat at all angles as their waggoners had tried to turn round or force a way through the fleeing throngs before joining the rout.

“Hah! Ah hah!” Major Hughes was shouting at the sight of the waggons or carts being smashed to kindling, of tents, blankets, spare boots, and cook pots being hurled into the air. Subsequent broadsides caused ammunition waggons to explode and burn, scattering burning bits among the whole close-packed train. “That's the way! Oh, capital, look at that! Whoo! Burn, you devils!”

“Damn my eyes,” Lewrie groaned. “I've made him happy!”

“Well, that won't last, will it, sir?” Deacon cagily said.

At last,
Sapphire
sailed closer to the seaport town of Almuñécar and ran out of targets. The French were surely taking refuge in the houses furthest from the shore, huddling in the town square, but the risk of killing Spaniards precluded.

“Cease fire, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie called down to the quarterdeck. “Alter course three points to larboard, and secure from Quarters. Fun's over.”

“Look there, sir!” Midshipman Carey yelped, leaping and pointing shoreward.

The citizens of little Almuñécar had gathered along the quays and docks, and even with angry French soldiers a street or two behind them, were daring to wave caps, hats, bonnets, dish towels, and one Spanish flag in celebration! The daring demonstration didn't last long, and most of them dashed or slunk away feigning innocence as a few French soldiers appeared in the side streets.

“Unfortunately, they'll pay for that, in lives and torture,” Mr. Deacon sadly concluded. “The French will lash out, and there will be Hell to pay.”

“Aye,” Lewrie agreed with a grim nod.

“Well, sir!” Lt. Westcott said, beaming his harsh smile. “We might emulate that Dutch Admiral, De Ruyter, and sail into Gibraltar with a broom lashed to the main mast truck. A clean sweep, indeed.”

“That's a damned good idea, Mister Westcott, and I thank you for it,” Lewrie said with a laugh. “Inform the Purser, Mister Cadrick, that the second rum issue of the day will be ‘Splice the Mainbrace.'”

“Aye, sir!”

*   *   *

There had been no need to clear the ship for action, so the great-cabins were as Lewrie had left them. Pettus and Jessop were back from sheltering on the orlop, and so were Chalky and Bisquit. The dog was still shivering and whining his terror of loud noises, eager for stroking and petting from anyone who'd pay him attention. Chalky ran to Lewrie as soon as he sat down on the settee, leapt into his lap and clung to his coat, making fussing noises and butting his head on Lewrie's chin. Bisquit quit his rapid circling of the cabins and came to the settee, too, hopping up on it and laying his paws and head in Lewrie's lap, whining for assurance.

“Sometimes I wonder if it would have been kinder t'leave him on my father's farm,” Lewrie said, stroking both creatures 'til their distresses had ceased. Chalky began to purr, rattling away, and the dog closed his eyes and slunk the front half of his body onto Lewrie's lap and thighs. His bushy tail began to flit, lazily.

“Cap'm's Cook, SAH!” a Marine sentry announced in the usual loud fashion.

“Enter,” Lewrie responded, remaining seated.

Yeovill came in, and Bisquit hopped down and went to him for pets, and a lot of snuffling; Yeovill smelled like good food and was liberal with treats.

“Scrounger,” Lewrie accused the dog.

“I was wondering, sir, if you had plans to dine your officers in tonight, in celebration,” Yeovill posed.

“Aye, I thought I might,” Lewrie told him. “Major Hughes will also be dining here. He's a roast beef and potatoes sort, but … I wonder. What can you serve that
ain't,
Yeovill? Something exotic or foreign.”

“Oh, well, sir,” Yeovill pondered. “Let me think on it for a bit. I found a receipt at Gibraltar for a French dish, Chicken Marengo…”

“Had that in Paris,” Lewrie commented. “Good!”

“Onions, tomatoes, eggs … though I don't know
what
to replace the crayfish with,” Yeovill maundered on. “Salt-fish? Hmm. A berry trifle for sweets, and we've lashings of fresh green beans. Potatoes with cheese and bacon…”

“
Couscous,
with cheese sauce,” Lewrie suggested, instead.

“With some chicken gravy to moisten it, yes, sir,” Yeovill said with a nod. “Chick peas, turned to
hummus,
with stale bread for dipping. And, we've more rabbits than God.”

Long ago, Lewrie had served under a Commodore who'd insisted that rabbits and quail made a topping-fine alternative to salt-meat, and he had emulated him. They bred quick, too.

“Sounds good, Yeovill,” Lewrie praised. “I'm certain you will produce a triumph, you always do.”

“Thank you for saying so, sir,” Yeovill replied, smiling with delight. “Exotic and foreign, hey? Then that's what it will be.”

“Good man,” Lewrie said.

“Cool tea, sir?” Pettus offered, and Lewrie was more than amenable to that, too.

I can't wait t'see Hughes's ruddy face when he gets served
that! Lewrie thought. He'd seen how much Hughes disliked any foreign “kick-shaws,” and he fully intended to make him as uncomfortable as he could.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The days on passage back to Gibraltar were a trial for Lewrie, since Major Daniel Hughes was aboard, and most of the time as chatty as a linnet or parrot, underfoot of the crew's work on deck, and an outright pest in the wardroom, where he was lodged in the spare cabin to starboard, right aft. Certainly, he was out of touch with world affairs and eager to hear of Ceuta being evacuated, of Cádiz's fall, of how widespread the Spanish rising had become, but he was full of so
many
questions that the officers when off watch got to entering their flimsily-built cabins to sham sleep just to avoid him. Hughes lurked the quarterdeck and the poop, taking the air, pestering the Midshipmen with his tales of recent battles—in which they'd been active participants and saw them differently—his capture, which became a fierce fight before being overcome the more it was related, and his treatment at Órgiva and Málaga, his release by Spanish patriots who'd taken pity on him—now a story of derring-do and brave escape—and his long ride to Salobreña just chock-full of close pursuit and narrow escapes.

Worst of all, Hughes had the idea that if he'd been allowed Lewrie's great-cabins once, and was dined in several times out of teeth-grinding hospitality, then he could breeze in and plunk down on the settee and order up a glass of something every time he felt a thirst. “The Rhenish, Pettus, there's a good fellow. I'm dry as dust, what?”

The last straw was when Hughes seated himself in Lewrie's wood-and-canvas collapsible deck chair, propped his feet up, and began reading one of Lewrie's racier novels! That had resulted in an altercation with Mr. Deacon that went roughly thus.

“I wouldn't do that, sir,” Deacon cautioned. “Like the windward side of the quarterdeck is only for the Captain, so's his chair.”

“What?” Hughes had grumped back. “He ain't usin' it at the moment.”

“He'll be dis-pleased does he discover you in it, sir,” Deacon remonstrated.

“Who are you to tell me, Deacon?” the Major barked. “I'll not be ordered about by a jumped-up
ex-Sergeant,
or a spy's ‘catch-fart' minion! Bugger off!” He returned to his novel, fussily.

“I don't know whether to challenge you to a duel …
sir
 … or simply kill you where you sit …
sir
!” Deacon replied, bristling up and exuding a palpable air of menace.

“Captain's chair, Major Hughes,” Lt. Harcourt, the officer of the watch, snapped, coming to the top of the larboard ladderway to the poop deck. “If you would be so good.”

“You hear what this … common enlisted man just told me?” Hughes gravelled.

“Didn't hear a thing that passed between you, Major Hughes,” Harcourt told him. “This gentleman was doing you a service before Captain Lewrie caught you in his chair, right, Mister Deacon?” Harcourt asked, stressing “Mister” as Deacon's due honourific.

Hughes scowled his dis-pleasure, went red in the face, but got to his feet and slunk off to the wardroom, leaving Deacon seething and Lieutenant Harcourt shaking his head.

“Do
not
kill him while he's still aboard, Mister Deacon, hey?” Harcourt bade him. “If you need a second, I'm offering, however. I'm of a mind to be first in line, myself. God, what a pain he is!”

*   *   *

At last, HMS
Sapphire
dropped anchor and came to rest off the Old Mole of Gibraltar, and with that broom lashed to the main mast truck as Lieutenant Westcott had suggested.

“Might I offer you a lift ashore, Major Hughes?” Lewrie asked, once all the topmen had descended from the yards, after all sail had been brailed up in harbour gaskets.