“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.