Emulating naval protocol, Mr. Deacon was first out of the boat with his satchel, followed by Hughes, after Lewrie waved him to start. Lewrie exited last, and they all strolled up the wooden ramp to the top of the quays.
Oh, Christ! Lewrie thought; The cat’s outa the bag!
For not only was an eager Thomas Mountjoy on the quay to greet them, but so was Maddalena Covilhā, dressed in a summery pale blue sheath dress, with a gay bonnet on her head, and a parasol twirling in her hands.
“Why, Maddalena!” Hughes exclaimed, holding out his arms as if she’d come for him. “M’dear! I’m back!”
Maddalena coyly danced right past him with barely a glance in his direction, went straight to Lewrie to plant a kiss on his cheek, and put her arms round him!
“You!” Hughes accused. “You?”
“Sim, him,” Maddalena said to Hughes with an impish expression.
“But…!” Hughes gargled.
“Me,” Lewrie told him.
“You are back, at last, meu querido,” she cooed to Lewrie.
“It’s grand t’see you, minha doce,” Lewrie cooed right back.
“Well, just goddammit,” Hughes growled, astounded, then stomped his way off.
Poor bastard, Lewrie gleefully thought; There’s no good news for him, or welcome, either! About what he deserves!
BOOK THREE
“Let there be light!” said God, and there was light!
“Let there be blood!” says man, and there’s a sea!
—LORD BYRON (1788–1824), DON JUAN
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lieutenant-General Sir Hew Dalrymple was in a very good humour when Lewrie entered his offices in the Convent. He was standing at his large map of Iberia, hands in the small of his back, rocking on the balls of his booted feet, with a satisfied smile on his face.
“Aha, Sir Alan! Relished your report!” Sir Hew declared. “Positively relished it! A half-brigade slaughtered, what?”
“Well, I can’t claim an outright slaughter, Sir Hew,” Lewrie countered. “It was closer to a decimation, with only ten percent or so killed or wounded. Losing their artillery and baggage train was the worst blow.”
“And their pride and confidence,” Dalrymple added. “The esprit de corps of a unit matters as much as weaponry. A very good show, all in all, along with the delivery of arms to the junta in Granada. Do sit, sir. Wine, or tea?”
“Tea, sir,” Lewrie replied, easing into a comfortable leather chair in front of Dalrymple’s desk as Dalrymple rang a china bell to summon an aide.
“Lord, the Spanish,” Dalrymple said, shaking his head as he sat behind his desk. “Rival juntas are springing up all across Spain, which is welcome. But, just because Seville was the first does not mean they will all look to Seville as the sole authority. Each one swears they will raise their own army, but co-operation among them, well … that will take some doing, I’m afraid. Without a king, and a united court, and a definite chain of command over all the armies, the Spanish stand little chance against the French in the field. It will still take a British army to lead the way, and coax our allies into working together. A senior British general with the nicest of diplomatic skills.”
You, for one, Lewrie cynically thought; what the man’s always wanted.
“At least our Andalusians can work together,” Dalrymple went on, rubbing his hands and smiling again. “We’ve just heard that the forces of General Castaños, and the forces assembled round Granada, have met and defeated a French army under a General Dupont near a town called Bailén. It took them six days of fighting, but, Castaños took the surrender of over seventeen thousand French. Bonaparte has not lost that many prisoners at one go since the army he abandoned in Egypt surrendered to us in 1801! Isn’t that grand, sir?”
“This is confirmed, sir, not a wild rumour?” Lewrie charily asked. “You know foreigners exagger—”
“Confirmed,” Dalrymple insisted, still beaming. “The arms you delivered played a part in it, and smashing that French column most-like freed up Spanish re-enforcements who would have been pinned down guarding against a thrust from Málaga, so you may take great satisfaction in your recent sally, Sir Alan.”
“Oh, I see, sir,” Lewrie replied, wondering if Dalrymple made note of his contribution in his report to London; he could use some good credit with Admiralty.
A smartly-uniformed Private, most-likely Dalrymple’s personal batman, entered with a tray and tea set, pouring for both and offering sugar, lemon, or cream as stiffly as a Grenadier Guard on “sentry-go” at St. James’s Palace. Once done, he jerked to Attention, stamped boots, saluted, turned about, and marched out, closing the double doors softly.
“Sir Brent Spencer’s force moved inland to support Castaños,” Dalrymple casually related, legs crossed and stirring his tea, “not actually with the Spanish, setting up a depot at Xeres.”
Lewrie looked at the large map but could not find it.
“Now that Dupont has been defeated, and Seville, Cádiz, Granada, and Córdoba are free of French occupation, I have ordered him to get back to the coast at Puerto de Santa María, and sail North to unite with Sir Arthur Wellesley’s army. I wish you to go to Cádiz Bay and provide escort for his transports ’til Admiral Cotton’s squadron can take over the duty.”
“Of course, Sir Hew,” Lewrie dutifully answered, even though the idea of more convoy-work almost made him gag. “Where will they be going?”
“Wellesley intended to land at Corunna in Northwest Spain, but he learned that the French had just defeated a Spanish army in the near vicinity, and the Galician junta was fearful of drawing too much attention to themselves,” Dalrymple told him. He took a sip of his tea, nodded with pleasure at its taste, but set cup and saucer aside to go to his map. “Vigo is also out, but Admiral Cotton chose Mondego Bay, right here,” he said, tapping the map, “just by Figueira da Foz. There is a French garrison in the fortress at Coimbra within an easy march to Mondego Bay, but it is thought to be too weak to hold the fort and intervene with the landings, Spencer has nigh five thousand men, Wellesley has nine thousand five hundred, and there are units of the Portuguese army still free and available. That should make a decent force to take on Marshal Junot’s army.”
“That’s about an hundred miles North of Lisbon, is it, sir?” Lewrie asked, abandoning his own tea to go to the map.
“Yes, thereabouts,” Dalrymple agreed, all his attention on the map, his head turning back and forth as if following the marches of large armies on a long campaign.
Winnin’ a war in his head, Lewrie sourly thought.
“Junot has fifty thousand, though,” Lewrie commented.
“Yes, but he can’t hold the entire country,” Dalrymple objected. “It’s been determined that he’s concentrated at the frontier fortresses of Almeida and Elvas, that small garrison at Coimbra, and the bulk of his force is at Lisbon, below a line ’twixt Abrantes and Peniche. A Portuguese junta is centered at Oporto, and their partisan irregulars and their regular army have been savaging a force under a General Loison sent into the interior, who has pulled back closer to the main French army round Lisbon to lick his wounds. It’s good odds that Wellesley will prevail, though he may find that the French are more dangerous than hordes of Hindoos.”
“How soon must I sail, sir?” Lewrie asked.
“As soon as possible, Sir Alan,” Dalrymple told him.
“Very well, sir,” Lewrie replied with a nod, “but, I would like t’finish my tea,” he japed.
“What?” Dalrymple gawped, scowling at him for a second before catching on. “Aha, I forget that you are possessed of a merry wit, sir!”