“I get it from my Midshipmen, sir,” Lewrie explained tongue-in-cheek. “They’re always an impish lot.”
* * *
“Pass word for the First Officer,” Lewrie told a Midshipman of the Harbour Watch as soon as he’d taken the salute to welcome him back aboard HMS Sapphire. “I’ll be aft. Best summon Mister Yelland, too.”
Men on deck perked their ears up and began to speculate, for a summons like that always meant a quick return to sea. Sapphire’s crew had been looking forward to a run ashore by watches, which would mean at least two days in port, with firewood, water, shot, and powder, and fresh provisions taken aboard which might mean a third day of rest and even a Make and Mend half-day of idleness to nap, repair their clothing, read, or write letters home.
No helpin’ it, Lewrie thought as he hung his hat on a peg on an overhead deck beam; I’m bein’ deprived the same as them. One supper with Maddalena tonight, and we’re off, dammit to Hell.
“First Orf’cer t’see th’ Cap’m, SAH!” his Marine sentry loudly announced.
“Enter!”
“Bad news, I take it, sir?” Lt. Geoffrey Westcott said with a gloomy expression as soon as he entered the great-cabins.
“Aye, Geoffrey. Take a pew,” Lewrie told him.
A moment later, and Mr. Yelland was announced and given leave to come in.
“Sailing, are we, sir?” Yelland asked, looking as glum as a hanged spaniel. Whatever that worthy had lined up ashore did not bear imagining, but what pleasure he was now denied hurt him sore.
“Wellesley is to land at Mondego Bay, in Portugal, and we’re to see Spencer’s little army there t’join him, Mister Yelland. Have you charts of the place?” Lewrie asked.
“Aye, sir, though I’ll have to dig them out,” Yelland replied. “If you will excuse me for a moment?”
“Of course, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie said. Once the Sailing Master had departed, Lewrie pulled an apologetic face for Westcott. “Sorry about this rush, but there’s no helping it. How ready is the ship for sea?”
“We’ve the firewood and water, we’ve replaced what little we consumed by way of victuals,” Westcott told him, “but replacement shot and cartridge bags are wanting, and the Purser has yet to lay hands on livestock, or fruit. The wardroom’s short of wine and brandy, and all my small-clothes need washing, and my under-drawers itch me, sir. Other than that, we could get under way by dawn tomorrow.”
“Is she that fetching?” Lewrie teased, sure that Westcott’s grumbling was over his girl ashore; no matter where they went, one could count on Westcott finding himself some female comfort.
“Aye, she is,” Westcott said with a chuckle and one of his brief, harsh grins. “A fair-haired girl from Genoa. Can’t make out damn-all what she’s saying half the time, but what does that matter? Italian’s not my strong suit.”
“But young women are,” Lewrie said, grinning as well.
“Well, one has to be good at something!” Westcott laughed.
“Sailin’ Master t’see th’ Cap’m—,” the Marine bellowed.
“Aye, enter!” Lewrie said with impatience, and Yelland bustled in with several rolled-up charts in his hands, and they all gathered round as Yelland spread them out on the dining table.
“Figueira da Foz, here, sir,” Yelland said, “and Mondego Bay here. It looks to be a good, long beach, running from the city to the Nor’west to Cape Mondego. Better there than a bit North, sir, along the, ah … Dunas de … Qui-ai-os, however the Hell you say it. God, foreign tongues! No roads shown there, sir. If the army artillery and waggons land there, they’d bog down.”
“And once there, they’re to march all this way to Lisbon?” Lt. Westcott posed. “Best of luck to them.”
“That’s the intention,” Lewrie said, summarising the locations of French forces in Portugal, and remembering that Dalrymple had put a pin in his grand map at Setúbal, on the other side of the peninsula below Lisbon and the Tagus River, where French Marshal Junot had placed more of his invasion force. “I’m also told that there’s some French warships at Lisbon, and there’s speculation that eight or so Russian ships are there, and have been taken over, or are now allied with the French.”
“Damme, didn’t Russia issue some sort of declaration of war against us, already?” Mr. Yelland asked, sounding exasperated.
“If they did, they’ve not taken any hostile action against us, yet,” Lewrie told him. “Just closed their ports to our merchantmen as part of Napoleon’s Berlin Decree. If those ships do hear about Wellesley’s coming, or Spencer moving t’join him, they might sortie, so we’d best keep a keen lookout.”
“How many other ships are available for the escort, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked.
“Dalrymple’s writing to the Captains of the ships in harbour to assemble an escort,” Lewrie said. “There’s Newcastle seventy-four, and a brace of frigates. Newcastle’s Captain’s most-like senior to me, so we’re just along for the voyage … and I won’t have t’think a lot. ‘Yes, sir, no, sir, two bags full.’”
“The coast of Portugal offers quite a few places where the soldiers can be extracted, should the French force them to,” Yelland speculated, leaning closer over his chart.
“Once at Mondego Bay, we’ll meet up with Admiral Sir Charles Cotton’s squadron,” Lewrie informed them, “and we’ll be as safe as houses. Puerto de Santa María to Mondego Bay? Five-hundred-odd sea miles?”
“About that, sir, about that,” Yelland agreed, though pulling a face, “as the crow flies. Might take a week, depending on the direction of the wind, and all. Fifty miles right up to windward can turn out to be two hundred in tacking. Hmm, I believe I must go ashore for a bit, sir. It might be a good idea to look for a map of Portugal, not just a sea chart. It might be good to know what’s beyond the first line of hills and mountains that a chart shows us.”
“Good idea,” Lewrie agreed. “Know where the army’s going.”
“You just want ashore,” Westcott teased.
“Christ, who doesn’t, Mister Westcott?” Yelland exclaimed. “I have your permission, sir?”
“Aye, go and fetch us some maps,” Lewrie allowed, “something t’fill in the white voids two miles inland.”
Yelland rolled up his charts and departed, looking too cheerful for words, while Westcott scowled at his back.
“Thank God,” Westcott said, waving a hand under his nose. “He is riper than usual. Does he ever bathe or change clothes?”
“A good navigator, though,” Lewrie said. “He must be borne.”
They heard a Midshipman hailing an approaching boat.
“Lord, what now?” Lewrie asked, fetching his hat off the peg, preparing to go back on deck to see what it was about.
“Orders for your Captain!” a voice shrilled from the boat.
Lewrie heaved a sigh and went out to the quarterdeck, whiling the wait away by petting the ship’s dog, Bisquit, who was always up for attention and affection. A Midshipman came to the deck from the boat and handed a sealed letter over to Midshipman Harvey, with an exchange of stiff, doffed-hat salutes, and the stranger was back over the side. Harvey brought the letter to Lewrie, bowing as he uselessly announced, “Letter for you, sir.”
“Thankee,” Lewrie replied as he tore it open to read it. “Mine arse on a band-box!” he exclaimed a moment later. “Jemmy Shirke?”
He hadn’t seen or heard a thing about his former mess-mate in ages, and perhaps that was a good thing, for when they’d been Midshipmen together in the old HMS Ariadne in 1780, Jemmy Shirke had been a pain, a surly, teasing, and practical-joking lout who’d tormented Lewrie with one prank after another, playing “scaly-fish” to “the newly.” Shirke had been a guest when Lewrie was thrown a “wetting down” party to celebrate his Lieutenancy on Antigua, which Keith Ashburn had turned into an noisy orgy worthy of the old Hell-Fire Club, which had been raided by the other patrons of the Old Lamb in Falmouth Harbour, and broken up early.