“Whatever’s the matter, then?” he asked him.
“That ship that came in yesterday, the Thunderer?” Mountjoy said, stabbing a finger at a two-decker Third Rate in the harbour. “She’s just come in from Sicily with a brace of pretenders to the throne of Spain aboard. One’s Prince Leopold of the Kingdom of Naples and the Two Sicilies, King Ferdinand the Fourth’s heir—”
“Is he as ugly as his father?” Lewrie asked, suddenly amused by Mountjoy’s distress. “Does he run a waterfront fish shop, same as his Daddy?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t clapped eyes on him … what? Fish shop? Where did you get that?” Mountjoy demanded, most perplexed and thrown off his rant.
“Met Ferdinand ages ago, when my ship put in to Naples, back when Sir William Hamilton was our ambassador, and his wife, Emma, was still slimm-ish. We ate at Ferdinand’s shop, where he cooked for us himself. Quite tasty, really.”
“Emma Hamilton? Nelson’s Emma Hamilton?” Mountjoy gawped.
“Umhmm,” Lewrie rejoined with an idle leer. “She was tasty at the time, too. So. What’s young Leopold doin’ here?”
“Offering himself to the war effort, so long as his military post is suitable to his illustrious rank,” Mountjoy scoffed, “and offering his father, Ferdinand, as either a king or a regent. The other passenger is Prince Louis-Phillipe, Duc d’Orléans, the eldest of the French royal family, who would have succeeded to the French throne, if the Revolution hadn’t come along. He’s offering himself, a French Bourbon to replace a Spanish Bourbon. It’s all impossible, of course, and the Spanish juntas will never hear a word of it, and Dalrymple’s in a dither, trying to put out fires and soothe the Spanish, saying that neither of the sods are a British idea.
“Worst of all, there’s rumours that Archduke Charles of Austria might be on his way to get a seat at the table, too,” Mountjoy went on. “What good relations we’ve built in Spain could be out the window if they think we approve of a foreign king, regent, or emperor, or … generalissimo! Dalrymple hasn’t allowed either of the princes to set foot ashore, yet, Thunderer’s captain wants them off as soon as dammit, and the whole thing could be an utter mess by the end of the week.
“Wait,” Mountjoy said, ceasing his nervous tirade and peering at Lewrie. “You and Emma Hamilton? Really?”
“In one of her melting moments, she distinctly said, ‘I don’t know what it is, about me and sailors,’” Lewrie boasted, laughing out loud.
“My word!” Mountjoy replied in awe. “You never cease to amaze.”
“Hmm, well, perhaps I do have my moments,” Lewrie brashly confessed, all but polishing his fingernails on a coat lapel.
“The princes are the last thing to have on Sir Hew’s plate, at the moment, and that old meddler, Emmanuel Viale … he was Dalrymple’s envoy to Castaños for a time?… he and the Vicar of Gibraltar have both written the Seville junta, praising Prince Leopold of Naples, and it’s riled them almost beyond all temperance. British scheming and meddling, they think. And, Dalrymple doesn’t have much time to settle the matter. London’s appointed him Commander-In-Chief of all operations in Portugal and Spain, and he’ll be off to join Wellesley’s army in a few days, dumping the mess on Major-General Drummond.”
“What?” It was Lewrie’s turn to gawp in astonishment. “Commander-In-Chief? Dalrymple? Are they stark-ravin’ daft?” He said that loudly, and didn’t much care who heard him. “The Dowager hasn’t seen a real battle since … God!”
“Well, not many of our generals have, either,” Mountjoy pointed out. “With any luck, he’ll leave the fighting to Wellesley and do the general directions, himself. Well, leave the fighting to Lieutenant-General Sir Harry Burrard.”
“Who the Devil is he?” Lewrie had to ask.
“London may be having second thoughts about trusting the endeavour to a ‘Sepoy’ General,” Mountjoy told him in a hushed tone, so passersby could not hear. “If Wellesley is successful, Burrard will take over, until Sir John Moore arrives with a much larger army that is gathering as we speak. Burrard’s senior to Wellesley, after all.”
“But, is he worth a tuppenny shit?” Lewrie sneered.
“God only knows,” Mountjoy had to tell him, shrugging. “But, Burrard is spoken of as ‘Betty’ Burrard.”
“Now, what does that tell you?” Lewrie scoffed.
“That he dresses up in women’s clothes?” Mountjoy japed.
“This whole thing could really turn t’shit!” Lewrie breathed in disgust. “I’ve half a mind t’stay in port and have a good laugh, and half a mind t’bugger out. Here, now! I’m still technically under your authority. If ye don’t wish t’stay here and get smeared with the disaster, can’t you order me, us, to sail off somewhere?”
“Lewrie, you are a genius!” Mountjoy suddenly exclaimed. “That I could, and yes, we could. Let’s go to the Ten Tuns and have an ale or two and plot this out!”
* * *
“I don’t s’pose you could write ‘genius’ in your reports to London, could you?” Lewrie asked once they were seated, and two pints of pale ale had been drawn for them. Some crisp-fried fish tidbits with a spicy dipping sauce had come with them as tapas.
“Don’t know if I’d write them, at all,” Mountjoy replied. “The less they know of my movements, the better, even if a reply from my superiors would take a fortnight. Sorry.”
“After decades of bein’ thought a lucky dunce, I’d hoped,” Lewrie said with a sigh. “Ah, well. Where would you like to go?”
“I’d thought of Cádiz, to try and establish an intelligence network there,” Mountjoy wistfully said after a deep, meditative draught of his ale. “Tap onto the informers that Admiral Purvis developed, but Dalrymple’s aides there, and at Seville, are reporting on a regular basis, so that’s out. I’ve people at Tarifa, cross the bay in Algeciras, Málaga, and Cummings and his boat bring news from every port in Andalusia, now. Portugal’s not in my bailiwick, so—”
“Why not Portugal?” Lewrie asked him. “Or, does Secret Branch already have fellows like you in Lisbon, Oporto, and Vigo, or with the army?”
“I really don’t know,” Mountjoy said, wincing a little to confess his total lack of knowledge. “If there are, they certainly won’t tell me. I’m allowed to know only what I need to know. Portugal, hmm. Now, that’s an intriguing thought. I know that Dalrymple already sends everything he learns to Wellesley, mostly of the situation anent the Spanish, their politics, and what their armies are up to. If our army succeeds in getting Lisbon back from the French, we could benefit from a Secret Branch presence there, in the interim before London sends out a man to oversee it, at least.”
“And the fellow who took that initiative would be well-thought-of in London,” Lewrie said with a sly cock of his head, and an encouraging wink. “Get to know the Generals, Wellesley and ‘Betty’ Burrard, and what they wish to know?”
“He might also be thought of as a gad-about indulging his curiosity at Government expense,” Mountjoy countered, looking glum of a sudden.
“But, curiosity could be taken for energetic intelligence gathering,” Lewrie rejoined. He found that his mug was empty, and waved for a re-fill. “We could even see a battle, and find out if Wellesley is half the general that people make him out to be.”
“Curiosity also killed the cat,” Mountjoy reminded him. “Most likely trampled to death, if Wellesley fails, and his army is routed. Yet!”
Mountjoy got a dreamy look on his face, mulling over the idea so intently that he didn’t notice the arrival of a fresh mug of ale set before him, and the removal of his empty one.