“Why the Devil not, then!” Mountjoy suddenly exclaimed, thumping a fist on the tabletop. “I’ll see Dalrymple at once, and tell him I’m off to Portugal. Surely, Sir Hew will have last-minute despatches that we can carry along with us, and he’ll see the need for the trip. How soon can we sail?”
“Day after tomorrow, wind and weather permittin’,” Lewrie told him with his usual caveat, which made them both smile. “D’ye think that Deacon can handle your affairs while you’re away, or would he like to come along?”
“No no, I fear that Mister Deacon must carry on here, he’s more than capable of keeping an eye on things,” Mountjoy replied. “Deacon is a sly man of many parts, I’ve come to discover. Where he developed his wits, God only knows. Certainly not the barracks and drill grounds of the Guards Regiment. He’s a future with Foreign Office.”
“You must send me formal orders, of course,” Lewrie told him, sipping his ale in celebration to get his ship back to sea, instead of idling uselessly while grand affairs were happening somewhere else. “Damme, sometimes it’s good t’have friends in high places, even those in your line o’ work!”
“And the rest of the time?” Mountjoy teased.
“The rest of the time, people in your line o’ work sling me into impossible tasks and dangers,” Lewrie said, laughing. “Hang me out on a tree limb like laundry in a hailstorm.”
“Mind, though,” Mountjoy said. “If we do get to see a battle, we’d both be up to our necks in the ‘quag,’ for once.”
“Then come well-armed,” Lewrie cautioned, and he was not trying to tease.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
HMS Sapphire skirted the Portuguese coast after standing into Mondego Bay and turning South, with no sign of the army, or the fleet of transports and supply ships that Lewrie had expected to find; should the army need immediate evacuation, this Wellesley would surely keep them close at hand, he reckoned, but the coast that slipped by, and the major seaports of Nazaré and the fortress town of Peniche, where the French were rumoured to have a garrison and over an hundred guns, drowsed in sleepy Summer heat, as peaceful as anything.
In point of fact, though, it was not “all cruising and claret,” for General Sir Hew Dalrymple had indeed felt an urgent need to convey his latest informations to General Sir Arthur Wellesley, and had sent one of his aides-de-camp along with his despatches to liaise with Sir Arthur—none other than the idled Captain Hughes, returned to his old substantive rank but still considered surplus to requirements by his own regiment.
“Oh, good Lord,” Mountjoy had whispered in dread when Captain Hughes was piped aboard. “Not Hughes!”
“It’s worse for you, Mountjoy,” Lewrie whispered to him as the fellow had doffed his bicorne in salute at the lip of the entry-port. “You’ll have t’share that spare cabin off the wardroom with him, hee hee! I’ll dine him in in my cabins, of course, but he’s all yours most of the time.”
“Old Zachariah Twigg was right about you, Captain Lewrie,” the spy-master hissed. “You do have a vindictive streak!”
“Aye,” Lewrie gleefully agreed with that assessment, “and I’ll have my cook, Yeovill, serve as many foreign kickshaws as he can think of when I do feed the bastard.”
Poor Hughes; he seemed full of himself to be entrusted with a mission so vital for the new Commander-In-Chief, strutting about and puffing with pride to be thought useful, again, his abilities fully employed, and ready to tell everyone how he was anticipating that he would be Dalrymple’s aide-de-camp in the field, taking part in grand battles where his skill and experience would be proven.
“I don’t know whether t’feel sorry for the sod, or chuck him over the rails,” Lewrie said with a groan. “But, I am becoming tired of his presence. Where’s our bloody army when ye need it?”
“Pray God that General Wellesley finds him indispensable, then,” Mountjoy commiserated in the privacy of Lewrie’s stern gallery after a mid-day meal. “Then we’re both shot of him. God, how he snores! And, whatever you’re serving him, he’s the windiest fellow ever I’ve had to share a cabin with. That Yankee rebel, Benjamin Franklin, wrote an essay about farting proudly, but God!”
“At least he don’t talk in his sleep … or does he?” Lewrie asked in jest.
“No no, nothing human-sounding,” Mountjoy replied, grimacing. “It’s all grunts, moans, and bear-like rumbles and rattles.”
“Sail ho!” a lookout in the main mast cross-trees shouted. “One ship, fine on the bows!”
Lewrie fetched a day-glass and mounted the poop deck to spy the strange sail out, but found that the inner, outer, and flying jibs were in the way. Mouthing a curse, he descended and paced forward, all the way to the forecastle, leaning far out over the larboard cat-head beam for a clear view. Low on the Southern horizon, he finally spotted a set of t’gallants and tops’ls, identifying whoever it was as a three-masted, fully-rigged ship … but whose? He lowered his glass and took a peek to larboard, for the coast of Portugal. Sapphire was sailing within view of the mountain ranges’ peaks, perhaps no more than twenty miles off. He reckoned that the strange sail could not be a merchantman sailing on her own; that would be too risky for her. Besides, the coastal trade of Portugal had pretty-much ceased after the French invaded. No Spanish ships, merchant or warship, would be this far along the coast, either, and no British-flagged merchantman would be sailing alone.
“No idea who she is, sir?” Midshipman Ward asked at his elbow.
“No, Mister Ward,” Lewrie told him, raising his telescope to an eye again. “Run aft. My respects to the officer of the watch, and he is to hoist our colours and make the Interrogative signal. If she’s one of ours, she’ll make her number in reply. If she’s an enemy, then we’ll see. Off ye go, scamper!”
“Aye, sir!” the lad said, and turned to make haste astern.
The sight of the Captain on the forecastle, the report of a strange sail on the horizon, and Ward’s rapid run aft stopped the men of the watch at their various duties, forcing some to lean far over the bulwarks for a look, others to ascend the shrouds for a view of that strange sail, and caused still others to gather in knots to talk it over and speculate. When Lewrie turned about to look aft to see if their national ensign and signal flag had been hoisted, he was pleased to see how many of the crew were looking eager for action. After the boresome escort-work Sapphire had done under her old Captain in the Baltic, her people had come to expect a good fight, and lashings of prize-money to follow another prideful victory. Lewrie’s mouth curled into a wee smile as he made his return to the quarterdeck down the larboard sail-tending gangway, nodding confidently to the sailors and Marines he met, acknowledging some by name with a cheery “good morning” but not answering any questions, yet. He felt a spurt of pride as he considered that he’d created a happy, confident ship and a crew that knew its business when called to Quarters.
“Any reply?” Lewrie asked Lt. Elmes.
“Not yet, sir,” Elmes replied, casting a quick look aloft to the signal hoist to reassure himself that it was not masked by the sails and upper-works.
“Deck, there!” the lookout shouted. “She makes her number, and shows British colours!”
“Four … Two … Four,” Midshipman Griffin slowly read out as he clung to the mizen’s larboard shrouds, half-way to the cat-harpings.
“Ehm…,” Midshipman Ward said, fumbling this month’s secret signals code book until he’d found a match. “She’s the Sabine, Sixth Rate frigate. Captain … Artemis Fleet.”
“Another hoist, then,” Lewrie said, feeling a little disappointed that they wouldn’t have a fight. “Ask her where we can find the army.”