As Lewrie’s first course arrived, along with the Italian pinot cool from the deep stone cellar, another Army officer came up from the common rooms, a Captain of some infantry regiment, with a young woman on his arm. He was older than the others, in his late thirties, or so Lewrie judged, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, with reddish-gold hair and long, thick sideburns brushed forward in the latest style, down to the lobes of his ears. It appeared that the semi-tropical sun didn’t agree with his complexion, for he was florid. It appeared that those younger officers didn’t appeal to him, either, for he glared at them with haughty disdain, and he awarded Lewrie a similar glare as he and his companion were seated at a table for two by the balcony railings, an empty table apart from Lewrie’s.
The Captain’s companion, though … Lewrie lifted an appreciative brow as he got a good look at her. The Army Captain’s back was to Lewrie, back and shoulders almost broad enough to block his view, but she seated herself facing Lewrie, with her chair close to the balustrade, so he could get a peek every now and then.
Deliberately? he hoped.
Compared to the junior officers’ doxies, she was not a superb beauty, nor was her long, dark, almost black hair coiled and roached into an elaborate do, but was worn in a long, gathered mane, parted more to the left than the centre. On the way in, she’d worn a wide straw hat with the ribbons bound under her chin, but as soon as she sat down, she swept it off. Dark eyes, nicely arched, brows, a touch of an olive complexion, a rather fine nose, a very kissable mouth, and a firmly rounded but narrow chin … not beautiful, but more matter-of-factly hellish-handsome, Lewrie determined.
She didn’t look happy, though, he decided; pensive was more like it. Her companion was prattling away, but her attention was on the harbour, the quayside, a hanging flower basket, or a caged bird warbling above their table. She reached up to the cage and a faint smile spread on her face. She looked down, met Lewrie’s eyes, then smiled a bit broader.
“Ah, Miguel!” the Army Captain boomed to the waiter. “A cool ale, t’start with, and a white wine for the lady.”
“Michael, sir,” the waiter said in correction, keeping a bland look on his face, as if he’d done this many times before.
“Yes, yes, so you say,” the officer said, laughing him off. “I will have the roast beef, and she will have the chicken, won’t you, my dear? As you always do, what?”
“I would like…” she said, turning to look at the chalkboard menu on the inner wall, “the gazpacho, and the fried fish, this time.”
“Please yourself,” the Army Captain dismissively said, with a harumph of slight irritation thrown in for good measure. “You should know their entire repertoire by heart, by now.”
“As often as we dine here, sim, I do,” she replied, looking a tad morose. If it was a complaint, it was a weak one.
Spanish, is she? Lewrie asked himself; Portuguese, or Genoan? None too pleased with him, whatever she is. A kept woman, under his “protection”, most-like. Maybe she’d like t’kick over the traces, but can’t afford to? Poor tit.
“Simply can’t fathom how anyone could relish cold soup!” the Army Captain grumped. “The Frogs with their cold potato mess…”
“Vichyssoise,” she supplied, absently.
“Know what it’s called,” he snapped. “Had it, and I didn’t think much of it. As silly a notion as tossin’ fruit in a pitcher of wine. The utter ruin of a good wine, and barely makes cheap, sour wine palatable, hah!”
“The sangria is refreshing,” she told him, sounding as if she would make a very minor rebellion, with one brow up the only sign of being vexed. “Your English punch…”
“Mother’s Milk, m’dear!” he hooted, “and with champagne in it, the Nectar of The Gods! Can’t beat a good English punch, haw haw!”
She made no reply to that assertion, but faced away and leaned her arm on the balustrade again. Lewrie studied her, now intrigued, and as she turned her face back to her keeper, Lewrie locked eyes with her for a second, tossed off an exaggerated shrug, and pulled a face. He was rewarded with a quick, furtive smile, before the waiter came with their beverages, and Lewrie’s main course, on his tray.
As hungry as he was, and as tasty and toothsome his meal, Lewrie dawdled over his plate, shifting in his chair now and then to get a quick look at the young woman, and was able to share glances with her, which began as shy smiles and proceded to frank, speculative regardings. The bad part of that was haying to listen to her companion monopolise their conversation, him talking and deriding just about everything foreign, and laying out his schemes for winning the war.
Lewrie noted that the other subalterns and their girls sloped off rather quickly, instead of lingering over their drinks and flirting idly. It seemed that Captain “John Bull” had a depressing effect on them, too.
The fellow put down his first pint of ale quickly, and ordered a second, then slurped his way through a whole bottle of claret with his roast beef steak, which only made him louder and more opinionated. By the time Lewrie had finished his meal, topped off with a Spanish flan for something sweet, there were very few patrons in the dining room.
At last, there was nothing for it but to summon the waiter and call for his reckoning, leaving a generous tip and making sure that he called him “Michael” as he thanked him and got to his feet.
Standing and gathering up his cocked hat, Lewrie could get a better look at the young woman over the top of “John Bull”, and he liked what he saw. She seemed slim, with a fine bosom, a firm and graceful neck. A wee gilt cross on a thin gilt chain glinted at the base of her throat. At his rising, she looked up, her gaze level and appraising, and he nodded a smile at her, which engendered a fleeting smile and the faintest of nods in reply, with a slow lowering of her lashes.
As Lewrie trotted down the stairs to the common rooms, then to the street, Lewrie could thank her companion for one thing, at least; the Army officer’s loud voice had, in the course of his harangue, declared “Maddalena, m’dear”, so Lewrie had a name, well, part of a name, to conjure with!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Over the next two months, HMS Sapphire spent all but two weeks at sea, still searching for a suitable vessel to serve as a transport. Lewrie took her West to Cape Trafalgar, near Cádiz, not above poaching if he had to in the blockade fleet’s patch, with nothing to show for it. They chased many coasting vessels and sea-going fishing boats, frightened many, and caught and burned several, before returning to Gibraltar to confer with Mountjoy, who swore that he had written to Mr. Peel in London asking for more money, or some influence with the Admiralty Transport Board. So far, there was no joy in that direction.
Sapphire went back to her old hunting grounds, from Estepona to Valencia, pursuing, taking, and burning what they could, with equally dismal results. In mounting gloom, Lewrie even ordered the ship over to the Balearic Islands, and ravaged the fishermen and small traders of Formentara and Ibiza, and sailed several times round Mallorca and the main port of Palma. He did manage to capture a merchant brig of about 150 tons which at first seemed promising, but proved to be dangerously rotten, her bottom nigh-eaten through by ship worms and rats from the inside, and not even wood-sheathed, much less coppered. Did he send her off to the Prize-Court at Gibraltar with her shoddy load of cargo, he doubted if the meagre prize money would pay half of the Proctor’s fees! Once again, her small crew was allowed to row away just off Palma by a mile or two, and she was set fire, as an example of what happened to Spaniards who dared share the sea with the Royal Navy.
Just after that, strong gales whipped up, forcing the upmost masts and yards to be struck down, the tops’ls taken in to second or third reefs, the main course brailed up, and when the seas thrashed and clashed in fury, all 1,100 tons of the ship got tossed so violently that the galley had to shut down two days’ running, and several of the heavy-weather storm sails blew out and had to be replaced, with men aloft in a howling gale and a continual stinging rain.