“Aye,” Lewrie said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but hasn’t Peel or somebody written him to make the request already?”
“Well, he’s had our written proposal for months, and our oral presentation,” Mountjoy said, “and I’ve written him several times to keep him abreast of our progress, so the project can’t slip his mind. And yes, Mister Peel wrote me to say that he had written Sir Hew requesting co-operation, but…” Mountjoy lifted his hands in seeming frustration. “Dalrymple will pay attention should he hear it from Admiralty, or Horse Guards, but a request from the Foreign Office’s Secret Branch? I don’t know.”
“Aye, he’s a real ‘down’ on cloak and dagger doin’s,” Lewrie agreed. “It’s low and sneaking to real gentlemen, totally without honour. Fortunate for us that we’ve learned how t’be low and sneaking.”
“Well, I haven’t had to cut any throats, yet,” Mountjoy mildly objected. “Don’t believe we teach that class. There is no real training, don’t ye know. We just get pitched in under a senior, and do the best we can with what we’ve got.”
“Low cunning, and crass slyness,” Lewrie said, with a laugh. “I think we qualify. We should put our heads together and plan what to say that will convince Dalrymple t’give us what we want. Cover all the items, and have answers ready for anything we imagine he might ask, or differ with. Christ, write it out so even I can recite by rote. Use simple words when ye do. Just a thick-headed sailor, me.”
“Lewrie, you do yourself an injustice,” Mountjoy disagreed.
“Let’s be as clever as Zachariah Twigg,” Lewrie pressed. “If that doesn’t work, we can always threaten Dalrymple’s family!”
Mountjoy gawped at the absurd suggestion for a second, wondering if Lewrie was serious, then burst out in a peal of laughter that nigh doubled him over, and it took him a long minute to recover and speak again. “Right then, a planning session, all day tomorrow, at my lodgings, and we’ll run it all by Deacon, he’s a good head on his shoulders.”
“Bring all your latest agents’ and informants’ reports, with their maps of possible targets, too,” Lewrie suggested. “And, what about what Cummings sent you, about the insurgents who’ve requested arms and ammunition? That’ll make his nose hairs quiver, I expect.”
“Yes, it might, wouldn’t it?” Mountjoy brightened. “Tomorrow, all day.”
“Should I bring the wine?” Lewrie teased.
* * *
“I don’t know,” Lieutenant-General Sir Hew Dalrymple very slowly said as he tugged at an earlobe, sounding weary and dubious, once Lewrie and Mountjoy had finished their carefully prepared presentation a few days later.
Christ, he ain’t ‘the Dowager’, Lewrie thought in well-hidden exasperation; He’s more like the old maiden aunt ye only have over at Christmas!
“I must admit that you have achieved quite a lot since first presenting your plans to me,” Sir Hew went on, rewarding them with a quick, fond smile, and just as quickly gone. “And it would be a shame did your scheme not come to fruition. Yet…”
That word was drawn out several seconds long, fading off into a sigh. Lewrie and Mountjoy looked at each other, openly grimacing when Sir Hew looked towards the ceiling, as if seeking inspiration.
“All we need now are troops, sir,” Mountjoy gently reminded.
“Two companies,” Lewrie stuck in.
“And there lies the rub, sirs,” Sir Hew told them, coming back from his inspection of the ceiling. “After explaining the possible ramifications of what Spain might do, given the reports of Marshal Junot’s army assembling, Horse Guards in London, and General Fox on Sicily, have promised me an additional battalion or two, yet…”
There’s that bloody word, again! Lewrie thought in a huff.
“And yet, sirs, I must husband all I have, and all that I may receive, to defend Gibraltar,” Sir Hew Dalrymple concluded.
“Ehm, may I enquire, sir, if you thought to mention the need to include detachments for offensive operations to London, or to General Fox on Sicily?” Mountjoy asked, sounding as if he had crossed fingers, hope against desperate hope.
“Believe I did so, in passing, Mister Mountjoy,” Sir Hew said, looking cross to be questioned.
“Offensive operations along the coasts may tie down a fair number of Spanish troops,” Lewrie quickly said, “if we hit ’em hard and often enough, sir. They’d have to garrison every little seaside town or fishing port, re-enforce their coastal forts, batteries and semaphore towers, or erect batteries. That’d limit the number of troops and guns that the Spanish could muster to lay siege to Gibraltar. Go in for a penny, earn a pound in dividends!”
“Not anywhere near Gibraltar, though, sir!” Mountjoy eagerly added, taking new heart. “We’d strike further afield.”
He’s lookin’ at me like I’m a talkin’ dog, Lewrie thought; An idea from the likes o’ me that helps?
“We would do nothing to ruin your fairly cordial relationship with your counterpart, General Castaños,” Mountjoy slyly went on, “from which I am certain that you glean useful information upon the mood of the region. Yet, if Spain and France plan a move against you here, our raids could delay and limit his massing of forces by the Spanish, requiring the French to commit their troops, and their march to here would take so long that London would have more than enough time to send you all the re-enforcements you could wish, sir.”
“Perhaps that would end with British armies in Spain, meeting ‘Boney’s’ armies head-on, sir,” Lewrie suggested.
“That would be promising,” Sir Hew said, leaning back to fantasise for a moment. “But, landing British troops against allied Franco-Spanish armies…” He sighed and went gloomy again.
“Well, Sir Hew,” Mountjoy said, with a grin, “it has been our aim all along to break that alliance and get Spain out of the war. Neutral if possible, able to trade with the world again, or as a British ally in the best case.”
“Teeterin’ on the edge, Sir Hew,” Lewrie contributed, and drew a quick under-lid glare from Mountjoy who feared that Dalrymple would mis-interpret on which side Spain might teeter.
“Nowhere near Gibraltar, or General Castaños’s military region, d’ye say?” Dalrymple mused, pulling an earlobe again. “In that case, some limited offensive raids might…” He paused, then reached out to pluck a china bell from his desk-top and ring for an aide. A massive set of old oak doors opened, and an Army Captain entered.
“Sir Hew?” he asked with an eager-to-serve smile.
“Captain Hughes, the troop transports that arrived a few days ago,” Dalrymple enquired. “Of what units do they consist?”
“One squadron of horse, sir, two regiments of foot which will go on to General Fox,” Captain Hughes easily reported off the top of his head, “and several companies of replacements for various regiments.” Hughes had all the regiments’ numbers, and the numbers of troops at the tips of his fingers, the perfect aide.
I know this bastard! Lewrie realised; He’s that opinionated twit in the seafood chop-house with that girl t’other day!
Up close, and face-on, Captain Hughes was the epitome of a war-like officer, beefy, strong, and wide-shouldered, with a deep voice. His red uniform coat, with gilt lace epaulets, black facings and silver and red button loops, his shirt, neck-stock, and white waist-coat and matching breeches were immaculate and exquisitely tailored. Hughes’s boots were so well-blacked and buffed that they might have been made of patent leather.
Give him a beard and put him in hides, and he’d make a damned fine Viking, Lewrie thought; The shitten bulldog!
“Experienced, are they, Hughes?” Damrymple asked. “The replacements?”