He had four sea-burials to conduct over there.
He hoped those did not signify a dead end to operations, and his vaunting plans.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“They weren’t posted there to guard the semaphore tower?” Mr. Thomas Mountjoy asked, as if he needed further assurance after he had read Lewrie’s report a second time.
“Not according to our prisoner, no,” Lewrie told him, sprawled in one of Mountjoy’s comfortable cushioned chairs on his rooftop gallery. He had a tall glass of Mountjoy’s version of his patented cool tea in hand, and was savouring a rare, cool breeze that had arrived with an equally rare morning rain. The gurgle of rainwater sluicing down the tile gutters to catch-barrels and the house’s deep cistern, was almost lulling him to a mild drowse. In all, he found it most pleasant to be away from the ship, on solid ground for a spell, and be cool, again. Autumn in the Mediterranean, on the coast of Spain, was still uncomfortably warm.
“They will, though,” Mountjoy mused, looking disappointed even if the latest landings had been successful, if not costly. “And, if they do, we’d need a larger force, and at the moment, well…”
“Seven dead, aye,” Lewrie said with a sigh, for Marine Corporal Lester had died of his wounds, and one of Captain Bowden’s soldiers had succumbed, as well. “And nineteen ashore in the hospital, with two permanently lost to amputations. When I can get the others back will take weeks … twenty-four men short. Kimbrough and Bowden can shift men around, but that’d give us eighty-eight men, all ranks, and that’s just not enough soldiers, and my Marines can’t take up the slack.”
“Dalrymple,” Mountjoy gloomed. “He’ll be loath to give us even a handful.”
“One just can’t take men from one of his regiments and splice ’em into another, among strangers, aye,” Lewrie said, equally gloomy. “Assumin’ he’d even consider it. Damme, Mountjoy, what we need is some more of your lot’s money, another transport, another draught of men, and one more escortin’ ship, maybe a frigate.”
“And, a Brevet-Major,” Mountjoy said with a wry expression.
“Damme, I didn’t lose him,” Lewrie hooted, “the bloody fool lost himself! We didn’t even find a single one of his damned egret plumes. It’s good odds the Spanish have him, and good riddance.”
“If they have him, we’ll hear of it, sooner or later,” Mountjoy said, rising from his settee to go stand under the edge of the awning to savour the breeze that ruffled his loose shirt. “The Spanish are rather good at doing the honourable thing. They’ll report Hughes as an officer on his parole, available to be exchanged for one of their own of equal rank. Aah, that feels hellish-good!” he said, holding both arms out to let the wind have its way.
“Assumin’ we have one, of course,” Lewrie owlishly commented.
“Haven’t heard what Dalrymple’s made of it, yet,” Mountjoy went on, turning to face Lewrie. “Though I can imagine. Too bad you didn’t come ashore in your best-dress uniform, for we’ve an appointment with the old cove after dinner, today.”
“What a grand day for it, then,” Lewrie groused, “rain, gloom, and dark clouds. Sounds just too bloody jolly. If he has a bad meal, he may shut us down completely.”
“Or, tell us to limit our activities to easier objectives, in future,” Mountjoy replied, looking sly.
“You have some in mind, something easier to hit?” Lewrie asked.
“A bit more far afield, this time,” Mountjoy said, pointing to a slim leather folder which put Lewrie in mind of the pale tan ones that solicitors and barristers used, termed “law calf”. It looked a little fatter than usual, as if Mountjoy had gotten a slew of reports, sketches from informers, and locally-made maps and coastal sea charts. “I’ll take it along, if he’s still amenable.”
* * *
Sir Hew Dalrymple must have had a lacklustre dinner, or the weather had put him in a bout of the “Blue Devils”, for their reception was very cool, and his appreciation of Lewrie’s report was chary.
“A good show, but a most costly one,” Dalrymple said, with one of his heavier sighs. “You note that you only have fourty-three Marine Privates at present, and that there are only eighty-eight effectives from the 77th, Captain Lewrie.”
“Aye, sir,” Lewrie replied, noting that Dalrymple did not address him with the chummier “Sir Alan” this time. “Though, I’ve yet to use my armed sailors, the ones who row the troops ashore and stand guard over the boats and the landing place.”
From the corner of his eyes, he could see Mountjoy almost giving him a congratulary grin.
“Drilled in musketry, are they?” Sir Hew asked, with a dubious brow up, doubting the fighting qualities of sailors.
“Not as efficient as soldiers or Marines, sir,” Lewrie told him, “but they can manage controlled volleys. They’re more used to firing at will.”
“Like country militia,” Sir Hew disparaged, waving a hand in the air as if to shoo off such irregular troops. “If, as it now appears, the Spanish have placed small guard units at their semaphore towers, and re-enforced their coastal batteries and fortifications, it may very well be that they will stay in place, whether any further landings are made … perhaps for a good, long while, what? Why, one could imagine that, did you trail your colours up and down the coast with your transport in company with you, they would have to remain in place, tying down a sizable part of the Spanish Army which might otherwise be available to my counterpart, General Castaños, even is the transport empty, and I may at last send the detachment of the 77th to Sicily to re-join their regiment.”
Lewrie had not penned any conclusions about the Spanish response to the raids, and had written nothing about why the Dons had been at Salobreña, and both he and Mountjoy were happy that Dalrymple took it as gospel that their efforts had already drawn a portion of the Spanish Army in Andalusia to a wasted task.
“Well, one would hope that you would not, Sir Hew,” Mountjoy interjected, “not until their wounded are fully recovered, and they may all go together.”
“Which will be some weeks, sir,” Lewrie stuck in quickly. “In the meantime, we do have sufficient strength for, uhm … several easier objectives. Mister Mountjoy has a few in mind…”
“Do you, sir?” Dalrymple demanded, wheeling to face the civilian. “Are you in possession of reliable information? It would not do to blunder into fights which further decimate your forces, as the recent landing at Salobreña did. Remember the Greek general Pyrrhus … he won his battles, but destroyed his army in the process.”
“Most reliable information, sir,” Mountjoy assured the old fellow, who seemed to be becoming more “duffer-ish” by the day. “I have enough to be able to sketch out at least two more landings, though we have not yet laid any plans. Captain Lewrie has only been back a day or two, and has been busy seeing to the needs of his ship, and victualling the troops aboard the transport.”
“Yayss, those soldiers of the 77th,” Dalrymple drawled, frowning heavily. “And your ship’s sailors and Marines, sir. It is already bad enough for the Town Major and Provosts to deal with all the bored drunks of the garrison, and a deal worse to deal with all your swaggering drunks and brawlers!”
“All the more reason to re-enforce us and get us back out to sea, sir?” Lewrie said quickly, experimenting with a winning grin. That earned him a scowl, and a twitch of Sir Hew Dalrymple’s eyebrows.
“If, Mister Mountjoy, London wishes you to continue this programme of harassment,” Dalrymple said, turning to face him, “and you may guarantee me that your so-called easier objectives will show more success than failure, I shall allow you to proceed … for the nonce, mind, at your present strength, for, as I have expressed before, there is nothing in my … larder … to spare.