He could not return aboard HMS Sapphire and indulge in a roaring, satisfying rage in the privacy of his great-cabins; that would result in a terrorised cat, a howling ship’s dog, and cringing cabin-servants, and possibly the abuse of his furniture, and stubbed toes. Quite possibly his officers, Mids, and sailors who could not help over-hearing a long, curse-laden tirade, and the gay tinkle of flung glassware, might imagine that he’d taken complete leave of his senses.
Lewrie could relate the wrenching circumstances to Lieutenant Geoffrey Westcott later, after he had drained off all his bile, but it was not yet time for that; he had to see straight, first, and, at the moment, he felt that if he looked in a mirror, his eyes would be red, like a Viking Berserker warrior of old!
I may laugh about this in future … but I rather doubt it, he fumed to himself.
Naturally, he would not go to his mistress’s, Maddalena Covilhā’s lodgings and burden her with it. She’d think him demented, and fear that she’d made a bad bargain with a raving lunatick, one she’d never know when he might go off, again, perhaps on her. Maddalena seemed intelligent enough a woman to understand, but it might be more than an hour, and three bottles of wine, before he completely vented.
No, the only person upon whom he could empty his spleen was Mr. Thomas Mountjoy, for part of his bad news affected that worthy’s operations, and if he hadn’t heard about it yet, Mountjoy would surely be as shocked as he was, and just as angry.
“Deacon,” Lewrie growled at the dangerous fellow as he entered Mountjoy’s lodgings, not caring how he took the curtness. “Is he in?”
“Yes, Captain Lewrie, I’ll announce…” Deacon offered, but Lewrie brushed past him and thundered up the stairs to the top-floor set of rooms, burst through the door into the sitting room, and bawled, “Damn ’em, Mountjoy, those two bloody fools, Dalrymple and Middleton, have taken away my boats! How the Devil am I t’land troops? They’re going t’be turned into harbour gunboats!”
He caught Mountjoy at his small dining table in his shirtsleeves, with a napkin tucked into his collar, carefully picking away the shell of a cupped, boiled egg, the perfect picture of domestic bliss.
“I know,” Mountjoy said, so calmly that Lewrie felt the sudden urge to leap over the table, take him by the throat, and throttle him.
“You know? Bloody Hell!” Lewrie roared. “What the…?”
“Given the sudden change in circumstances, ‘the Dowager’ don’t think we should be antagonising the Spanish any longer,” Mountjoy said as he dug into his soft-boiled egg with a tiny spoon and took a dainty bite. “As London has long wished, Dalrymple now wishes that the Dons direct their outrage ’gainst the French, not us. He made a strong request … well, call it an order sugared with a veiled threat … that we, you and I, suspend offensive operations ’til the situation sorts itself out.”
“Shut down?” Lewrie gawped, feeling as if his head would pop. “When were you goin’ t’tell me? And, what bloody circumstances?”
“Marshal Junot’s Army of Observation has crossed the Pyrenees, and is marching on Portugal,” Mountjoy matter-of-factly told him, as if it was no more vital a matter than the morning’s temperature. “We got word of it last evening, so it’s days late, and Junot is probably already near Salamanca, and making good time, so our ambassador in Lisbon, Lord Strangford, relates. Oddest damned thing…”
Mountjoy paused to smear butter and jam on a slice of toast, take a bite, and chew.
“Odd? Yayss?” Lewrie prompted, his sarcasm dripping.
“Just round midnight last night, I received a covert despatch from Romney Marsh, from Madrid, announcing the very same news,” Mountjoy said. “A poulterer came to the door with two chickens I did not order, with Marsh’s note. ‘Contract signed, goods on way to Lisbon, Madrid merchants out-bid and upset’, it said. Meaning, I take it, that there was some formal, written pact or treaty arranged by Godoy and his arse-licking Francophiles, and that news of a French Army on Spanish soil has outraged your common Spaniard to no end. Better for Godoy had he not put it down on paper, and let it happen with little notice, but, that’s his problem.”
“Marsh? That fool?” Lewrie spat.
“Oh, as mad as a hatter, is Romney Marsh,” Mountjoy heartily agreed, laughing, “but if he’s a fool, he’s a most useful one.”
“Mine arse on a band-box,” Lewrie said, all his pent-up, eager to be spilled rage quite flown his head, leaving him feeling deflated and weak in the knees. He pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Tea?” Mountjoy offered. “And, there’s a basket of toast.”
“We’re t’make nice with the Spanish now, are we?” Lewrie asked. “Just let bygones be bygones, and hope they come t’love us?”
“That may take some doing on their part, since you’ve done such a grand job of making their lives miserable, of late,” Mountjoy told him with a snicker. “I’ve word that that battery you bombarded has been abandoned, the one you blew up won’t be re-built, and even the semaphore towers you burned have been left in ruins. I told you that Spain is completely broke. With so much of Spain’s treasury going to the French, there’s little left to spend on their own needs. Spain’s less a French ally than one of her impoverished colonies.
“To add insult to injury, here you just up and bested two of the best frigates left to the Spanish Navy,” Mountjoy went on, imparting Lewrie with a cheery wink. “Congratulations on that. ‘The Dowager’ is of the same mind, and thought it a fine feat, but … Dalrymple also believes that, now the French have violated Spanish sovereignty, we’ve done more than enough to rub their proud noses in the muck, and shame them. Do have a cup of tea while it’s still hot.”
“Have some brandy t’go with it?” Lewrie grumpily demanded.
“But of course I do, good fellow!” Mountjoy said, springing to his feet to fetch a bottle.
Good fellow? Lewrie thought, scowling; Please, mine arse! I’ll not be cossetted like a dog who does tricks!
“The troops, the transport?” Lewrie asked as Mountjoy returned with the brandy. “What happens to them?”
“Surplus to requirements, I’m afraid,” Mountjoy said, sighing as if in sympathy. “Captain Pomfret, and the detachment of the 77th, will be off to Sicily to re-join their regiments in the field, with an host of good stories to tell, I should imagine. Captain Hedgepeth is most likely taking the transport to Lisbon.”
Halfway through stirring sugar and lemon into his brandy-laced cup of tea, Lewrie raised a questioning brow. “Lisbon?”
“Our ambassador, Lord Strangford, and his retinue, must be evacuated, along with all British subjects,” Mountjoy replied. “So many engaged in the wine, port, and sherry trade, so many merchants, and so many debtors hiding out in Portugal from their creditors in England? Hedgepeth and his Harmony might even be hired on to evacuate the royal family. A fellow in my line of work at the embassy sent me a letter in the same packet with the ambassador’s, stating that he has it on good assurance that the Regent, Prince João, is determined to leave nothing to the French, and he’ll not leave a single member of his courtiers or ministers behind to head a puppet government, so dozens and dozens of ships will be necessary. Prince João intends to move everything to the Vice-Royalty of Brazil.”
“Hope the courtiers enjoy all the mosquitos,” Lewrie gloomed.
As he poured himself another cup of tea, admittedly one more a tea-flavoured brandy, Mountjoy went on to praise the sagacity of the Regent of Portugal, who had seen the handwriting on the wall when Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte had initiated his Continental System to deny Britain any European trade, certain that he’d be threatened to join or else face invasion and conquest. Prince João had pretended to agree, but had strung out the negotiations so long that Bonaparte had lost patience, realising that he had been played the fool.