The Englishman introduced himself. 'I am Edmund Gilbert, Mr Ashton, British consul at Angra. By good fortune I am visiting Dom Batata at this time.' Ashton had no idea where Angra was, but his bow was elegant enough and it took them all in.
'Your servant, gentlemen. Lieutenant Josiah Ashton of His Britannic Majesty's frigate Andromeda, gentlemen, Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater commanding.' He took Drinkwater's letter from his breast and handed it to Batata.
'Thank you, Lieutenant.' Batata took the letter, slit the wafer and began to read while Soares served the wine. When he had finished reading, Batata passed the letter to Gilbert who blew his gaunt cheeks out and expelled his breath slowly, as if this was an essential accompaniment to the process.
'Well, well, well,' he concluded, refolding the letter and returning it to Batata who passed it directly to Soares.
'May I... ?' Gilbert sought the Governor's permission which was granted by a grave nod of Batata's head. 'Do I gather from this missive, Lieutenant... I beg your pardon, sir, I have forgotten ...'
'Ashton, Mr Gilbert,' Ashton prompted quickly, colouring uncertainly.
'Yes, yes. Well, Mr Ashton, do I infer your commander, Nathaniel What's-his-name, believes Napoleon Bonaparte is to be exiled here, on the island of Flores.'
'Yes, sir,' replied Ashton, slightly mollified by Gilbert's inability to remember Drinkwater's name and accepting a refill of his glass from Soares, 'if he ain't here already'
'Here? Already? 'Pon my soul, Mr Ashton, this is the first hint we've heard that Napoleon Bonaparte ain't, as you say, Emperor of the French!'
'He has abdicated, gentlemen,' Ashton explained, inflated by his assumption of the role of harbinger.
'You are our winged Mercury' Gilbert echoed Ashton's thoughts with a thin smile.
'King Louis has returned to France.'
'Then the war is over?' asked Batata.
'Indeed yes, sir. In Europe, at least.'
'Ah yes, your country is still at war with the Americans. Now these other ships, Lieutenant, we have no knowledge of them, have we?' Gilbert shrugged and a query to his secretary by Batata produced a negative shrug from Soares. Batata turned back to Ashton. 'We have no knowledge of any other ships other than merchantmen ...'
'And is there no news at all in the archipelago, of preparations for the reception of Bonaparte, gentlemen?' Ashton asked as Soares bent over his glass again.
Batata shrugged and shook his head. Gilbert was more emphatic.
'I have heard nothing on Terceira and am certain we should have done by now, if such a thing was meditated.'
'Very well,' Ashton bowed, 'thank you for your time, gentlemen. I am sorry to have troubled you.'
'It is no trouble, Lieutenant,' Dom Batata said.
Gilbert addressed the Governor in fluent Portuguese and Batata nodded in agreement, then Gilbert turned to Ashton. 'Mr Ashton, I have been here for ten days attending to some business with the master of the brig Mary Digby of Sunderland. If your Captain Drinkwater would condescend to convey me back to Angra, we could quickly ascertain if the packet from Lisbon has brought orders relevant to the fate of Bonaparte.'
'Well, sir, I suppose Captain Drinkwater will have no objection...'
'Good, then the matter is settled. Give me a quarter of an hour, and I shall be with you.'
Da Silva accompanied Ashton and Gilbert back to the beach, with two servants bearing between them Mr Gilbert's portmanteau. As they approached the boat, Ashton noticed two of the launch's seamen sauntering ahead of them, each carrying a canvas bag.
'If you will excuse me, Mr Gilbert, I will just get on ahead and prepare the boat for you.' Ashton preferred the excuse and, without waiting for a reply, walked briskly on. A moment later he overtook the two seamen, one of whom he recognized as the launch's stroke oarsmen.
'Shaw!' he called and the man turned round as Ashton hurried up. 'Shaw, what the bloody hell d'you think you are doing out of the boat?'
'We was sent up by, er ...'
'Went to get fresh bread, sir,' the other man said, holding up one of the canvas bags.
'Who the devil said you could leave the boat?'
'Well, sir, we only sent to get bread, sir, had a tarpaulin muster and reckoned we could afford a few loaves...'
'Let me see in those bags.'
'It's only bread, sir ...'
'Let me see, damn you!' Furious, Ashton pulled the loaves out and hurled them into the water.
'Sir! We paid for them!'
'Aye and you paid for these too, I daresay!' Ashton triumphantly drew two bottles from the bottom of the bag and turned to Shaw. 'Empty yours too,' he commanded.
'Sir!' Shaw protested.
'Empty it, damn you and be quick!' Ashton was aware of Gilbert approaching as Shaw upended the bag. Four richly smelling and warm loaves fell out and two green bottles followed. One hit a stone and smashed with a tinkle, staining the sand with wine. Ashton kicked both loaves and broken glass into the water where screaming gulls were already congregating round the floating debris of the first lot of bread. He hurled the two remaining bottles after them while the fishermen tending an adjacent canoa, watched in astonished silence.
'Now get back to the boat and be damned quick about it!' Ashton hissed. He turned as nonchalantly as he could as Gilbert came up to him.
'Trouble, Lieutenant?'
'Not really, Mr Gilbert. Not what I'd call trouble.'
'And what would you call trouble, Lieutenant Ashton?' asked Gilbert, spurning the broken neck of one of the bottles with his foot, and looking at the ravenous gulls tearing the loaves apart, their wings beating with the fury of their assault on the abandoned bread.
'Oh, I don't know,' Ashton said, utterly discomfited.
'I suppose finding Bonaparte sitting on Terceira would be trouble of a real nature, don't you think?' offered Gilbert.
'I suppose it would, yes.'
They had reached the boat by then, and Shaw and his mate were resuming their places as oarsmen. Midshipman Paine who had obviously been dozing in the stern-sheets with his hat over his eyes, stirred himself at the commotion in the boat, for Shaw was clearly explaining what had happened, and the boat's crew were staring over their shoulders, sullen and resentful.
'Mr Paine, let us have a hand here, to get this gear aboard.' The two marines posted as sentries came forward. One was Sergeant McCann. As two seamen came out of the boat to pass Gilbert's portmanteau along, Ashton drew McCann aside. 'Sergeant, I thought I made it quite clear that the boat's crew were not permitted to leave the launch?' he asked furiously.
McCann looked down at the lieutenant's hand on his arm and remained silent. 'Sergeant, don't you trifle with me, damn you. You heard what I said.' He shook McCann's arm, barely able to control himself.
'You ordered the boat's crew to remain with the boat, sir, but Mr Paine gave permission for two delegates to nip ashore for some food. The men had brought a little money, d'you see, sir.'
'Sergeant,' insisted Ashton, hissing into McCann's face, 'they had purchased liquor ...'
'They were not alone, then, Mr Ashton,' McCann snarled, his temper fraying to match the sea-officer's, as he caught the whiff of Ashton's breath.
'I shall have you flogged for your impudence, McCann, when I get you back aboard! Now get in the boat, you damned Yankee bugger.'
McCann coloured; for a moment he contemplated responding, thought better of it and shut his mouth. Then he turned on his heel, nodded to the private soldier to precede him and clambered over the gunwhale.
'All sorted out now?' asked Gilbert matter-of-factly, with his thin, supercilious smile.