The King's Marauder

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Sir Hew has forged a very respectful and amicable relationship with General Castaños since his arrival,” Mountjoy added. “The enemy Castanõs might be, but his correspondence to Sir Hew has hinted that he, his officers, and men are disgusted with their Francophile government in Madrid, ‘Boney’s’ Continental System, and Spain’s alliance to the depraved, anti-Pope, anti-religious French.”

  “They might rebel, and take all Andalusia with ’em?” Lewrie speculated.

  “If the French cross the border and march on Portugal, it may be that all Spain might,” Mountjoy said, almost in a whisper.

  “Ah, but how factual is your rumour?” Lewrie had to wonder.

  “We have several sources in France, and in Paris itself, sir,” Mountjoy warily related, “despite the lengths that the French police go to discover them, or how strictly they intercept and read all correspondence posted, or smuggled. Trust me that our source is literally speaking from ‘the horse’s mouth’. She … forget that … has social access to everyone who matters in Paris.”

  “She!” Lewrie barked, suddenly sure of the source, and despising it. “Charité de Guilleri, d’ye mean? That murderin’ bitch? That blood-thirsty whore? She’d lie to the Angel Gabriel! Dammit, Mountjoy, she helped hunt me and Caroline clear cross France to assassinate us! She took part in the murder of my wife!”

  “I am sorry for that, sir,” Mountjoy said, sitting up stiffer, as if stung. “But, when Mister Peel spoke with you a few years ago, and you agreed to write a reply to her letter offering her forgiveness, and…”

  “Didn’t mean a bloody word of it, rest assured!” Lewrie fumed. “That was all for James Peel’s use, and I was savourin’ a hope that she’d be caught red-handed and got her head chopped off for spyin’!”

  “The lady … the woman in question, sir, has proved to be a valuable asset,” Mountjoy told him, all but wringing his hands, fidgetting, and pouring them both another glass of wine for something dis-tracting for him to do. “After Bonaparte sold her beloved Louisiana and her city of New Orleans to the Americans, she was quite ‘turned’.

  “She has found her way into the most influential salons, and, ehm … into the beds of Marshals, Generals, Admirals, and Ministers of Napoleon’s regime,” Mountjoy pointed out, with a cajoling brow up. “I cannot imagine a better source, and neither does London. All she has gotten to us has been the equivalent of solid gold. If she says that Junot and his army is readying itself to march against Portugal, then we must take it as gospel.”

  “Damn her black soul to the Seventh Level of Hell, anyway,” Lewrie spat. “I still hope they catch her, sooner or later, and chop her head off, no matter how useful you and Peel find her!”

  “Quite understandable, sir,” Mountjoy said, with a solemn nod.

  “So … if the whore’s tellin’ the truth, what are we doin’?” Lewrie asked.

  “I gather that plans are afoot, sir,” Mountjoy tried to assure him, even if he was in the dark as to what, specifically. “Naturally, Foreign Office has alerted the Portuguese, and Peel has written me that we may prepare a field army to re-enforce them, and to safeguard the major ports. Beyond that, though, I fear that we must await events, then react accordingly. As for me, I am to re-double my efforts, and give Sir Hew Dalrymple all aid in his dealings with the Spanish, to sway them.”

  “And for that, ye need a boat, right now,” Lewrie gathered.

  “As soon as yesterday, Captain Lewrie,” Mountjoy assured him.

  “Right, then,” Lewrie said, with a frustrated hough of wind. He finished his wine, then rose to gather his hat and sword. “I’ll be in touch. If Captain Middleton can’t help us much, perhaps you and I may speak with Sir Hew Dalrymple, to see if he can lend us assistance.”

  “That may be a good idea, sir,” Mountjoy agreed, rising to see Lewrie down to the street.

  Pettus had spent his time well, arranging for the laundry to be ready the next day, then idling in the back first-level kitchens with Mountjoy’s maid-of-all-work and his fat old cook. Both women saw him off with hugs and giggles.

  “Treat ye well, did they, Pettus?” Lewrie asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Pettus told him. “They whipped me up an omelet, and offered me some decent wine. Don’t know where they got the cheese, but it was right tasty, too.”

  “Then you must come back to retrieve my wash tomorrow,” Lewrie told him with a smirk.

  “Why, I suppose I must, sir!” Pettus happily agreed.

  * * *

  Once back aboard, Lewrie found that both the off-watch sailors, and those still with duties to perform, were spending half their time gazing ashore and joshing most expectantly. He had promised them that they would get shore liberty for a change, and not put the ship Out of Discipline to allow recreation, and rutting, still imprisoned within their “wooden walls”.

  “They seem in fine fettle, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie took note, after the welcome-aboard ritual had been performed.

  “Recall that they were paid just before we sailed from the Nore, sir,” Lt. Westcott casually replied, “and just itching to get a shot at spending their pay on shore pleasures. Once your boat crew returned, and boasted of what they’d been offered at the quays, and so cheaply, I expect they’d dive overboard and thrash ashore, this instant.”

  “Whether most of ’em can’t swim or not?” Lewrie posed. “What is our state, sir?”

  “Securely anchored, sir, with Marine sentries posted to prevent desertion,” Westcott ticked off, “firewood and water to come aboard by the start of tomorrow’s Forenoon, and the needs of the Purser, Master Gunner, and Bosun in hand and relayed to the yard. Our prize, Le Cerf, has been officially received by the Prize-Court, and all our prisoners transferred from her to the Guerriere hulk. Their badly wounded have been moved to a prison ward at the naval hospital.”

  “Our prize crew?” Lewrie asked.

  “Returned to us, sir,” Westcott said, with a wee sneer. “The Prize-Court sent people aboard for a harbour watch.”

  Le Cerf, Lewrie thought; The Stag.

  Long ago, during the final days of the Siege of Toulon, then at shore lodgings here at Gibraltar, his wee French mistress, Phoebe Aretino, had called him that … her powerful galloping stag! And oh, how they had galloped! He got tight in the crutch, remembering.

  “Very well, Mister Westcott. Carry on,” Lewrie said.

  “Oh, there was an invitation sent aboard, sir, from Captain Knolles,” Westcott added, reaching into a side pocket of his coat. “He wishes to dine with you ashore, at his expense, this evening.”

  “Did he name a time?” Lewrie asked, taking the note. “Ah! Six in the evening. Aye, I’ll be going back ashore for that, Geoffrey. If he’s off for the Mediterranean Fleet, this’d be our last reunion, for some time. Ready the wee cutter and a Mid t’carry my answer over to Comus, soon as I’ve penned it.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Lewrie made to enter his cabins, but spotted Lt. Harcourt atop the poop deck, and looking even glummer than usual, so he called him down.

  “Welcome back aboard, Mister Harcourt,” Lewrie said, doffing his hat. “I am sorry that I got your hopes up for nothing. What did the officials of the Prize-Court say to you? Any chance that they’ll buy her in?”

  “They seemed most gleeful to take possession of her, sir,” Lt. Harcourt replied, “rubbing their hands like money-jobbers, and giving me all assurances that she would be purchased into the Navy, but … not ’til next Saint Geoffrey’s Day.”

  “That’d be the fifteenth of Never?” Lewrie japed. There was no St. Geoffrey’s Day in the Church of England’s ordo.

  “They’ll send what they think she’s worth to Admiralty, and it will take months for that to get there and for Admiralty to decide if they can afford her,” Lt. Harcourt bemoaned, “then more months to get a favourable reply, and the funds, then…”

  “Then either the commander of the Mediterranean Fleet or the commander of the Cádiz blockade chooses a favourite officer
from his own flagship to have her, and scrounges up a crew to come man her,” Lewrie said, half-commiserating, and half-scoffing at the Navy’s ways of rewarding people. “Damn ’em. That may turn out to be a blessing for you, Mister Harcourt.”

  “At this moment, I can’t imagine how, sir,” Harcourt bleakly spat.

  “That corvette, sound as she is this moment, will spend months slowly deteriorating at anchor, with not tuppence allowed for her upkeep by a skeleton crew, sir,” Lewrie told him. “Think what a nightmare you could be saddled with. Don’t be too envious of the fool who finally gets command of her.”

  “Well, there is that, sir,” Harcourt replied after a moment to think that over. “Bird in the hand, and all that?”

  “And shore liberty for you, so you can drown your sorrows,” Lewrie reminded him. “After that, Sapphire is charged to remain here at Gibraltar, now and again, but we will not spend much time in port. We’ve all Hell t’raise along the Spanish coasts. Can’t tell ye much beyond that, but…” Lewrie said with a cryptic smile. “Once again, my apologies that you didn’t get t’keep her. And for getting your hopes up. I truly am.”

  “Ehm … thank you, sir,” Harcourt said, doffing his hat in salute.

  Lewrie turned away and entered his great-cabins to mull over his predicament for an hour or so before it would be time to change into his best-dress shoregoing uniform, replete with that damned sash and star. His knighthood and his baronetcy, he strongly and cynically suspected, had not come for his part in the minor action off the Chandeleur Islands and the coast of what was then Spanish Louisiana, nor had he been honoured for accumulated victories; for whatever reason the French had tried to murder him, and had slain his wife. He’d been in the papers, HM Government had determined to go back to war against France, and had needed to rouse the public’s angry support for it.

  Even so, Captain Ralph Knolles was not to know that, and he was in all respects a decent fellow, a patriot, and the sort who would expect Lewrie to wear those things proudly.

  “Cool tea, if ye would, Pettus,” Lewrie bade as he stripped off his coat and hung it on the back of his desk chair in the day-cabin.

  “Coming right up, sir,” Pettus vowed. “Ehm … when I go back ashore to collect your laundry tomorrow, sir … might I take Jessop along with me?”

  The young cabin-servant froze, pretending to continue blacking and buffing Lewrie’s best pair of boots, as if shore liberty would be no concern of his, but his ears were perked, no error.

  “Hmm … better with you t’shepherd him than tailing along with a pack o’ swaggerin’ sailors,” Lewrie decided. “Aye, Pettus. Take him along, so you can keep him out of trouble.”

  “I don’t never get into trouble, sir,” Jessop protested, going for “meek and angelic”.

  “And Pettus’ll make sure ye don’t,” Lewrie told him.

  “Aye, sir,” Jessop responded, sounding a bit glum to be in need of a chaperone.

  Good God, has he grown old enough t’want t’caterwaul and play a buck-of-the-first-head? Lewrie wondered; By God, I think he has! It’ll be drink, whores, and a tattoo, next!

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Once atop the quays, Lewrie took a long moment to look back at his ship, and felt satisfaction. Dockyard barges and hoys swarmed her sides, delivering firewood for the galley and fresh water to top off her tanks. Powder, roundshot, and cartridge bag cloth was going aboard to replace all that Sapphire had shot off in live gunnery practice and their brief action with the French corvettes. Kegs of salt-meats and other foodstuffs were being hauled up the loading skids, or hoisted up with the use of the main course yard.

  HMS Sapphire’s own boats were busy, too, ferrying supplies for the officers’ wardroom, and goods for the Purser’s needs, and items ordered, or hoped for, by the Bosun, the Ship’s Carpenter, the Surgeon, the Cooper, Mr. Scaife, and the Armourer, Mr. Turley.

  A full day spent on lading and replenishing, and on the morning of the next day, the Larboard Watch, half the ship’s crew, would be allowed ashore from the start of the Forenoon at 8 A.M. ’til the end of the Second Dog at 8 P.M.; the day after, the Starboard Watch would go ashore to drink and rut, dance, holler, stagger and sing, even pick fights with hands off other ships in harbour.

  Hopefully, they’d report back aboard on time, the most of them, suffer their thick, woozy heads after drinking themselves silly, and not cause so much of a riot ashore that he would have to hold an all-day Captain’s Mast, or “let the cat out of the bag” on too many men. Sailors, soldiers, and Provost police were an explosive mixture. He almost felt the need to keep the fingers of his right hand crossed all day, or knock wood on every passing push-cart, but … he had to see Secret Branch’s man, Thomas Mountjoy.

  * * *

  That worthy had told him most casually the day before that he kept the semblance of an office where he pretended to engage in trade, but there were dozens of those, and Lewrie had not thought to enquire just where it was, so he set off in search of it, walking South along the quays into the commercial district of high-piled rented offices, warehouses, and large shops, into a teeming throng of carts and goods waggons, sweating stevedores, wares hawkers, and wheelbarrow men, all working in some urgency. The shouts and deal-making in English were rare standouts in the loud jibber-jabber of foreign tongues. The odours of fresh-sawn lumber and sawdust, kegged beers and wines, exotic oils, fruits and vegetables—both fresh and rotten—stood out among the dusty dry smells wafting from the many storehouses full of various grains, and massive piles of ground-flour sacks inside them.

  “Ah, Captain Lewrie, sir,” said a voice quite near his elbow, which almost made Lewrie jump. “Deacon, sir,” Mountjoy’s bodyguard said. “You’re looking for our offices, I expect?”

  “I am, aye,” Lewrie replied, “and good morning to you, Mister Deacon.”

  “You walked right past it,” Deacon said, jerking his head to indicate the general direction. “Mister Mountjoy is expecting you. If you’ll follow me, sir?”

  Deacon led him back North about fifty yards to an ancient pile of a quayside house of three storeys, now converted to offices. They went up to the second level, and into a rather small two-room suite overlooking the harbour. A crowded billboard by the entry, and one on the door to the suite, announced the presence of THE FALMOUTH IMPORT & EXPORT COMPANY.

  “Aha! Found him, did you, Deacon?” Mountjoy said with glee. “Take a pew, Captain Lewrie. A glass of cool tea? Took a page from your book, d’ye see, especially in these climes.”

  The offices were cramped and stuffy, and smelled ancient. The floorboards creaked, as did his chair when Lewrie sat himself down. Both large windows were open, and the shutters swung open to relieve that stuffiness, letting in an early-morning breeze off the bay. Mr. Mountjoy was most casual, minus coat, waist-coat, and neck-stock, with his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows.

  “Lemon slices there, from Tetuán in Morocco,” Mountjoy pointed out as he poured a tall glass of cool tea. “All manner of fresh fruit comes from there, and live bullocks, goats, and sheep. Being a Muslim country, don’t expect to get any pork, though. And, count yourself lucky if you don’t get ordered to sail there and fetch back water and cattle. Gibraltar’s always short of water, and every good rain hereabouts is counted a miraculous blessing. West Indies sugar there, in the blue and white bowl. I have to keep a lid on. The bloody ants and roaches are everywhere.”

  “Not to mention rats and mice from the warehouses alongside of us, sir,” Deacon said, “though they only prowl the offices after we lock up for the night.” He went to one of the windows to lean with his arms crossed and peer out.

  “Now, Captain Lewrie!” Mountjoy said, after Lewrie had gotten his tea stirred up the way he liked it, and had had a first sip. “I am mystified by your cryptic note. ‘Possible solution, Rock Soup’. What the Devil is ‘Rock Soup’?”

  “I dined ashore last night with Captain Ralph Knolles, from the Comus frigate,” Lewrie began to explain, “formerl
y my First…”

  “Knolles, yes!” Mountjoy exclaimed. “Haven’t seen him in ages, not since Jester paid off, and we all went our separate ways.”

  “Must be goin’ soft in the head,” Lewrie said, all but slapping his forehead. “Of course, we were all in her, together.”

  “Solid fellow, just capital sort of man,” Mountjoy praised.

  “Anyway, we got to talking about how to put together a raiding force … left your part out of it … and how seemingly impossible it seems to be,” Lewrie began again. “Gettin’ a transport, gettin’ the troops, the extra boats, the extra sailors, and he said ‘Rock Soup’, smilin’ fit to bust. I was mystified at first, too, but … it’s an old tale he heard as a child, how two mercenary soldiers in the Hundred Years War, or the Thirty Years War, he forgot which, were trampin’ round Europe, so hungry their stomachs thought their throats’d been cut, not ha’pence between ’em, and came upon a village where the folk swore that even if they had money, there was nothing for them to buy, since so many armed bands and armies had already been there.

  “Well, the two soldiers knew the villagers were lying, and had some food well-hidden, so they asked for a cauldron and firewood, and got some rocks from a creek and started boilin’ ’em up, rubbin’ their hands over how good the rocks’d taste,” Lewrie went on. “The village folk’d never heard the like and gathered round to see what they were doing. After a bit, one soldier says that the rocks’d taste better with an onion or two, and one of the farmers ran off and brought ’em onions. Then it was carrots, then potatoes, then some salt, then a few marrow bones, then a chicken, then some rabbits, then pepper and herbs, and, after an hour or so, they’d tricked the village into making a feast. Out came the villagers’ bowls, bread, cheese, and wine, and they all dug in and ate themselves gluttonous.

  “In the morning, the village saw the soldiers off with bread, cheese, and full skins of wine, so they could tramp on to the next village and perform the trick all over again. See? Rock Soup!”