The King's Marauder

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Smoke, sir,” Westcott said, with some delight. “They’ve lit it on fire. We’ll have them back aboard the ships in the next hour.”

  * * *

  Sapphire’s Marines came up the scrambling nets and the boarding battens in much quieter takings than their demeanours upon departure, and even the sailors who had manned their boats and had guarded the beach but had not been engaged in the fight seemed much more subdued. The Bosun’s Mates and the Surgeon’s loblolly boys saw to hoisting Sapphire’s wounded up the ship’s sides by means of mess-table carrying boards for the seriously hurt, slung horizontal and lifted over the bulwarks with the main course yard, or in Bosuns’ chairs for the others.

  Through it all, Lewrie stood four-square and stoic amidships of the forward edge of the quarterdeck, hands clasped in the small of his back, ’til Lieutenant Keane reported to him.

  “How bad?” Lewrie gruffly asked.

  “Not too bad, all in all, sir,” Lt. Keane said, doffing his hat. “Marine Private Pewitt slain, and five wounded, including Corporal Lester. He’s the worst off. Lieutenant Roe got slightly nicked, and Sergeant Clapper twisted an ankle.”

  “It looked a lot worse from here,” Lewrie said, allowing himself a quick sigh of relief. “The soldiers?”

  “Captain Bowden’s company, in the centre, got the worst of it, sir,” Lt. Keane told him, looking weary and red-eyed. The right side of his face, right hand, and his mouth were stained with black powder from discharging and re-loading his own musket, from tearing the paper cartridges open with his teeth. “They were the first ones the Spanish saw in the gloom. I think he has three dead and ten wounded. Captain Kimbrough’s lot suffered one dead and six hurt.”

  “How the Devil did the Dons come t’be there, I’m wonderin’,” Lewrie groused. “It’s only been a day and a night since we landed at Almerimar. Were they in strength?”

  “About one company of foot, sir,” Lt. Keane replied, pulling a calico cloth from his coat pocket to mop his face, spit on one corner, and scrub the bitter grains of powder from his lips. “Fifty or sixty, or thereabouts? We took one of their officers as prisoner, and I gathered, given my little Spanish, that they were quartered overnight in the town, near the tower, but weren’t really there to guard the thing … they’d done a route march down from Órjiva just to keep their men fit, and had planned on marching back this morning, after a late breakfast. They’d been barracked overnight in a tavern, and I also gather that they’d had a good drunk.

  “It was only our bad luck that some bloody farmer saw us when we were creeping through the wood lot and the orchards, and ran off to wake them, sir,” Lt. Keane said, with a shrug.

  “Well, if they weren’t posted to protect that tower, then it’s good odds that some troops from Órjiva will be, later,” Lewrie decided. “If they’re that dear to ’em, that means that one part of our plan is working … though it’ll make future raids harder.”

  Hell, impossible, Lewrie gloomed to himself; We’re down nigh a half a company of troops, and when I get the lightly wounded back is anyone’s guess. Would Dalrymple give me any re-enforcements if…?

  “Major Hughes, sir?” Keane said.

  “Hmm?” Lewrie asked, drawn back from his thoughts.

  “Major Hughes, sir … we lost him,” Keane repeated.

  “Fallen? Damn,” Lewrie spat, though without much sincerity.

  “No, sir, I mean lost him,” Keane insisted. “He just up and disappeared, as if the ground had swallowed him up. We searched, after we had driven the Dons off, but there was just no sign of him.”

  “How the Devil d’ye lose an officer?” Lewrie exclaimed.

  “Don’t know, sir,” Keane replied, looking as if he took Lewrie’s question as a personal reproach. “We were more spread out than usual, with Kimbrough out to the left to keep an eye on the town, Bowden in the centre, and our Marines on the right flank, perhaps fifty or more yards ’twixt companies. Major Hughes was with the centre. As soon as we all spotted the Spanish, he started yelling for us to close up and sent runners, just before the firing began. Well, sir, I saw no reason to, since our volleys into the Spanish left were knocking them down like ninepins, and I ordered rear ranks to advance, to get closer.

  “The Major runs over to me, screaming, ‘What the Hell do you think you’re playing at?’ and to shift left and form line,” Keane went on. “A runner came from Captain Kimbrough, saying that he was advancing by ranks, the same as me, and Hughes … got even louder and said something like, ‘Must I save all you fools from disaster?’ and dashed off, leaving the runner with us.

  “Captain Bowden says he saw him as he ran past behind his own line, and angling off uphill to where Kimbrough’s men were closing, on the Spanish right,” Keane continued. “Bowden says that the Major ordered him to stand fast and suppress the foe with fire, and that’s the last anyone saw of him, for he never reached Kimbrough’s company.”

  “Just damn my eyes,” Lewrie exclaimed. “I never heard the like. D’ye think it’s possible that the Dons captured him?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose, sir,” Lt. Keane allowed, “but, neither Kimbrough nor Bowden recalls taking fire from any Spaniards between their companies, though he might have stumbled into a small party of shirkers or stragglers. The gunsmoke was getting pretty thick by then, so it was getting rather difficult for anyone to see damn-all.”

  “Damn, what a pity,” Lewrie said.

  No, it ain’t! he thought; I’m shot o’ the bastard, either way. If God’s just, Dalrymple might scrounge up a replacement. Perhaps he has another family friend’s son on his staff who needs t’win himself some spurs?

  “We’ll be returning to Gibraltar, soon as everyone’s settled,” Lewrie assured Keane. “See to your men, sir, and tell them that they did damned well … and that we’ll ‘Splice The Mainbrace’ at Seven Bells of the Forenoon. I’ll need your written account of the action for my report, along with Kimbrough’s and Bowden’s, as soon as I can collect them.”

  “Aye, sir,” Keane replied, doffing his hat in departing salute, then trudging down the starboard ladderway to the waist, where most of his Marines were gathered, after turning in their arms and accoutrements. Their initial muted moods had livened, and a trade was springing up in Spanish shakoes, waistbelt and crossbelt plates, and some rank badges ripped from dead Spanish non-commissioned officers.

  The dead Private and the wounded were on the orlop and the cockpit surgery, by then, out of sight, if not entirely out of mind.

  Lewrie looked over at the transport. Her boats were being led for towing astern, and all her troops were back aboard. He would collect Kimbrough’s and Bowden’s reports, he thought sadly, when he went aboard Harmony in the afternoon, once safely out at sea.

  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.

  “Captain Lewrie,” Sir Hew said, rounding upon him, again. “In your opinion, could either of the company officers of the 77th serve in overall command of the landing force?”

  “What little military experience they have, sir, has been gained during our landings,” Lewrie had to tell him. “They were fresh from the regiment’s home barracks, and their tailors. Captain Kimbrough is nineteen, and Captain Bowden is a year younger … unless either’s had a birthday I don’t know about.”

  Dalrymple mused that’un over so long that Lewrie thought he’d fallen asleep, his eyes closed, his chin on his chest, and his breathing deep. “So…” he said, at last, drawing out the word to a chant. “You have need of an older, experienced field officer … another!”

  “Aye, sir,” Lewrie replied. “My senior Marine officer is very experienced, older than the other two, but, he’s only a First Lieutenant, and I don’t know how…”

  “Of course not,” Sir Hew snapped. “Just isn’t done. Even did Admiralty award your man a brevet promotion, he’d still be only a Captain of Marines. No, I suppose I must give up an officer seconded to my staff, costing me someone who’s only just become adept at all the boresome work of headquarters, to the detriment of my offices’ efficiency. I shall consider whom I may select, and shall inform you of my choice. Will that be all the under-handed secret agent tomfoolery we must discuss today, Mister Mountjoy?”

  “I do believe it is, Sir Hew,” Mountjoy said, rising.

  “Then I bid you bo
th good day, sirs,” Dalrymple replied, shooting to his feet, eager to see the backs of them. Lewrie and Mountjoy almost made it to the tall double doors before Dalrymple got in his parting shot.

  “By the by, Captain Lewrie!” Dalrymple called out.

  “Sir?”

  “When I do send you a replacement for the unfortunate Major Hughes, promise me you’ll try hard not to lose another one, what?” Dalrymple barked.

  “I’ll do my best, sir,” Lewrie vowed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Mister Deacon, Mountjoy’s grim assistant and bodyguard, had been waiting near the exit for his employer to emerge from the meeting, and nodded Lewrie a silent greeting as Lewrie gathered up his hat and his sword belt. Mountjoy gave Lewrie a confident nod and a wink, and that pair set off for the dockside, and their false-front offices.

  Lewrie pulled out his pocket watch to determine if it might be time for an early shore supper, and how much time he had to waste with shopping before it was. He looked skyward past the Convent to the stony heights of the Rock; he’d never climbed to the top to see the view, or the Barbary apes, either, and wondered if he should take time to do so, someday soon. Wonder of wonders, though; as he lowered his view to the Convent and its entrance again, who should he see exiting but Maddalena Covilhā!

  “Mistress Covilhā!” he called out.

  “Ah, Captain Lewrie,” she replied, performing a sketchy curtsy as he doffed his hat. She wore the same pale yellow sheath gown with a white shawl as she had the time they’d all dined together, and the same bonnet, and, in Lewrie’s opinion, was looking rather winsome and fetching, though her expression was hard, half-angry, half-sad.

  “My regrets, about Major Hughes,” Lewrie told her.

  “All I hear are regrets, Captain Lewrie,” Maddalena said, with an impatient shake of her head. “But no one tells me what happened to him. He lodges here, but no one who knew him will talk. I went to his regiment, and they say nothing, either. Do you know, Captain?”