The King's Marauder
Page 33
She slipped away from him, rose, snuffed all but one candle, and padded to the door of her bed-chamber, beckoning him to follow.
What fantacies Lewrie had envisioned of her form did not hold a candle to the reality of her. Her arms, back, and torso were lean and firm, sweetly tapering to the swell of her hips, a firm, flat belly, and long, slim legs. Her breasts were firm and warm, with large, dark areoli and puckery nipples, which Lewrie worshipped as he held her so very cuppable lean bottom. Once completely nude, they stood by the side of the bed-stead, with her thighs slightly parted, and his hard manhood between, pressing together, their hips moving as Lewrie gently ran his hands over her smooth flesh, feeling as if he might explode that instant, and she loosed her long, dark hair to swish across her back and over his eager hands.
At last, she stepped back, looked him in the eyes with that same frank and open expression, smiling mysteriously as she got into bed and reached out to draw him down to join her, and her body, in the light of a single candle, was golden.
It had been so long, Lewrie wanted to roar, seize her hips, and thrust in at once, but instead, he kissed her all over, from her neck to her belly, which made her groan and writhe, and he could feel her belly quiver a little. With his senses alive beyond imagining, Lewrie slid up and eased into her, slowly, ’til he was sheathed in her warm wetness, so deep that there was no depth left to plumb, and Maddalena lifted her knees, reached down to his bottom, and urged him on to the last, and gave out a cry. He released at last, mindless minutes later, in a burst of immense, searing pleasure, thrusting away to salvage and savour the last waves of it, and Maddalena clawed at his back, panting and whimpering, then gave out a gasping, “Sim, yes, ahh!” and arched her back with her thighs about him, clinging as if she was drowning in her own joy, and snatching at anything that might keep her afloat.
Lewrie put the intensity of the experience down to how long it had been since he had lain with a woman, but he was wrong. Maddalena tantalised him to a second go, he kissed her all over to begin a third, and each time his delight was just as shattering, if not better. And, as they at last fell into an exhausted, entwined sleep, she bestowed one last, lingering kiss, and whispered, “I felt that you might be a wonderful man, Alan, but now I know … so wonderful in all things.”
* * *
He looked back one last time before making his way to the quays the next morning, and Maddalena was standing on her balcony in her dressing gown, sipping coffee. He waved, feeling like a schoolboy, and she blew him a kiss, her smile as wide as his. Waking to snuggle and kiss, tease and chuckle, whispering tentative sweet nothings to each other, well … it had been all that he could do to rise, dress, and depart, wishing that he could take the whole day off, just once.
Damme, I’ve “bought” me a woman! Lewrie marvelled to himself; And it may be the best bargain I’ve made in ages! So passionate and pleasin’! Just some long delays, so I can stay in port a few more days, please Jesus.
His steps were jaunty, even as he realised that the arrangement could not last; such things rarely did. He would be at sea three weeks out of four, so long as they continued raiding the Spanish coast, and seeing to his ship’s needs, and Sapphire’s people’s needs, would take up most of his time in port, leaving little for Maddalena, who would, after a time, surely wish to seek a “cozier” keeper, who would be around more often. Men got bored after a while, which was why they ran out to seek mistresses, after their wives whelped littl’uns, and gave all their affections to the babes, or got porcine in the process. He knew of only one man of his acquaintance, his old school chum, Peter Rushton, now Viscount Draywick, who was still with his mistress, after six years, and that was most-likely due to the nearness of the lodgings he gave her to Parliament, and Peter’s seat in the House of Lords.
Well, Tess was a charming, darling, and lovely creature, passionate—when Lewrie had bedded her—and Peter had told him that she was a “raree”, one of the few young women he knew who had little desire for fripperies, luxuries, or costly things, and was more than happy to be snug, secure, and cared for.
Christ! Lewrie thought; Maddalena’s beginnin’ t’sound like Tess! One from Portuguese peasantry, t’other Bog-Irish poor! I could never take her t’London, but … maybe she is a good, long-term bargain!
BOOK FOUR
And in regions far,
Such heroes bring ye forth
As those from whence we came,
Under that star
Not known unto our North.
“TO THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE”
MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563–1631)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Minor repairs, re-tarring and slushing, re-roving with fresh rope, some touch-up paint, then re-victualling both ships took three days before the Sapphire’s people were given shore liberty, watch by watch, keeping Lewrie aboard most of the time, with only a few hours ashore from the start of the First Dog Watch ’til midnight. It might have been guilt that he might be abandoning his duties that tore him from Maddalena’s fervent embraces before dawn, and “All Night In” which he really desired. His officers and crew could speculate, but no one knew for sure what drew him ashore so often. Japes were made that he was known in the Fleet as “Ram-Cat” Lewrie, and not for his choice of pets, or his fierceness in battle, either.
* * *
“Your note said you’ve a new objective in mind, Mountjoy?” he asked as he entered that worthy’s lodgings, handing his sword and hat to Deacon, who gave him a knowing nod.
“Ah, Captain Lewrie!” Mountjoy said, springing to his feet in good cheer. “I do, sir, and may I name to you a replacement officer just seconded to us … Captain Richard Pomfret, late of the 16th Regiment of Foot. Captain Pomfret, I name to you Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, of HMS Sapphire.”
“Honoured to make your acquaintance, Sir Alan,” Captain Pomfret said, offering his hand, and a quick jerk of his head.
“As am I t’make yours, Captain Pomfret,” Lewrie replied in kind, sizing him up. Pomfret was tall, nearly six feet, wide-shouldered and slim-waisted, with a hawk’s beak nose, thick dark-blond hair, and pale green eyes, a fellow in his late twenties, Lewrie judged. He looked to be experienced, if the puckered scar on his right cheek meant anything.
“Captain Pomfret was in command of the 16th’s Light Company, d’ye see, Captain Lewrie,” Mountjoy went on, “and is more used to the skirmish than was Major Hughes.” He said that with a wink.
“Mountjoy’s told you of our past operations, and how irregular our tactics have been, then, sir?” Lewrie asked.
“He has, sir, as has General Dalrymple,” Pomfret said with a confident grin. “It’d seem that rapid, assault, and aggressiveness, are your boys in such endeavours, after a stealthy landing and a quiet creep to the objective, of course. Sounds champion! I’m looking forward to the job. Met the other officers, and had a look-in at the 77th’s barracks to introduce myself to the troops. They seem a fine lot.”
“They’ve proven to be, aye,” Lewrie agreed.
“And, here’s Deacon with the wine,” Mountjoy cheerfully said, playing the merry host. “Sit you down, sirs, and I will explain all.”
After one glass of a crisp Portuguese white wine, and several minutes of chitchat by way of introductions, Mountjoy rose and went to fetch his charts and hand-drawn maps, along with the pertinent agents’ reports.
“There are no towns or wee seaports near the objective that I have in mind, sirs,” Mountjoy began, rolling out the chart. “There, at the tip of Cabo de Gata, on some high ground, the Spanish have begun a battery on this out-jutting spur of headland. Further inland, and above it, there already is a semaphore tower, manned by the usual handful of soldiers. The battery, so my reports say, will mount six twenty-four-pounders when completed. As you can see in this sketch, they’ve finished the foundations, and are erecting the stone walls, with a long section with four guns, and two shorter sections either end, angled back and will mount the other two cannon. The ramparts
are up level with the flagged floor, now, and work is just started to raise the parapets to the planned height.
“Wooden barracks for the garrison are back here, up the slope,” Mountjoy continued, using a stub of pencil to indicate the details, “and the powder magazine is being dug out here, ’twixt the works and the barracks, very deep … earthen, under a mound of excavated earth. They may flag its floor, just to keep damp out of the powder barrels, but that’s not been done yet.”
Mountjoy went on to explain that the masons and the labourers were drawn from several farming villages that lay inland, the stone brought in from quarries near Almeria by ox-drawn waggons, and the labourers fed and sheltered in a tent camp near the foot of the slope that led up to the semaphore tower.
“They ain’t happy workers, mind,” Mountjoy told them. “Here it is almost harvest season, and most of them have been conscripted for the work, dragooned from their fields, orchards, and flocks, and the pay is very low, and, at the moment, considerably in arrears.”
“Slave labour, you mean,” Captain Pomfret said, with a snort of derision, sitting more erect.
“Pretty much, yes,” Mountjoy agreed, “and dragged away from their women and children, to boot. Oh, there are whores a’plenty at the tent camps, but I doubt if the workers have two centavos to rub together for that, much less enough for a skin of very rough wine, so they’ve little to do after dark beyond grumbling, and trying to run off, so I doubt if the workers will present your men much resistance, Captain Pomfret, when you land. They may help you tear the bloody place down!”
“It’s not so far along that hitting it will delay them much,” Lewrie pointed out, “we could kill the oxen, burn the waggons, burn the semaphore tower, but … if the magazine isn’t finished, there’d be no powder to blow up, and no explosives we could use to destroy the ramparts, unless we haul our own up, and that’d take hundreds of kegs, and hours t’put in place. And, two questions … are the bloody guns already there, and where’s the nearest beach?”
The headland of Cabo de Gata was too rocky for a landing, and the beach below it was much too narrow, according to the sea chart, and the sketches. The nearest beach was two hundred yards East of the headland, broader and sandier, but Sapphire and the transport could not fetch-to any closer than a mile from shore. It would be a long row, both ways.
“How large a garrison is there?” Pomfret asked, his forehead creased in worry. “The Spanish must have some force to keep the workers from running off, I should think, else the whole project falls apart for lack of diggers.”
“There is at least a company of Spanish troops,” Mountjoy had to admit, with a touch of worry in his own face. “A mixed bag, really. Cooks, infantry, some engineer officers and their aides, and about a dozen cavalry. My informants say that they’re used to patrol round the site to prevent workers from deserting, and running down those of them who make off.”
“Mountjoy, is this like Salobrena?” Lewrie asked, scowling. “The only target you know the most about?” He shared a quick look with Captain Pomfret, who had evidently been filled in on Salobrena by the officers of the 77th; neither man looked that confident. “It seems t’me that ye might let this’un hatch, first, or let the Dons lay their egg before we go smash it, when the workers are gone, and the powder’s there, so there’s more for the Spanish t’lose, and their garrison’d be about seventy-five or eighty artillerymen … about ten or twelve men per gun, maybe fifteen?”
“Rather a steep climb up from that beach to the battery, up a draw that could get us enfiladed from either side, what?” Pomfret pointed out. “Not to be a croaker … just saying.”
“You do have other objectives in mind, don’t you?” Lewrie demanded. “Something easier t’get at? It seems t’me that we’d be better off cruisin’ up and down the shore, shellin’ the place from a mile off with quoins out, at maximum elevation. That’d stir ’em up, and cause bags of chaos and mayhem.
“That’s our brief, don’t ye know, Captain Pomfret,” Lewrie said to the Army officer with a wink and a grin, “creatin’ chaos and mayhem in job-lots.”
Mountjoy did not take that at all well; he sat back with his arms crossed upon his chest, scowling with his lips pursed and brows furrowed. “It is my best … our best … option at the moment, yes,” he grudgingly confessed. “The others are too strongly defended, or too hard to get at, at present. Hmm.” He drummed his right-hand fingers on his left arm. “How about this, sirs. Sapphire will close the coast and take it under fire, up and down, ’til the battery’s damaged and the garrison and the workers have been run off. Then, if the two of you deem it practical, land the troops and scandalise the works and the semaphore tower. No pre-dawn surprises, do it in broad daylight.”
“Well…” Lewrie tentatively responded, after taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling. “How do I judge if the battery’s damaged sufficiently from a mile off, by telescope? How would Captain Pomfret judge that the defenders’ve been driven away from his transport, which will be fetched-to even further off? Whose responsibility is it to committ the troops into God knows what? Just a simple sailor, me.”
“Good point, sir,” Pomfret agreed, breaking out a wee smile. “The responsibility and assessment of the risk … not the ‘simple sailor’ part.”
“Aye, I can hammer the place,” Lewrie allowed, though still in some doubt as to the value of the attack. “Though it’s more the work of howitzers or sea-mortars, with fused explosive shells. I’ll take Harmony along, just in case, but I doubt if the troops, or my Marines, will have much of a chance t’get their feet wet. Perhaps you should take passage aboard Sapphire, Captain Pomfret,” Lewrie suggested. “If a decision to land the troops must be made, it’d be best if we were face-to-face. Signal hoists are for orders, not discussion, and the best I could send would be ‘yes’, ‘no’, or, ‘maybe’.”
“I’d hoped to be with my troops, sir,” Pomfret said, “but in this case, I agree that I should be in the same ship as you. My officers are practised enough in dis-embarking their companies, by now, and if we do decide to land the men, I could go in with your Marines.”
“We’re settled, then?” Mountjoy perkily said. “Everyone satisfied? Good!” he bulled on, not waiting for them to respond. “Deacon and I will prepare copies of the maps, sketches, and the chart, and we’ll consider the battery at Cabo de Gata our next objective.”
They shared a final glass of wine and some more idle chatter, in which, to Lewrie’s shock, Pomfret casually revealed that he had been with his regiment on Sicily, but had been brought to Gibraltar and the naval hospital after being wounded in action, along with some men of the 16th Foot, and had only been on staff duties at the Convent for a fortnight after being released!
* * *
“Good God, d’ye think he’s physically up to it?” Lewrie asked, with a queasy feeling, after Pomfret had taken his leave. “I doubt if Dalrymple’d appreciate it if he keeled over.”
“He looks fit as a fiddle to me, and I’ve been assured that he is cleared for duty,” Mountjoy replied with a faint grin. “An officer experienced at skirmishing is the best we could have hoped for, as you said yourself in the beginning.”
“I’ll have t’take your word for him, then,” Lewrie said, with a shrug. “He doesn’t seem half the tight-arse that Hughes was. Heard anything of what happened to him, yet?”
“No, the Spanish haven’t sent Dalrymple any word,” Mountjoy told him, then got a crafty look oh his phyz. “Speaking of Hughes … Mister Deacon told me you’ve adopted his mistress. If the lady that he saw you with is not Hughes’s girl, then she’s the spitting image.”
“I have,” Lewrie replied, grinning. “She is.”
“Shore lodgings? Removing from one to another? Shopping?”
“Dammit, Mountjoy, have ye set him t’spy on me?” Lewrie barked.
“Nothing of the sort,” Mountjoy replied, with a wave of his hand. “Just idle happenstance that he saw you. Christian charity, is it?”
“From a mountain town named Covilhā, thence from Oporto, where she took up with a young man in the wine trade,” Mountjoy interrupted, ticking off what he knew, “and followed him to Gibraltar in 1803. He perished in the last bout of Gibraltar Fever in 1804, and she’s been ‘under the protection’ of a series of British officers since. She’s fluent in English as well as Spanish and her native tongue, is well-read in all three languages, and is much brighter than one would imagine of a young woman from such a background, with a fine mind.”
“You’ve spied on her?” Lewrie gawped.
“As soon as Hughes was chosen to command our troops, we looked into her,” Mountjoy said, with that sort of “I know something that you don’t know” superiority that was rife in the espionage trade, and which had always gotten right up Lewrie’s nose. “I told you early on that Gibraltar’s simply teeming with suspect foreigners, and the last thing we needed was a tempting young woman in contact with the enemy, who might beguile a braggart like Hughes into revealing too much of our plans, or my sources, and how we gathered information on potential targets. I have to protect my network.”
“Mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie barked.
“For your information, Mistress Covilhā is guileless and safe,” Mountjoy assured him, slyly amused. “Though it wouldn’t do to reveal too much of our doings to her, even so. Second-hand blabbing in the markets could be overheard by real enemy agents. For a time, I had a thought to recruit her, don’t ye know, if only to see if Hughes could be trusted to keep mum, and, she’s a clever girl, and could listen to what talk there is in the markets, and assist Deacon in shadowing any people we suspect. Who’d suspect a girl of twenty-three, out on her shopping, what?”