“Anchored fore and aft, sir, with springs on the cables as you wished,” Lt. Geoffrey Westcott reported. “Hmm … the land about the river and the town is fairly level. Should there be French troops in the vicinity, we should be able to support General Spencer ’til he’s got his artillery ashore.”
“Not a lot to the place, is there, Geoffrey?” Lewrie asked the First Officer. “It could be almost picturesque, if somebody thought to re-paint and sweep up the trash.”
“Count on the Spanish for that, sir?” Westcott said, snorting in derision. “Not in our lifetime. It looks to be fairly prosperous, though. Lots of large fishing boats and coastal trading vessels … warehouses, there, behind the quays? They appear not to be locked up and idle, like the ones we saw along the South coast last Summer. It may be there’s a decent trade here.”
Lewrie crossed to the other side of the poop deck and took a long look at the Portuguese side of the river. There was a wee town over there, named Castro Marim on Mr. Yelland’s charts, and they had passed a larger town on the way up-river, Vila Real de Santo António, which also looked fairly prosperous. Evidently, the French invasions of both countries had not reached such un-important places, yet, and the war had left this corner of Spain alone.
There were small boats working the Portuguese side of the river, some heaped with huge mounds of what looked like seaweed or riverbank reeds, and Lewrie wondered what in the world they did with it; eat it? Several curious folk were gathered on the Portuguese shore where a road ended, and a ferry rested, and they were pointing and talking animatedly, but looked like they’d flee like rabbits if anyone glared at them the wrong way.
Ayamonte’s citizens were more in a dither, with some saddling up horses or hitching up teams, and loading immediately necessary belongings into waggons or carts. Others more bold were gathered in taut, angry bunches, some armed with cudgels, swords, kitchen knives or cleavers, and a few firearms. Lewrie could even see a few lances for hunting wild boar being waved aloft, and one ancient pike. Most of the Spanish seemed wary but curious.
Most of the ten companies from one of General Spencer’s battalions were already ashore and formed up in the streets and large plaza that faced the quays, a band was playing, and a colour party was parading the Regimental Colours and the King’s Colours.
Lewrie could spot Spencer and some of his staff in conversation with some well-dressed civilian men and several priests, and he hoped that Spencer had thought to include some Spanish-speaking officers in his force, for there was a lot of head-shaking, hand-talking, shrugging, and confused looks between all. One of the civilians wore a sash cross his chest, perhaps the town mayor, and he began to smile. One of the priests dashed inside the nearby church and bells began to ring as the group of soldiers and civilians shook hands. It was almost comical to watch as the town mayor mounted the church steps and tried to address the crowd while the bells pealed on and on. Finally, the eldest churchman sent another priest inside to silence the clanging.
After a time, the mayor’s address evoked loud cheers, clapping, and huzzahs. Spanish flags appeared from windows and balconies.
“I think it’s safe for heretical English to go ashore, now,” Lewrie declared. “Muster my boat crew, and fetch the cutter up from astern, Mister Westcott.”
“Aye, sir. If you discover some decent wine, the wardroom will appreciate news of it,” Westcott hinted. “Or, if you spot a fetching young señorita or two…?”
“If we’re here for a while, I’ll allow you shore liberty, and you can hunt up your own,” Lewrie assured him. He looked aloft and then peered at the steeple of the church ashore. “Might be a good idea to keep a lookout in the main mast cross-trees. If there are any French forces in the neighbourhood, we’d have a better view of them.”
“I shall, sir,” Westcott agreed.
Once overside and in the cutter, Lewrie looked over his boat crew. “Listen, lads. It’s a small town, a Spanish town, and I warn you t’mind your manners. The girls might be willin’, but I’d wager their menfolk’d not look kindly on any dallying. Stay close to the quays, and do not get drunk. Right, Furfy?”
“Arra, sor,” Furfy moaned. “Iff’n th’ Dons’re grateful for us t’be here, it’d be un-friendly t’turn down a swig or two if they offer.”
“We stay ashore th’ rest o’ th’ mornin’, sor, we’ll miss th’ rum issue,” Furfy’s long-time mate, Cox’n Liam Desmond, pointed out. “Mayhap a cup or two of wine’d make up for it?”
Even the usually-sobre bow man, Michael Deavers, was looking eager to set foot ashore and get a drink. “Aye, it would,” he said.
“Pass word for Midshipman Britton!” Lewrie shouted up to the quarterdeck watch. “He’s to come ashore with me!”
That put his oarsmen in lower spirits. Midshipman Britton was a Tartar when it came to finding sailors “drunk on duty” and have them at Captain’s Mast.
“Aw, sor,” Furfy said with a sad shake of his head.
“If offered by grateful Spaniards … assumin’ they’re all that grateful … you can take a drink, but Mister Britton will see that you don’t get drunk,” Lewrie promised them.
Britton came scrambling down the battens and agilely stepped onto the gunn’l then aft to sit near the stern thwart near Lewrie and Desmond.
“If I need messages passed ’twixt the shore and the ship, I’ll need you to bear them, Mister Britton,” Lewrie told him. “I’ll also want you to mind the men’s consumption of any offered wine.”
“Aye aye, sir!” Britton crisply answered, with a warning glare at the hands.
“Shove off, then,” Lewrie ordered.
* * *
“Ah, Captain Lewrie, come to see the sights, have you?” General Spencer boomed as Lewrie strolled onto the plaza.
“I came to see how things are going, sir,” Lewrie replied. “I assume the Spanish are giving you a good welcome?”
“Ah, the bloody Dons,” Spencer griped, snatching off his ornate bicorne hat and running impatient fingers through his hair. “They claim that I must encamp my troops beyond the town, instead of lodging them in houses. There’s some low hills a mile or so to the Northeast and East, and we’ll have to march out there and set piquets on the hills, and set up tents and all behind them. They will allow a small party in town, atop the church tower, but that’s about all the co-operation we’re going to get.”
“I’m keeping lookouts posted aloft, sir,” Lewrie said. “They can see farther than anyone in the tower. They’re higher up. Maybe you could erect a semaphore tower at your camp to speak your sentries in the church tower, and run a message to me, should the French show up. If you have to fall back and be evacuated, my guns could dissuade the Frogs from pressing you too closely.”
“Fall back and evacuate?” Spencer bristled up. “No, Captain Lewrie. Unless an entire French division marches here to confront me, I fully intend to stand my ground and chance a battle. That’s what I was sent to do … even if it’s the arse-end of this shitten country.”
“So, there are no French anywhere close?” Lewrie asked.
“Well, there’s L’Etang’s division at Seville, and there’s General Dupont at Córdoba, but those are rather far off, and couldn’t be here for days,” Spencer allowed, “even if your Admiral Purvis is of the opinion that the French can fly like so many sparrows from one place to the next. The nearest we’re aware of is the brigade under General Avril, and they’re nearer Cádiz than I am, dammit all! Where I should be is Cádiz, but will the Dons allow me? Gawd!”