“Very good, sir,” Lewrie replied, crest-fallen. He had thought it a good idea!
Lewrie got to clamber down into the entrenchments, crawl over the artillery sites, and get a good look at Spencer’s defences, but it was a bust of a day’s outing, and he wasn’t even offered a glass of something before dismissing himself and going back to town. And the horse, no matter how kicked in the ribs, would not go at a pace beyond its shambling trot!
* * *
After another week of idle uselessness, the crew began to go restless. Ayamonte did not want them ashore, so there was no shore liberty. The demands of Spencer’s brigade, and the power of his pay chests full of silver to buy up most of the cattle, sheep, goats, and pigs, kept Sapphire’s people on salt-meat rations, and even the wardroom’s, and the captain’s, tables were reduced to what beasts could be spared from the forecastle manger for their meals.
Weapons drills, make-work, scrubbing and painting, and many Make and Mend half-days, could distract them only so long. Watch-against-watch competitions at how fast they could ascend and descend all three masts, who could sing the best, who could dance the best, and boxing, palled after a time.
Lieutenant Westcott got his chance to go ashore, but came back aboard looking glum. He had fresh-laundered clothing, but little else, and certainly without tales of conquest of any fetching señorita, and that with his coin purse much reduced by the prices the Spanish were charging. For the other officers and Mids, it was much the same.
“Christ, you can’t even ogle them,” Westcott carped, “else the men of the town threaten to tear you limb from limb! Breaking into a Sultan’s hareem would be easier!”
Lewrie dipped into his own funds and sent the Purser, Mister Cadrick, ashore with orders to fetch back sufficient hogs, fruit, and baked bread for a feast, or don’t come back at all, and Cadrick managed to haggle, plead, and succeed at his task. There was not a single pence that came back in change.
Fast cutters or packet brigs came in every now and then with orders or news, and everyone got their hopes up that London or Gibraltar would send word for a change in their condition. Sometimes there was mail for Sapphire included, and Lewrie could take his mind off his ennui to read newspapers, even if they were weeks out of date by then, or catch up on family and friends. His youngest son, Hugh, was now in a frigate after his first ship paid off, and having the time of his life in the Mediterranean. His eldest, Sewallis, was aboard a new ship, another Third Rate 74, still on the Brest blockade, and did not sound so enthusiastic as his brother, seeming to have had second thoughts of his rash decision years before to run away to sea and forge his way into uniform. His daughter, Charlotte, did not write him, but Lewrie’s brother-in-law, Governour Chiswick, and his wife, Millicent, wrote for her. If Lewrie would pony up the money, Governour strongly hinted, it might be good to prepare Charlotte for a London Season, and her debut in Society, to catch her a good match.
There were letters from old friends, too; Benjamin Rodgers, Anthony Langlie, and his wife, Sophie, formerly Lewrie’s orphaned ward after the evacuation of Toulon, Ralph Knolles also in the Med in his Sixth Rate frigate. There was one breezy, chatty letter full of gossip from his father, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, and a packet of letters from Maddalena back at Gibraltar; fond ones that made him wish most fervently for a quick return there. Anywhere!
If we’re anchored in this bloody river, anchored to Spencer and his damned army, much longer, I’ll go mad! he told himself; Swear I will!
At the very least, he could occupy himself answering all those letters, scribbling away for hours on end, so engrossed in the doing that he could forget his miserable circumstances.
* * *
“The cutter’s coming offshore, sir, and there’s an Army officer aboard her,” Lieutenant Harcourt announced from the quarterdeck where he’d been idly taking the air.
“Umph!” Lewrie replied, rising from his collapsible chair on the poop deck, and laying aside his book. “So there is. Thankee, Mister Harcourt. D’ye think they’ve run out of mustard for the officers’ mess, and wish t’borrow a pot or two?” he added as he sauntered down to the quarterdeck.
“They’ll not get mine, sir!” Harcourt said with a short bark of a laugh.
“Boat ahoy!” Midshipman Spears called to the boat.
“Letter for your Captain!” came the shouted reply.
The boat came alongside the main mast chains, the Army officer managed to scramble up to the entry-port and take the hastily gathered salute from the side-party, then came aft and doffed his hat to Lewrie, and handed over a sealed letter.
“What’s this in aid of, sir?” Lewrie testily asked.
“General Spencer has just received orders from London, sir, and informations from Cádiz,” the young Lieutenant replied with an eager smile. “General Sir Arthur Wellesley’s army is to land in the Tagus, but we will not be marching to join him at Lisbon.”
“That was the plan?” Lewrie said.
“It was contemplated, yes, sir,” the army man said, “but it seems that London is of a mind that our brigade would be of more use closer to Cádiz, to aid and encourage the Spanish Army of Andalusia, and the Spanish have finally agreed to allow us to do so.”
Lewrie ripped the letter open and turned away briefly to read it. “Thank bloody Christ!” he whooped after a moment. “Puerto de Santa María! Not Cádiz exactly, but it’ll do. General Spencer is packing up and ready to go aboard the transports?”
“As we speak, sir,” the Lieutenant happily told him. “He wishes to be away in three days, weather permitting.”
“I can’t wait t’shake the dust of Ayamonte from my boots, either,” Lewrie told him, feeling like breaking out in a hornpipe dance of glee, “not that I gathered much dust in the bloody place. Assure the General that the transports await, and we’ll be ready to sail as soon as he’s got all his force off. And, inform him how delighted that every hand is t’hear of it, me included.”
“I shall relate that to him, sir,” the Army officer promised, equally pleased that they would go.
“Pettus,” Lewrie called, spotting his cabin-steward idling on the larboard gangway and fiddling with a fishing line, “do you fetch this officer a glass of wine before he returns ashore. We’ll liquour his boots for his ride.”
“Thank you, sir!” the Lieutenant exclaimed.
Word quickly spread, as it usually did aboard ship, fetching off-watch officers from below, with Westcott in the lead, even before Pettus could pour that glass of wine.
“Do I hear right, sir?” Westcott asked, looking hopeful.
“Hear what, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie could not help teasing.
“Why, that we’re out of this flea-ridden hovel!” Westcott replied.
“We are,” Lewrie assured him. “Off for Puerto de Santa María on the Bay of Cádiz, as soon as the Army can be got off.”
“I hope you pack quickly, sir,” Westcott said to the stranger.
“Closer to a larger city, your odds’ll be better,” Lewrie japed. “For your … hunting?”
“Perhaps the ladies of Cádiz bathe more often than the women of Ayamonte, aye,” Westcott said, sniggering.
“Oh, Lord,” Lt. Harcourt said, shaking his head, for Harcourt was a man who could be described as a Decent Sort, one more prone to seek a wife, should he ever get a command of his own and more pay.
As the army officer drank his wine, Lewrie could hear a stir among the crew. Off-watch men were coming on deck, people were whispering behind their hands, breaking out in grins, and looking aft for confirmation of the “scuttle-butt.” A fiddler even struck up “One Misty, Moisty Morning”!
Aye, they’re ready t’sail away, Lewrie thought; more than ready t’go somewhere else!