Dark meat was most people’s preference, but since beggars can’t be choosers, Lewrie ended up with a pair of scrawny chicken breasts, and two thumb-thick slices of bread liberally spread with butter for the princely sum of six pence. The carters drove a hard bargain, sniggering in glee to rook an Englishman and an officer, but he paid it gladly, and found himself a low stone wall along the rutted road that ran through Vimeiro for his dining table, washing it all down with canteen water, and not above licking his fingers when he was done, dignity be-damned.
There were rather a lot of flies, though, and Summer swarms of midges or gnats to pester him during his meal. After a long look round, he discovered that there was another field surgery set up in the village, wounded soldiers trickling to it from the last attack by the French on this part of the line; was it his imagination, or did the humming of myriads of flies dominate over the moans and cries of the hurt and dying?
A troop of cavalry came clattering by at the lope, in some urgency, swinging out to the hills to the South. Somewhere, drummers began to beat the Long Roll, bugles blew, and weary soldiers arose from where they rested, armed themselves, and began to form ranks, as if yet another pair of French columns would make a fresh attempt upon the village. Brigadiers and Colonels and their aides left the two-storey house that served as headquarters, quickly saddled up, and loped off to follow the cavalry troop down the road that led to Torres Vedras and Lisbon.
He was tired, yes, but Lewrie’s curiosity was piqued, so he mounted his horse and rode South to see what was happening, coming abeam of a clutch of mounted officers busy with their telescopes.
“Bless my soul, it ain’t an attack,” he heard one Colonel say. “There’s no more than one squadron of cavalry, flying a flag of truce!”
“Think you’re right, Bob,” a Brigadier agreed. “Damn my eyes, but I believe there’s a General with them. It’s Kellermann, by God, the fellow with the white hair? Oh, a clever old fox is Kellermann. Practically saved their revolution in Ninety-Three, when everyone in Europe marched against the French frontiers. Fought them all off with his levée en masse.”
“Well, he’s come to pull their chestnuts from the fire today, sir!” the Colonel whooped. “We’ve broken them, bloodied every one of their damned battalions! I wonder if His Nibs will settle for a truce, or demand surrender.”
“Won’t be up to Wellesley,” the Brigadier grumbled. “That’ll be up to ‘Betty’ Burrard, he’s senior.”
Good Christ, we’ve won! Lewrie thought with glee; They ain’t invincible! As hapless as the British Army had behaved in Holland, as disastrous as their efforts had been at Buenos Aires where two armies had been forced to surrender to half-trained, poorly-armed Argentine patriots, no one had given this army, or “Sepoy” General Sir Arthur Wellesley, much of a chance against the French, yet…! The odds had been beaten, the French had been beaten, beaten like a drum, and Lewrie was suddenly very glad, and proud, to have seen it happen, and take even a minuscule part in it!
I could be dined out on this tale for years! he crowed.
Gallopers were headed along the ridge line to pass the word, and Lewrie identified Lt. Beauchamp coming from the opposite direction, with Wellesley and Burrard just crossing the Maceira to come to the parley.
With a sense of satisfaction and conclusion, Lewrie turned his horse about and headed back to the bay, crossing the shallow Maceira and threading his way through the baggage train to the open plain between the hills. It was a long two miles, but he let the horse pick its own way down to the sea. He worried whether there would be someone to take charge of the beast, or would he have to leave it to graze with dropped reins. It had been a poor prad, but it had served him well enough, and he gave the horse an encouraging pat on its neck.
Fortunately, there were soldiers from the Commissariat loading more waggons and carts to bear fresh supplies from the ships up to the army, and one of their officers swore that he’d look after it.
And there were boats plying ’twixt the supply ships and the shore, and Lewrie managed to flag one down and cadge a ride out to Sapphire, out where he belonged, waded out to clamber aboard and take a seat on the stern-most thwart beside a Midshipman.
“How goes the battle, sir?” the young lad asked. “No one can tell us anything.”
“The French are suing for terms,” Lewrie told him, grinning. “We beat the bastards, and broke every one of their battalions.”
“Huzzah, sir! Hear that, lads?” the Mid called to his oarsmen. “We’ve won the battle!”
Lewrie closed his eyes and slumped in weariness, still with a pleased smile on his face, quite enjoying the rock, pitch, and thrust of the boat’s motion as it was stroked out into the bay.
Once aboard, I think I’ll have me a sponge-off, and a good, long nap, he promised himself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Phoebe frigate came into the bay the day after the battle, and a great military show it was to form a grand parade to welcome Lieutenant-General Sir Hew Dalrymple to his new post as Commander-In-Chief of British forces in Portugual. Lewrie watched it from a comfortable sling-chair on Sapphire’s poop deck, sheltered from the heat under a canvas awning that spanned the length and breadth of that deck.
He thought it odd, even so, that the army had returned to its encampments, with only a few regiments still posted to keep an eye on the French. Those officers he had overheard as they had awaited the arrival of General Kellermann and his truce party had opined that once the French were dis-armed, the army would march on Torres Vedras, nearer to the prize, Lisbon, for there were very good defensive positions to be had there and that they should strike while the iron was hot.
That was up to General Burrard, Lewrie supposed, and none of a sailor’s business, but he thought it silly to spruce up and march to band music just to make a show for Sir Hew. Frankly, he, and all his crew were growing tired of idling at anchor off the mouth of the Maceira, watching boats working by day and night to ferry off wounded soldiers to ships that would bear them back to England and proper hospitals. Shouldn’t they be going somewhere?
* * *
It was a couple of days later before orders turned up to sail, and they came mid-morning during cutlass drill.
“Boat ahoy!” Midshipman Ward shouted overside at an approaching rowboat, using a brass speaking-trumpet to augment his thin shrill.
“Despatches for your Captain!” came the reply, and a side-party was hastily assembled. Lewrie broke off his own sword practise with Marine Lieutenant Roe and went to the bulwarks in his shirtsleeves.
“Oh, Goddamn,” he groaned, “it’s that damned fool, Hughes.”
“It seems he’s rejoined Sir Hew’s staff, sir,” Lt. Roe said, making a sour face. “Better there than in command of troops, I suppose. At least he won’t stumble about and get himself captured again, on staff.”
“Well, there are proper soldiers, and then there are clerks, Mister Roe,” Lewrie quipped. “I’m sure he has all his paperwork just tiddly.”
Lewrie sheathed his hanger and trotted down to the quarterdeck to welcome Hughes aboard, loath as he was to clap “top lights” on him again. He even plastered on a grin.
“Ah, Captain Hughes! Welcome aboard,” he said in greeting as Hughes completed his climb up the battens to the deck.