“Are they serious?” Westcott gawped, almost beside himself in utter astonishment. “Napoleon will have that whole army re-equipped and right back into Spain in three months, maybe send them right back into Portugal to undo everything! Promise me we won’t be escorting them to France, or have anything to do with this madness.”
“First off, we’re to meet up with Cotton’s blockading fleet off Lisbon, then go on to Gibraltar,” Lewrie assured him, “as far as we can get from it, with no blame attached for bein’ the messenger.”
“Good!” Westcott determined, much relieved. “When news of this gets to London, anyone involved with this so-called … Convention, is it, will be ruined, maybe stood up against a wall and shot, like old Admiral Byng was. I was wondering why the army wasn’t marching on Lisbon straightaway.”
“Hughes told me that Marshal Junot was pretty-much trapped with no way out, and runnin’ low on supplies. Dalrymple and Burrard could march South and close the ring round him, but that’d mean a few more battles, and even with Sir John Moore and his re-enforcements coming in a few days, the old fools … how did they put it in the terms of the treaty? ‘To avoid the useless effusion of blood’? They probably thought that Wellesley’s victories were flukes, up against Marshal Junot’s less-competent fools, and it’s mortal-certain that those two wouldn’t risk their own reputations now they’re in command, and got beaten. Wait for Moore, the darling of the Army and Horse Guards, and let him take the blame.”
“‘Betty’ and ‘the Dowager,’” Westcott sneered. “My Lord! Give it a month or two, and they’ll be up before a court-martial board, mark my words, sir. Anyone associated with it will be tainted for the rest of their lives.”
“They will, won’t they?” Lewrie said, suddenly breaking out a crafty smile. “Ye know, Geoffrey, our old friend Major Hughes looked like a preenin’ peacock just now, like he’d hitched his waggon to a go-er, back on Dalrymple’s staff.”
“Thought he’d reverted to a substantive Captain?” Westcott asked, puzzled.
“Bought himself a jump in rank,” Lewrie shrugged off. “Well, he may have promoted himself, but it may be a hollow Majority if no one’ll have him after word gets out. I think I may have t’go aft and have me a good laugh over his predicament, in private, hee hee!”
“I’ll tell Keane and Roe over dinner,” Westcott said, taking joy of that picture himself. “The whole wardroom will enjoy hearing.”
“Before you do, pass word that we’ll be sailing by Two Bells of the Day Watch, and have everyone make sure that we’re ready for sea in all respects,” Lewrie cautioned, then paused, cocking his head over. “Why do I have a naggin’ feelin’ that I’m forgetting something?”
Lt. Westcott frowned, too, as if sharing his concern. “Aha, sir! What about Mister Mountjoy? We can’t leave him here.”
“Damn my eyes, you’re right,” Lewrie said, all but slapping at his forehead. “Ye know, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since I came back aboard.” He looked about to espy one of the Midshipmen of the Harbour Watch. “Mister Ward, you are to take boat and go ashore to the army encampment, find Mister Mountjoy, and fetch him back so that we can sail.”
“Ehm … Mister Mountjoy, sir?” Ward said with a gulp, turning red in the face, “I, ah … he sent a note aboard late last night and I … I was about to stand the Middle, and…” He felt himself all over, probed all his pockets, and finally produced a wadded piece of lined foolscap. “I’m sorry, sir, I quite forgot about it, being so late, I didn’t wish to wake you, and…”
Lewrie took it from him, un-wadded it, and spread it flat with his palm on the nearest bulwark cap-rail. It was written in pencil.
“Well,” Lewrie said at last, frowning deeply. “It appears that Mountjoy’s left for Gibraltar, already, aboard one of the transports carrying wounded soldiers to the Navy Hospital. Wanted to carry news of the victory quickest, damn him.”
It actually read;
Spies unwelcome, bad food and worse drink, flearidden straw pallet, and barred from negotiations by the “proper” sorts. Gibraltar and Seville must be told at once. See you at the Ten Tuns Tavern, Mountjoy
“Well, that’s a relief,” Lt. Westcott said.
“Mister Ward, though,” Lewrie growled, rounding on the lad. “You’ve been badly remiss, you’ve denied me what amounts to official communication. You know that I should have been roused, or the note sent to my cabins, at once … don’t you, young sir?”
“Sorry, sir,” Ward said, shuddering. It was rare that the Captain lost his temper.
“Mister Terrell?” Lewrie bellowed in his best quarterdeck voice. “Pass word for the Bosun! Mister Westcott, when the Bosun turns up, he is to give Mister Ward a dozen of his best.”
“I will see to it, sir,” Lt. Westcott replied.
Lewrie went aft to his cabins, and only heard the whacks as Midshipman Ward was bent over the breech of a gun and “kissed the gunner’s daughter.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It really wasn’t all that far from Maceira Bay to Lisbon and the Tagus River, and even the usually plodding HMS Sapphire fetched sight of Admiral Sir Charles Cotton’s blockading ships just after dawn of the next day. Sapphire made her identification number to the flag, then hoisted Have Despatches, quickly answered by the flagship’s demand of Captain Repair On Board, and Lewrie was off in the 25-foot cutter as soon as his ship could come within rowing distance, with his boat crew in their Sunday Divisions best.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” the flagship’s Captain said once Lewrie had attained the deck of the towering Second Rate. “The Admiral is aft in his cabins. If you will come this way? Ehm … we’ve heard some rumours that a surrender has been arranged?” he hinted, as eager as anyone for news from shore.
“I shouldn’t tell tales out of school, sir,” Lewrie demurred, “but aye, there has been. I fear I must leave it to Sir Charles to impart the details, once he’s read it over. Let’s just say that the French will evacuate the whole country, and leave it at that, if you don’t mind waiting a bit more.”
“Hmpfh, well … here you go, sir,” that officer said, irked a bit that Lewrie was not more forthcoming.
He was ushered into the Admiral’s great-cabins, a richly and grandly furnished suite twice the size of his own. Sir Charles Cotton rose from behind his day-cabin desk and came forward to welcome him, a fellow of a most substantial build suitable to his age and rank.
“Despatches, is it, Captain … Lewrie, is it?” Cotton boomed. “Think I’ve heard your name somewhere before. Sit, sir, and will you have tea or coffee?”
“Tea, sir, if you don’t mind,” Lewrie responded, finding a chair in front of the large desk. He looped his canvas bag off before he did so, opened it, and handed over the slim packet inside. “Sir Hew Dalrymple has finalised the terms of the French surrender, sir, and this is your copy of the, ah … Convention of Cintra.”
“That what they’re calling it?” Cotton said, eagerly taking it and ripping it open to read it.
“So I was told, sir,” Lewrie replied. “The largest town near Vimeiro, or something.”
“No, it’s nearer Lisbon, and the coast, where the negotiations have been held,” Cotton countered, with most of his attention drawn to the despatches.
Hughes needs to swot up on his geography, then, Lewrie thought.
“What in the bloody, pluperfect Hell?” Cotton exploded. “My God, what a travesty! Send them back to France, with all their arms and personal…? What a damn-fool joke!” Cotton spluttered. He went red in the face as he flipped through the several pages, then slammed it atop his desk as if touching it was dangerous.
“I was given a separate summary of the agreement, sir, should you have any questions about the broader strokes,” Lewrie offered.