“I’d’ve stripped them naked and made them cross the Pyrenees with their thumbs up their arses, on their heels and elbows, sir,” Lewrie said, repeating his jape to Major Hughes.
“That might have gone a bit beyond the recognised rules of war, Captain Lewrie,” General Drummond replied, though the comment awoke a wry grin on his phyz. “You’ve shared this with the Foreign Office agent, yet?”
“Not yet, sir,” Lewrie said. “He’s my next stop.”
“Well, I won’t keep you,” Drummond said, pacing over to his large map pinned to a board. Instead of Dalrymple’s map of Spain, Portugal, and his pet project of taking the fortress at Ceuta, the General’s was of Gibraltar and its immediate environs. He pulled a face, not yet dimissing Lewrie, though Lewrie had already risen to his feet, hat under his arm. “At least we have Wellesley’s triumph to celebrate, and that’s the main thing … that, and the ousting of the French from Portugal. This…!” Drummond said, waving the sheaf of paper about, “does not affect us here. We shall celebrate and put a good face on it. I’m told that all the regimental messes are co-operating to stage a grand supper ball, a fête champêtre, even if Italian sparkling wines must stand in for champagne proper. Are you still in port, sir, be assured that you and your officers shall be invited.”
“Thankee kindly, sir, and I look forward to it,” Lewrie said, perking up. “I’ll take my leave, then. Good day, sir.”
* * *
It took Lewrie a hot, sweaty hour of walking to hunt up Thomas Mountjoy after that; Pescadore’s, Mountjoy’s lodgings, the fraudulent offices of his Falmouth Import & Export Company in the lower town, and the Ten Tuns Tavern. He finally bearded him in his den at his upper-town lodgings, having missed him somehow in transit.
“Ah, Lewrie, back at last, are you?” Mountjoy said jovially as he sat out on his awninged gallery overlooking the harbour, and at his ease following a fine mid-day meal. “You look hot. A cool wine?”
“Yes, thankee,” Lewrie said, sitting down on an upholstered iron chair and fanning himself with his hat. “I thought you’d use me as your private yacht to get back here.”
“News of our success just had to be gotten to General Drummond, and the Spanish Junta at Seville. Sorry ’bout that,” Mountjoy said.
“You really should have hung around a tad longer,” Lewrie chid him as Mr. Daniel Deacon came outside with a freshly-opened bottle of sprightly floral Spanish wine and an extra glass. “Hallo, Deacon, and how d’ye keep?”
“Main-well, sir,” Deacon said, pouring all round.
“Celebrating still?” Lewrie asked. “A bit premature, that. As I said, you really should have stayed long enough to hear the details of the terms that Dalrymple, Burrard, and the French thrashed out.”
“Mmm, well … what are they?” Mountjoy had to ask, and Lewrie took joy of being the source of information that the spy-master did not know; it was rare that that shoe was on his foot.
“Well, first, the French will evacuate all their troops from every inch of Portugal,” Lewrie told him. “We get it all back at one blow.” And as they cheered that, he took a welcome sip of his wine. “But…” he added, sticking a finger in the air, “they get to sail back to France, in British ships, with all their arms, colours, and … personal possessions, which means whatever loot they’d stolen from Portugal. And, their pay chests,” Lewrie said, scowling, as he explained about the portable mints, the ships that Marshal Junot hired for his booty. “I heard that General Wellesley wanted to march down to Torres Vedras at once, keep the initiative, and box the rest of Junot’s troops in at Lisbon, but that was scotched. The whole thing has simply turned to shit, a great, steaming pile of it!”
“My God, the lack-wits!” Mountjoy gravelled, after a minute of slack-jawed amazement. He tossed off his wine at one go. “We’ve been diddled! How incredibly … stupid!”
“Still, we beat them, sir,” Deacon said. “I would have loved to have seen it, myself. And we get Portugal back.”
“I went ashore with my Ferguson rifled musket, and saw it right from the firing line,” Lewrie told him, “and yes, it was grand to see. The French column can’t beat the British line, and rolling platoon volleys.”
“Portugal free, and the Spanish revolt has driven the French North of the Ebro River,” Mountjoy stuck in, seeking any solace. “If Spanish math is to be trusted, ‘Boney’s’ invasion has cost him over fourty thousand killed, wounded, and captured, and King Joseph Bonaparte’s fled Madrid for Burgos, maybe as far as Vitoria.”
“And, we’ve been told that General Sir John Moore is on his way to Lisbon,” Deacon added, looking for another bright spot. “General Sir David Baird is to land another army at Corunna in Northwest Spain, too, and they might be able to unite and drive the French from the rest of Spain.”
“Lisbon’s where your boy, Romney Marsh is, now,” Lewrie took a great joy in relating, loving Mountjoy’s astonishment. “However he managed that. He’s been sending Admiral Cotton useful news.”
“I’d rather not know,” Mountjoy gawped. “The details would scare me out of a year’s growth! I got one note from him from Seville, then another from Ayamonte, then he dropped off the face of the earth. I didn’t know he was fluent in Portuguese, but then he would be, wouldn’t he? French, Spanish, Latin, Greek, he’s as daft as you are, Lewrie. The two of you are of a piece! Playing private soldier, my Lord! You do anything to relieve your boredom, anything to smell gunpowder.”
“Nonsense, I was just witnessing history,” Lewrie demurred.
“Well, there’s a faithless bitch that’ll put you in the ground, if you’re not careful,” Mountjoy cautioned. “History, hah!”
“Can’t do without me, is it?” Lewrie teased as he sat back down with his re-fill. “Me, or your private navy? Speaking of that, I suppose I’m still under your orders? Do ye have anything in the works for me to do?”
“More arms deliveries,” Mountjoy idly said with a shrug. “Do some scouting of the cities along the coast where the French are holed up, the forts. I may have you sail to Lisbon to retrieve our mystery man, now that we occupy the place.”
“I promised Maddalena that she’d see Lisbon someday,” Lewrie said with a fond smile. “Speaking of, if ye have no more questions for now, I’ll see you both at the ball.”
“What ball?” Mountjoy asked with a scowl.
“The garrison officers are poolin’ resources t’throw one, and I’m told I’ll be invited,” Lewrie said, tossing off the last of his glass and getting to his feet again. “I expect you both will be, as well, so … shave close, bathe, and brush your teeth, hmm?”
* * *
Back on the street, Lewrie set a fast pace South along the quayside, threading his way impatiently through carters, barrow men, and half-drunk sailors. As Sapphire had come in under reduced sail, he had peered closely at the rented lodgings, and, sure enough, Maddalena had come out onto the balcony and had enthusiastically waved a tea towel in welcome.
Kept her waitin’ long enough, he thought as he increased his pace as he got closer to her building; Kept me deprived long enough! He felt at a pocket of his coat to assure himself that he had brought a full dozen fresh cundums ashore.
Suddenly, he was there, she was there, at the balcony rails, up on tiptoes, bouncing with eagerness with a wide smile on her face, and as he waved widely back, she reached up to the back of her neck and freed her hair to fall long, lush and lustrous. Yes!
Some bystanders might laugh, but Lewrie didn’t care a fig for their opinions, didn’t care if he was making himself the biggest fool. He practically burst through the ground-floor doors, and pounded up the stairs in a growing eagerness of his own, and it was more than a simple, raging lust; that sudden swelling of intense affection struck him in a rush, almost making him utter “Whoo!”