“My word, sir,” he commented before they took deparure honours at the entry-port, “what a piratical picture you make. A freebooter, a Spanish filibustero…”
“A British pillager-ruffian?” Westcott slyly added. “Come to emulate Lisbon’s ancient conquerors?”
“Just for that, you buy the wine,” Mountjoy shot back. But he did so with a droll roll of his eyes.
* * *
“Good God, what is that appalling stench?” Lewrie said as he pinched his nose shut, once they were ashore.
“That, I suppose,” Westcott said, pointing to an enormous pile of garbage that almost blocked the entrance to a side street off the impressive plaza. “It looks as if the rains have washed it all down to where it ended up, like a log jam.”
Rather large rats and lesser mice could be seen rooting through the mounds, and it swarmed with thousands of flies. Uphill along that steep side street, it did indeed look as if something had moved that disgusting mess downhill, leaving bits, and a slug trail of filth, in its wake.
“I say, soldier!” Mountjoy called out to a passing member of the Commissariat, a stout little fellow with a sheaf of manifests and ledger book, with a scented handkerchief pressed to his own nose. “Doesn’t anyone tend to the garbage?”
“Sorry, sir?” the soldier said, stopping in his tracks and coming to a rough stance of Attention. “The garbage? That’d be up to the Portygeers, sir. They’re the filthiest folk ever I did see. My officer says ’twas the French did it, shooting all the dogs, soon as they took the place. The Portygeers let thousands of stray dogs do the work for them, if ya can imagine it.”
“Shot the dogs? Why?” Lewrie demanded, astonished.
“Heard they did the same with all the stray cats, too, sir,” the soldier replied, standing a bit stiffer to address an officer. “Feared they was all mad and frothing at the mouth, I reckon.”
“Is the whole city like this?” Mountjoy pressed, whipping out a handkerchief of his own and wadding it over his lower face.
“Well sir, I don’t see all that much of it, but I reckon that it is, or so I hear,” the soldier told him. “The Portygeers live in a pigsty, and think nothing of it. Ehm, beg pardon, sirs, but I’ve chits to deliver, and my sergeant—”
“Aye, carry on, lad,” Lewrie told him, lifting his hat to salute.
“How horrible!” Mountjoy almost moaned in disappointment.
“The dogs and the cats?” Lewrie asked. “Hell of a waste of ammunition. Damn the fastidious French.”
“No, I mean … the whole, beautiful city just tosses all their offal and garbage out the windows into the streets,” Mountjoy mourned, “and leaves it for the beasts to eat before it stinks. What sort of a civilised people do that?”
“They might’ve let hogs roam free, too,” Lewrie attempted to joke. “Fond as they are of ham in Spain and Portugal. Don’t see any, so the French must’ve eaten them, then shot the dogs and cats.”
“Catholic countries, sir,” Westcott reminded with a sneer.
“Dear God,” Mountjoy muttered with sad shakes of his head. “I imagined so much more of this wondrous city.”
“We should’ve asked that soldier where the army has its headquarters,” Lewrie said. “They might know where your man Marsh might be found. Unless he’s gone so native that nobody knows, of course.”
With no better idea, they strolled North from the river to the far end of the Praça do Comércio, where they were met by a party of Provosts doing their rounds, and discovered that the Commandant of Lisbon, General John Carr Beresford, was ensconced in the Castelo, an ancient fortress a long way uphill.
“Beresford!” Lewrie griped once they were on their way. “That fool! Remember him, Geoffrey, from Buenos Aires? He was the one in command, and surrendered his whole army to the Argentine rebels.”
“Wasn’t that much of an army, really,” Westcott scoffed, “or much of a battle when it came.”
“And he couldn’t even manage that,” Lewrie continued in some heat. “Garrison duty’s all he’s good for, though I thought that the Army would’ve sacked him by now. Christ, but they cling to their lack-wits like burrs to a saddle blanket!”
They could see the towers and battlements of the Castelo high above them, but it was a long, slow climb, and the cobblestones were treacherous footing. They passed homes with drying laundry strung cross the streets, tiny shops jammed between, slowly re-filling with foodstuffs from the countryside but still offering little, and an host of locals shopping for what little there was so far, and at inflated prices at that. People swarmed round moneychangers, pawn shops where family treasures were exchanged for money to keep body and soul together, people everywhere making their ways with sacks, crates, and kegs on their shoulders in search of better deals.
Even so, some of those tiny shops were aromatic with the smells of cooking, and Mountjoy would peek in to see what was offered, getting some of his good humour back as he extolled what he found; caldeirada de peixe, a fish stew with tomatoes, potatoes, and rice; cataplana, a shellfish stewed with wine, garlic, and tomatoes; ensopada de enguias, an eel stew; and acorda de camarrāoes, shrimp, garlic, and cilantro thick with bread crumbs. There some grilled strips of spicy chicken, another wee shop no wider than eight feet char-grilling sardines fresh from the sea. There were wine shops selling vinho verde, a crisp white, and reds by the meagre glass. Breads of various sorts, of course, and vegetables, were in others. Pastry shops were laying out hot custard tarts, some sort of cheesecake, and almond and egg custards.
“Damn my eyes, Mister Mountjoy, but you must stop,” Westcott insisted. “No more thrilling descriptions. You’re making me hungry!”
“Well, it ain’t as if we’ve an appointment with Beresford,” Lewrie pointed out, coming to a full stop. “Why not have a bite or two? Look, we’re almost to the Castelo, and there’s a tavern there, where the square opens up, right near one of the gates.”
“You’re still buying the wine,” Mountjoy insisted, this time in wry humour as they entered, took off their hats, and adjusted their eyes to the sudden dimness. The windows were few and small, though the double doors of the entry were as broad as the kind found in a barn. There were tables scattered about, a brace of opposing fireplaces for Winter days, a fair number of candles lit, and several Portuguese scattered about at their sublime ease, or indolence, listening to a musician; sipping wine, snacking on what fare the tavern offered. They found an empty table and sat down.
“That’s a fado he’s singing, by George,” Mountjoy said with a broad grin on his face.
“What, that caterwaulin’?” Lewrie scoffed.
It was in Portuguese, of course, slow for the most part, veering into a minor key, and both ineffably sad and haunting, then suddenly forceful and urgent, with many flourishes on the singer’s guitar.
“Sorrowful as all Hell, but most engrossing. Fados are a fascinating part of the country’s culture,” Mountjoy praised on.
“Then God help the Portuguese,” Westcott said, chuckling.
“Bom dia, senhores,” a waiter said as he came over.
“Ehm, bom dia,” Lewrie ventured, “ah … alguem aqui fala inglese?”
“Speak inglese, senhor?” the waiter puzzled over Lewrie’s horrid accent. “Sim, I do, falo um pouco … the little?” He launched into a lengthy explanation of how he’d become bilingual, all in fast Portuguese, of course, which went right over everyone’s heads. “Ja decidiram … what I get for you?” which sounded very much like zha-dee-see-dee-rowng, he asked at last.