The guitarist must have completed the long, long fado, for the locals in the tavern wearily clapped and whistled their appreciation. He began another tune, much faster paced, with many strums, plucks, and finger-drums against his instrument, head down in deep concentration, with a wide-brimmed country hat hiding his face.
“What the Devil?” Mountjoy asked as the musician began “Rule, Brittania!”
“Somebody likes us,” Lewrie said, turning to the waiter to ask for vinho verde.
“Viva Inglaterra!” the musician shouted, still head down. “Viva las inglese!”, and the local patrons raised a mild cheer to that, too.
“Maybe it’ll be their treat, hey?” Lewrie said, with a wink.
The guitarist suddenly looked up, then stopped playing, sprang off the tabletop to his feet, and swept off his hat. “Hallo, Mountjoy, and how d’ye keep, my good man?”
“Marsh?” Mountjoy blurted, stumbling to his feet and over-turning his chair in his astonishment. “How did you…?”
Knows how t’make the grand entrance, damn him, Lewrie thought as he stood as well.
“Have my ways, don’t ye know,” Romney Marsh/The Multitude said as he came over to shake hands, unable to help himself from dropping into his various guises as he explained himself. “Primero, I left Madrid as ze pobre musico, joos me an’ my guitarra, then from Seville to Ayamonte, I played ze gran caballero, wees deespatches from ze Seville junta. A fisherman, to cross the river and row up the marshes to Portugal … the French pay well for fresh eels and sardines, ye know … switched from Spanish to Portuguese, grounded the boat and walked off homeward with my nets and oars over my shoulder, and just kept on ’til I could steal a cassock and hat, some sandals, and became a Romish priest for most of the way, beggin’ my way, no problems at all, ’til I got close to Sentubal and the French patrols.
“Then, I made myself into a French cavalry officer from near Sentubal to the Tagus,” Marsh preened, changing his accent.
“You what?” Mountjoy exclaimed again.
“Well, the damned fool was just ambling along without a care in the world, looking for old Roman or Moorish ruins to sketch, and with an eye for available young women, too, I expect, as if he was in a park in Paris, not a hostile country. An extreme young’un, no error,” Romney Marsh said with a laugh as he sat down at the table with them and claimed a wineglass and the fresh-fetched bottle. After a deep sip, and an appreciative sigh, he continued his tale.
“I passed myself off to him as a Jesuit who had studied in Paris,” Marsh went on with a sly grin, “which explained my perfect French. There were some ruins, a mile or so off the main road, so I spun him a tale of their antiquity. He on his fine charger, me on my humble donkey, we rode up there. I warned him that what he was doing was dangerous, so … after he hopped about, sketching like mad, and we shared some bread, cheese, and wine, I fulfilled my warning.
“’Twas a warm day, so he’d taken off his coat, laid aside his sword,” Marsh said with a titter, “and I slit his throat and became … him, hah hah! Didn’t even get any gore on his trousers!”
“You got into Lisbon as an enemy officer?” Mountjoy gasped in shock. “Just … killed the bastard and…?”
Good thing he works for us, Lewrie thought, astonished by the callous way that Marsh described his murder; Was he back in London, there’d be nobody safe! He’s seriously twisted!
“No no, old fellow, I couldn’t do that,” Marsh pooh-poohed. “But I could make faster progress on a good horse than I could with a burro. There was a spot of bother when I came across a French cavalry patrol, but I had his sketch pad case, and claimed that I was going to Lisbon with despatches to report the presence of those evil British at Ayamonte, and we rode along together for a bit, and a grand time it was, too, for their officer and his troopers were jolly sorts, and we all knew the same French tavern songs, as it turned out. I got to Montijo, got a remount, and headed for Sentubal, their lodgement South of the Tagus. Around dark, I ran into some armed Portuguese patriots, sold them the horse and the whole uniform kit, got some peasant clothing and this fine new guitarra from them, and took the Lisbon ferry as an itinerant musician, serenading the locals, and the French garrison, for my up-keep, ’til the bastards left and our army marched in. Ah, Alfonso,” he called to the waiter, “another bottle of this excellent vinho verde, and these gentlemen will have…” He ordered for them in fluent Portuguese, which resulted in a pot of sardines, shrimp, and mussels in wine sauce, with crisp bread and smooth cheese.
“Well, I never heard the like,” Mountjoy marvelled, between bites of food. “You astound me, Marsh, you really do. But, how did you manage to turn up at this very tavern the same time as us?”
“Serendipity, Mountjoy,” Marsh told him with a sly grin. “I’ve been haunting Beresford’s garrison headquarters, and Sir John Moore’s outside town, for nigh a fortnight, trying to get someone to listen. The Castelo’s not a hop, skip, or jump from here, you were obviously on your way there, and the rest was fortunate happenstance. What say we order more grilled shrimp, hey?”
“Listen to what?” Lewrie asked, still puzzled. “Now the Frogs have gone, what information do you have for them?”
“Yes, what you learned was most useful, and allowed us to keep the French from making off with all their loot,” Mountjoy praised, “but, now they’ve gone, I’d think you of more use back in Madrid.”
“Madrid, hah!” Marsh objected. “There’s nothing but a circus going on there, full of boasting and self-congratulatory blather! We need solid information for Moore’s thrust into Spain, assurances of Spanish support, and we have neither.”
“You don’t intend to ride into Spain ahead of the army and do a scout, do you?” Lt. Westcott asked.
“No, sir, I’ll leave that to our army to do,” Marsh dismissed the notion with a hoot of mirth. “But, someone should, and soon, but that fact doesn’t strike our generals as important, and what they’ve gotten from Hookham Frere is so much moonshine.”
“Who the Devil’s Hookham Frere?” Lewrie said, scowling.
“John Hookham Frere,” Marsh said with the sarcasm dripping, “is a clueless, inexperienced, fool who believes everything the juntas tell him, and passes it on to Moore. Lord Canning sent him to Madrid to be Ambassador, and a worst choice I can’t imagine. One just can’t believe a word the Spanish promise, but he does. Except for General Castaños at Bailén, the Spanish armies have been beaten like whipped dogs, and the posturing, braggart idiots in fine uniforms claim that they’ll do just as well, when their soldiers are without shoes, shot, powder, weapons, horses, and bread. Frere promises them all they lack, then promises Moore that he’ll find proper allies over the border.
“They can’t arm, feed, or train their own troops, but swear that our army will be amply supplied in Spain,” Marsh sneered, “and on the strength of those empty promises, Frere is urging Moore to get going as soon as dammit, and all is in place, just waiting for him, when nothing has been done to begin to gather any supplies!”
“I cannot believe that Sir John Moore will assume that his march into Spain will be that easy, or so well assisted,” Mountjoy said with a dis-believing shake of his head. “He, and we, well know not to put so much trust into our allies, by now. His Commissariat, his baggage train—”
“Inherited from General Wellesley,” Lewrie interrupted.