“Aha?” Lewrie said, startled. “Well, there goes our plans for Christmas geese,” which comment forced General Drummond to peer at him in intense scrutiny, as if Lewrie was not of sound mind.
“Game for it, are you, Captain Lewrie?” Drummond demanded.
“At your complete disposal, sir,” Lewrie insisted. “And I shall begin provisioning for a lengthy time at sea, at once.”
And a miserable time it’ll be, Lewrie grimly told himself, for this time of year there would be strong Westerly gales and high seas along the Portuguese and Spanish Western shores, which could drive any number of struggling ships onto the rocks. He recalled a peek he’d had at the sea charts, just a casual glance, really, in quieter times; from Cape Fisterre to Corunna and Ferrol the Spanish called it the Costa da Morte, the Coast of Death! He assumed that the Dons knew what they were talking about!
“Sir Alan won’t let the Army down, sir,” Mountjoy felt need to declare. “He’s game, and more than game, for anything.”
So long as I don’t drown myself, yes, Lewrie thought.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
There had been four “troopers” in port at Gibraltar when Lewrie had gotten his initial orders from General Drummond, and over the next week, a dozen more had come in in answer to Drummond’s urgent summons, all of which needed victualling, for Lewrie was certain that the army would be desperately short of rations when, or if, it managed to make its way to Corunna or Vigo to be evacuated.
For once, Captain Middleton, the Dockyard Commissioner, was all open co-operation, throwing open his warehouses and fulfilling every request, though his insistence on strict accounting for each jot and tittle could almost drive everyone involved mad. Captain Middleton also fretted over whether the one-thousand-bed naval hospital would be called upon to tend to God only knew how many injured and sick soldiers, sure that his small medical staff would be swamped.
Drummond did receive assurances from London that the Government was at last aware of the pending disaster, and was also assembling a large fleet of transports in British ports to take off the army, but no one could say just when that fleet would sail, or arrive, making the departure of Lewrie’s small contingent even more vital, no matter how few soldiers could be rescued by a mere sixteen ships. He would be lucky to take off a little more than 2,100, if the usual loading of 150 soldiers to each transport was followed, the equivalent of a three-regiment brigade!
Escorts, though, were another matter. There was a brig-sloop from Admiral Cotton’s squadron that had come in with sprung masts in need of repair, the Blaze, under a Commander Teague who was working his crew day-and-night to set her to rights. There was another brig-sloop belonging to the Mediterranean Fleet that had come to Gibraltar from the Toulon blockade; unfortunately, the Peregrine had not come in response to Drummond’s requests, but to repair storm damage she’d suffered off Cape Sepet, and had been looking forward to a spell of shore liberty after making her own repairs. Commander Blamey had been stunned by the news, and his new duties, but had also pitched in to ready his ship for departure.
Lewrie was sure that he needed more, for the Nor’west coast of Spain was uncomfortably close to the French ports of Bayonne and Bordeaux, the safe anchorages up the Gironde River, where privateers and French warships were based. If word got out that Sir John Moore’s army was counting on a transport fleet for their salvation, it would draw them out like a disturbed swarm of bees. The weather would be abysmal, the Winter Westerlies might be “dead muzzlers” to pen them in port, but, if they did get out somehow…?
On top of all his frets, there was Maddalena, too.
* * *
He had been ashore to deal with the Dockyards for extra blankets and hammocks, just in case Sapphire, Blaze, and Peregrine had to take soldiers aboard and quarter them any-old-how, arseholes to elbows. He had reported to Drummond at the Convent to fill that worthy in on his progress, and how soon his escorts could be ready to sail. And, he had gone to Maddalena’s lodgings to speak with her, perhaps for the very last time.
“If I don’t return for some time, dear girl, or … don’t return at all…,” he had said as calmly and logically as he could.
“Don’t say that, Alan!” she had countered, tears already coursing her cheeks, and laying a finger on his mouth to shush him. “You will come back, you always come back!”
“I’ll do everything in my power to do so, querida, but, if the sea goes against me…,” he had cautioned, shrugging off the possibilities, “it’s a foul Winter, full of storms, and a lee shore all the way there and back. If something does happen, the branch of Coutts’ Bank here has a tidy sum for you, and if you need any help in the matter, go see Thomas Mountjoy and Daniel Deacon. I’ve spoken with them, and they’ll see you right. Your lodgings are paid for through next year, and—”
“I do not care for lodgings, or sums, or…!” Maddalena had rejoined with a visible shudder. “I only care about you, meu querido! Meu amor! You are so good … you have been so good to me, I cannot think of life without you.”
“I’ve been my happiest with you, too, Maddalena,” he assured her, embracing her more snugly and burying his face in her sweet-smelling hair. “We both know, though, that I wouldn’t be at Gibraltar forever. My Navy has a way of callin’ people away, just when they feel happy, or comfortable, or … snug, I s’pose. We both knew it, goin’ in … didn’t we?” he had tried to tease. “That we could make the best of it ’til that happened, or…”
I don’t much care for thinkin’ of my own death, either, he had thought, pressing even closer to her body, as if the physical act of moving was proof against that.
“How many days do we have, Alan?” she had whispered against his bare shoulder. “You will be busy? Too busy for me?” she had said, making it sound like a plea, not an accusation.
“A day or two, at most,” he had to confess. “Once the other escorts are repaired, I’ll have t’sail with what little I have got. I can’t wait for late arrivals. Duty’s a demandin’ bitch, but there it is.”
“This may be our last time?” Maddalena had whimpered, and he had to nod yes, and she had peered him right in the eyes, so gravely, and had whispered “Then, make love to me, one last time, meu amor.”
And that had been frantic, thrashing, panting, and searingly passionate. There was no bed, no tangled sheets, nothing in this world but the sensation that they floated on a supportive and ephemeral cloud, all of Lewrie’s senses tunnelled down to his member, her sweet, hot wetness and her tightening, ’til he had exploded in her, so pleasurably that it almost hurt, and seemed to last forever, each after-thrust a re-awakening. Maddalena had cried out and had clawed at him at that same moment, wrapping her legs about him, seizing his buttocks to drive him deeper and keep him there to savour every last wave, rolling her head from side to side and gasping for air.
That’s one for the memoirs, he told himself as he lay spent, at last, slowly going flaccid and hating the moment to come when he would have to withdraw.
“My Lord, girl!” he croaked, “Foi extraordinário!”
“Sim, selvagem,” she agreed as he slid to her side to hold her, and rained slow, lazy, lingering kisses on him.
Boom! from the harbour, beyond the balcony, then Boom! again, as steady as a metronome.