That had them roaring with laughter.
“I was told that those ridges yonder, the Monte Mero, are steep, and so full of boulders, it might as well be a stone fort,” he went on. “The Frogs’ll be out of breath by the time they’re halfway up, and dyin’ by the dozens at every step. All the gun-smoke is over on the other side, so far, so…’til we see red coats fallin’ back, and blue carpets on this side of the ridges, all’s well. If we do see that, then we’ll sail over to that inlet, yonder,” he said with one arm pointing towards the foot of Santa Lucía Hill, “and use our cannon t’slaughter ’em by the hundreds!
“Our first year in the Med,” he exhorted, “you shot the Devil out of forts and batteries … this Summer, we took on that column of Frogs marchin’ along the coast road from Málaga, you shot the guts out of two Spanish frigates. You’re the best set of gunners ever I did see in the King’s Navy. If called to do it, can ye shoot Hell out of a French army?”
Eager cries of agreement and cheering greeted his exortations, and he waited ’til it died down before continuing. “For now, we will wait t’see what happens. You off-watch men, you really should go below and get some sleep, but I can’t order ye to. So…’til the rum issue and dinner, let’s have a Make and Mend, and stand easy.”
They cheered that, too. The keenly curious could stay by the bulwarks and up the masts, while others could read, write letters, or mend their clothing, fiddle with their craftwork and carvings, whilst a fair number would indeed nap on deck wrapped in their blankets, or go below to turn into their hammocks.
* * *
The rum issue at Seven Bells of the Forenoon came and went, as did the hands’ mid-day meal, the change of watch from Noon to four, the change of watch at the start of the First Dog, and even the approach of the Second Dog at 6 P.M. The army was holding, it seemed, as the sun sank low and dusk began to dull the view of the shore. Lewrie had been aft in his cabins, catching up on the never-ending paperwork associated with a ship in active commission, when he took note that Pettus and Jessop were lighting more lanthorns.
And the sudden silence.
“What the Devil?” he asked himself as he rose from his desk, cocking his head to listen more closely.
“Think it stopped, sir,” Jessop commented. “Quiet-like.”
Wonder if that’s good, or bad, Lewrie asked himself as he went for his hat and boat cloak, and hastened out to the quarterdeck, where he found his officers gathered in puzzlement, up from the wardroom in curiosity, instead of preparing for their own suppers.
“There are boats coming off from the quays, sir,” Lt. Westcott pointed out. “More wounded men, it looks like.”
“Any summons from the flag for us to send in boats?” Lewrie demanded.
“Not yet, sir, no,” Westcott answered, totally mystified.
“I can’t see any French infantry on the ridges, sir,” Harcourt, the Second Officer, reported. “Ours, mostly, some hand lanthorns, and litter parties, I think. The light’s going.”
Boom-Boom! There were two guns fired aboard Admiral Hood’s flagship, the General Signal to all naval ships present to watch for a hoist of signal flags, which would be hard to make out in the gloom of dusk.
“I can make out … Send Boats,” Midshipman Hillhouse slowly read off with a telescope, “and Wounded, spelled out, sir.”
“Let’s be at it, then, gentlemen,” Lewrie snapped, “man all boats and get them on their way. See which transport shows a night signal that she’s to receive wounded. Bosun Terrell? Muster all boat crews!”
“What of the hands’ supper, sir?” Westcott asked. “What should Mister Tanner do, hold off serving out, or—?”
“Damn,” Lewrie spat. “He’s to serve those men still aboard, and let the meat simmer awhile longer for the rest.”
He dearly wished that he could hop into the pinnace or the launch and go ashore to discover what had happened, but, for once he held himself to a tighter rein. He would have to be patient!
“Mister Hillhouse, still here?” he called out.
“Aye, sir?” the Midshipman replied.
“Take charge of one of the cutters, get ashore, ferry wounded men out to the transports ready to receive them, but … report back to me as soon as you can as to what’s happened ashore,” Lewrie ordered.
“Aye aye, sir!” Hillhouse said, doffing his hat before dashing off, eager to shine, happy to be singled out, and just as curious as his Captain in that regard.
Who the Hell am I dinin’ in t’night? he had to remind himself; Sailin’ Master, Marine officers, Purser, and Mister Elmes, and two of the Mids? Well, the Mids are out, they’ll all be busy.
He thought better of that.
“Gentlemen, I will be dinin’ later than normal,” he announced. “We’ll put it off ’til the Mids invited are back aboard. I will be aft.”
As soon as he was in the privacy of his cabins, he tossed off his hat and boat cloak and cried for whisky, listening to the clack of his chronometer as it measured the un-ending minutes that he had to bide.
* * *
“Midshipman Hillhouse t’see the Cap’m, SAH!” the Marine at his door shouted.
“Enter!” Lewrie barked back, much too loud and eagerly.
Mister Yelland the Sailing Master, Marine Lieutenants Keane and Roe, Mister Cadrick the Purser, and Lieutenant Elmes were already in the great-cabins, sitting or standing round the starboard side settee with wineglasses in their hands. Their already-muted conversations were hushed as Hillhouse entered, hat under his arm.
“Well, Mister Hillhouse?” Lewrie demanded.
“Beg to report, sir, all wounded are now aboard the transports, and our boats are returning,” Hillhouse began, very aware that all eyes were upon him. “The army beat off every French attack, and hold the same positions that they did this morning. I was told it was touch and go round some village called Elvina, the French would take it and we would shove them back out, several times. I was told that they’re fought out … the French, I mean, sir. Shot their bolt, was the way an officer described it. We’ve won, sir!”
Sapphire’s officers began to cheer at that news, but Hillhouse was holding up a hand to indicate that there was more to be imparted.
“It was dearly won, sir,” he said at last when the din had subsided. “General Sir David Baird is among the wounded, had his right arm shattered, and General Sir John Moore, sir … he was hit by a cannonball, and he passed over, just after the French retired from the field. General Hope is now in command of the army, and he wishes the army evacuated, now the French are so badly mauled. I am told that we should begin just after first light, tomorrow, sir.”
“Baird, good God!” Lewrie gasped. “I knew him, from Cape Town. Poor fellow! I hope he survives his wounds.”
“And, we all met Sir John last year, sir,” Lt. Elmes lamented. “A Devil of a fine fellow, a gentleman, and a soldier.”
“Amen t’that,” Lewrie agreed, taking a sip of his wine that had suddenly lost its sprightly lustre. “Hope is sure that the French are done, they’ve shot their bolt, and can’t interfere with the evacuation?”
“I gathered that they were in very poor shape when they arrived, and fought out of sheer desperation for our rations, sir,” Hillhouse told him, “much as you speculated this morning, that they were fighting for a spoonful of food!”
“Well, then, sirs, let ’em starve some more round their cheerless campfires tonight,” Lewrie said with a grin, “and let us make a point to dine exceeding well! You’ll join us, of course, Mister Hillhouse?” And the Midshipman nodded his thanks, Lewrie raised his glass and proposed a toast; “To Victory, gentlemen!”
“Victory!” his officers shouted back.
“And Confusion, and Famine, to the French!” Marine Lieutenant Roe added on, crowing with glee.