He paced about, from the windward side which was his, alone, by right, to the helmsmen at the massive double-wheel, then down to leeward for a bit, where the officer of the watch, Lt. Elmes, stood.
Looking forward along the length of his ship, he could see a wee glow from the lanthorn at the forecastle belfry, and the ruddy square glows of the hatchways that led down to the upper gun-deck.
England, my God, he wearily thought. He had no idea if Percy Stangbourne had survived the last French assaults, and wondered what would happen when he mailed that promised packet of letters for him. Most of the army was off and away, large clutches of ships sailing as they were filled and sorted into convoy groups. There were still ships waiting at Corunna for the rear-guard, for the men who spiked the guns and despoiled what was left in the depot that could not be carried away. He had no idea what their fate might be.
At least the people are in good takings, he noted as the sound of music came wafting up from below through those hatchways. “Spanish Ladies,” “The Jolly Thresher,” “One Misty, Moisty Morning” were being sung in hearty bellows. The crew was happy; they would be in England soon.
He frowned, feeling very glum, as he speculated if he would be going back to Spain, to Gibraltar, or Lisbon anytime soon. Would Thomas Mountjoy still have need of him and his ship, or would he and Sapphire be sent halfway round the world to do something else? And, there was Maddalena to gloom about. If there was no return to Gibraltar, they would never see each other, again, and he would have to send her a very sad letter and a note of hand with which to support her ’til she managed to find someone else who would see to her up-keep.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he growled.
To make things worse, the musicians below struck up a new tune, and a strong tenor voice, he thought it might be Michael Deavers from his boat crew, began to sing “Over the Hills and Far Away.”
He only could recall the few lines that Captain Chalmers had sung, even though he had tried to play the tune on his penny-whistle that afternoon.
“‘And I would love you all the day … all the night we would kiss and play, if to me you would fondly say, over the hills and far a-way,’” he mouthed along under his breath, humming the tune at the rest. “Oh, damn, but I’m sorry, girl,” he whispered. “Minha doce … meu amor.”
Over the hills and far away.
AFTERWORD
Napoleon Bonaparte, self-crowned Emperor of The French, must’ve been very bored when he decided to overthrow the Spanish Bourbon king and conquer the Iberian Peninsula. Oh, there was still England to be invaded (he hadn’t completely given up on the scheme) but he’d beaten everybody else in Europe, had Russia cowed and allied (sort of) with his Empire, and ruled the roost from the Atlantic to the Germanies, Poland (still beholden to Russia, anyway), and most of Italy.
There was Portugal, long a friend of England, that must have her ports closed and all her trade with Great Britain shut down, to complete the implentation of his Berlin Decrees and establish his Continental System to destroy British–European trade and bankrupt his last enemy. Fine and dandy, but, why Spain?
After all, Minister Manuel Godoy had cozened his country into an alliance with France in late 1804, had handed over good warships, money, food, and access to Spain’s overseas colonial ports, not that the French were in a position to take advantage of that after losing control of the seas after the Battle of Trafalgar. Spain was supine, a lick-spittle ally, and as said in A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy … “mostly harmless.” Napoleon was allowed to march an army through Spain into Portugal and conquer, but occupied cities in the North and centre of Spain. Did he really imagine that by conquering Spain he also gained every Spanish colony in the world, including the Phillipines in the Pacific? Or, was Spain merely a stepping-stone to grander ambitions, like seizing both Gibraltar and Ceuta, then crossing into North Africa, marching East to Egypt (again!) and even to British-held India? You have to give it to him; the little bastard dreamed big!
There was no real point to it, but, perhaps Napoleon thought it would be a walk-over. He did not take into account the Spanish people, nor did he take into account, or thought very little of, the British, who thought it possible to confront Napoleon on land, at last.
Everywhere that French armies went, once they had conquered a new province or country, they usually found quick-thinking collaborators who’d go along with them, and populations so weary of all those Thirty Years’ Wars and Hundred Years’ Wars that had plundered their lands and wealth that they would meekly succumb and try to make the best of things. Garrison duty was usually dull for the French, and they could quickly enlist, or conscript, young men into “allied” militaries who could police their own countries, and march to flesh out the already-massive French armies.
Nobody, anywhere in Europe, had ever cut a French throat in their sleep before, rebelled against them, ambushed their couriers and supply convoys, and armed themselves. General Castaños’s victory against French General Dupont at Bailén must have been an embarrassing shock to Napoleon’s pride in his armies. Unfortunately that victory made the Spanish think that they were invincible, which led many of their other Generals to lead Spanish armies to utter catastrophes, later on. The introduction of self-organised, self-armed bands of guerrillas, partidas who fought the “Little War” as they called it, was another shock; why, it was against the very rules of war, as they were understood in Europe, as chaotic as war on the frontiers against savage Red Indians! (Politically Correct types may blow it out yer arse.) Except from people like the bum-licking Godoy and the elite classes of Spain, the Anfrancesados, Napoleon and his men could not find very many collaborators, or recruits to serve alongside their own soldiers, either; the guerillas saw to that, making it very bloodily clear that co-operation or collusion with the invaders could be fatal. There were very few Quislings in Spain!
Napoleon’s expected quick conquest was turning into a steaming pile of merde. His trusted Marshal Junot had his can kicked at Roliça and Vimeiro, his other Marshals had retreated to the North of Spain, and his lacklustre brother, Joseph Bonaparte, now King of Spain, had to abandon Madrid and run for his life!
Enter the unfortunate General Sir John Moore. He didn’t ask, and no one told him, how desolate central Spain could be in the middle of Winter, or just how bad the roads were. Mr. John Hookham Frere took all the empty Spanish promises as Gospel, and eagerly passed them on to Moore; his only qualification for his important post at Madrid as a diplomat to the Supreme Junta was his friendship with Foreign Secretary George Canning! “Old School Tie,” or “Arse-Hole Buddies,” don’t make the most effective, or useful, representatives.
Actually, HM Government in London thought that invading Spain would be as easy as a stroll in Hyde Park … minus the rain! When Moore and Sir David Baird’s separated wings of the army realised at last that Napoleon had come to Spain himself with massive re-enforcements, they had no choice but to retreat to the coast and try to save the army, especially when Napoleon realised that he might be facing Sir John Moore, and got on a tear to be after him, thirsting for a victory over the British. He pushed his troops so hard, in the same horrid conditions as Moore and Baird experienced, that he was stranded for hours in a raging blizzard in a mountain pass, urging his men on, and earned a shout of “Convicts suffer worse than we do. Shoot him down, damn him!”
The glittering prize of destroying a British field army was too tempting. Napoleon abandoned any plans to continue marching South to polish off the Spanish rebellion, which left half the country free of him, which in the long run proved fatal. Then, after sitting before the city of Benavente for two days waiting for bridge repairs, and getting urgent despatches from Paris warning him of new problems with the Austrians, Napoleon turned the pursuit over to Marshal Soult and left Spain forever, never to return.