“She!” Lewrie barked, suddenly sure of the source, and despising it. “Charité de Guilleri, d’ye mean? That murderin’ bitch? That blood-thirsty whore? She’d lie to the Angel Gabriel! Dammit, Mountjoy, she helped hunt me and Caroline clear cross France to assassinate us! She took part in the murder of my wife!”
“I am sorry for that, sir,” Mountjoy said, sitting up stiffer, as if stung. “But, when Mister Peel spoke with you a few years ago, and you agreed to write a reply to her letter offering her forgiveness, and…”
“Didn’t mean a bloody word of it, rest assured!” Lewrie fumed. “That was all for James Peel’s use, and I was savourin’ a hope that she’d be caught red-handed and got her head chopped off for spyin’!”
“The lady … the woman in question, sir, has proved to be a valuable asset,” Mountjoy told him, all but wringing his hands, fidgetting, and pouring them both another glass of wine for something dis-tracting for him to do. “After Bonaparte sold her beloved Louisiana and her city of New Orleans to the Americans, she was quite ‘turned’.
“She has found her way into the most influential salons, and, ehm … into the beds of Marshals, Generals, Admirals, and Ministers of Napoleon’s regime,” Mountjoy pointed out, with a cajoling brow up. “I cannot imagine a better source, and neither does London. All she has gotten to us has been the equivalent of solid gold. If she says that Junot and his army is readying itself to march against Portugal, then we must take it as gospel.”
“Damn her black soul to the Seventh Level of Hell, anyway,” Lewrie spat. “I still hope they catch her, sooner or later, and chop her head off, no matter how useful you and Peel find her!”
“Quite understandable, sir,” Mountjoy said, with a solemn nod.
“So … if the whore’s tellin’ the truth, what are we doin’?” Lewrie asked.
“I gather that plans are afoot, sir,” Mountjoy tried to assure him, even if he was in the dark as to what, specifically. “Naturally, Foreign Office has alerted the Portuguese, and Peel has written me that we may prepare a field army to re-enforce them, and to safeguard the major ports. Beyond that, though, I fear that we must await events, then react accordingly. As for me, I am to re-double my efforts, and give Sir Hew Dalrymple all aid in his dealings with the Spanish, to sway them.”
“And for that, ye need a boat, right now,” Lewrie gathered.
“As soon as yesterday, Captain Lewrie,” Mountjoy assured him.
“Right, then,” Lewrie said, with a frustrated hough of wind. He finished his wine, then rose to gather his hat and sword. “I’ll be in touch. If Captain Middleton can’t help us much, perhaps you and I may speak with Sir Hew Dalrymple, to see if he can lend us assistance.”
“That may be a good idea, sir,” Mountjoy agreed, rising to see Lewrie down to the street.
Pettus had spent his time well, arranging for the laundry to be ready the next day, then idling in the back first-level kitchens with Mountjoy’s maid-of-all-work and his fat old cook. Both women saw him off with hugs and giggles.
“Treat ye well, did they, Pettus?” Lewrie asked.
“Yes, sir,” Pettus told him. “They whipped me up an omelet, and offered me some decent wine. Don’t know where they got the cheese, but it was right tasty, too.”
“Then you must come back to retrieve my wash tomorrow,” Lewrie told him with a smirk.
“Why, I suppose I must, sir!” Pettus happily agreed.
* * *
Once back aboard, Lewrie found that both the off-watch sailors, and those still with duties to perform, were spending half their time gazing ashore and joshing most expectantly. He had promised them that they would get shore liberty for a change, and not put the ship Out of Discipline to allow recreation, and rutting, still imprisoned within their “wooden walls”.
“They seem in fine fettle, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie took note, after the welcome-aboard ritual had been performed.
“Recall that they were paid just before we sailed from the Nore, sir,” Lt. Westcott casually replied, “and just itching to get a shot at spending their pay on shore pleasures. Once your boat crew returned, and boasted of what they’d been offered at the quays, and so cheaply, I expect they’d dive overboard and thrash ashore, this instant.”
“Whether most of ’em can’t swim or not?” Lewrie posed. “What is our state, sir?”
“Securely anchored, sir, with Marine sentries posted to prevent desertion,” Westcott ticked off, “firewood and water to come aboard by the start of tomorrow’s Forenoon, and the needs of the Purser, Master Gunner, and Bosun in hand and relayed to the yard. Our prize, Le Cerf, has been officially received by the Prize-Court, and all our prisoners transferred from her to the Guerriere hulk. Their badly wounded have been moved to a prison ward at the naval hospital.”
“Our prize crew?” Lewrie asked.
“Returned to us, sir,” Westcott said, with a wee sneer. “The Prize-Court sent people aboard for a harbour watch.”
Le Cerf, Lewrie thought; The Stag.
Long ago, during the final days of the Siege of Toulon, then at shore lodgings here at Gibraltar, his wee French mistress, Phoebe Aretino, had called him that … her powerful galloping stag! And oh, how they had galloped! He got tight in the crutch, remembering.
“Very well, Mister Westcott. Carry on,” Lewrie said.
“Oh, there was an invitation sent aboard, sir, from Captain Knolles,” Westcott added, reaching into a side pocket of his coat. “He wishes to dine with you ashore, at his expense, this evening.”
“Did he name a time?” Lewrie asked, taking the note. “Ah! Six in the evening. Aye, I’ll be going back ashore for that, Geoffrey. If he’s off for the Mediterranean Fleet, this’d be our last reunion, for some time. Ready the wee cutter and a Mid t’carry my answer over to Comus, soon as I’ve penned it.”
“Aye, sir.”
Lewrie made to enter his cabins, but spotted Lt. Harcourt atop the poop deck, and looking even glummer than usual, so he called him down.
“Welcome back aboard, Mister Harcourt,” Lewrie said, doffing his hat. “I am sorry that I got your hopes up for nothing. What did the officials of the Prize-Court say to you? Any chance that they’ll buy her in?”
“They seemed most gleeful to take possession of her, sir,” Lt. Harcourt replied, “rubbing their hands like money-jobbers, and giving me all assurances that she would be purchased into the Navy, but … not ’til next Saint Geoffrey’s Day.”
“That’d be the fifteenth of Never?” Lewrie japed. There was no St. Geoffrey’s Day in the Church of England’s ordo.
“They’ll send what they think she’s worth to Admiralty, and it will take months for that to get there and for Admiralty to decide if they can afford her,” Lt. Harcourt bemoaned, “then more months to get a favourable reply, and the funds, then…”
“Then either the commander of the Mediterranean Fleet or the commander of the Cádiz blockade chooses a favourite officer from his own flagship to have her, and scrounges up a crew to come man her,” Lewrie said, half-commiserating, and half-scoffing at the Navy’s ways of rewarding people. “Damn ’em. That may turn out to be a blessing for you, Mister Harcourt.”
“At this moment, I can’t imagine how, sir,” Harcourt bleakly spat.
“That corvette, sound as she is this moment, will spend months slowly deteriorating at anchor, with not tuppence allowed for her upkeep by a skeleton crew, sir,” Lewrie told him. “Think what a nightmare you could be saddled with. Don’t be too envious of the fool who finally gets command of her.”
“Well, there is that, sir,” Harcourt replied after a moment to think that over. “Bird in the hand, and all that?”