“Aye, sir,” Yelland said, pinning the ends of the chart down with books so he could duck in and out of the chart space to reference it as often as needed in the next few hours. They then both left the chart space and returned to the quarterdeck, with Lewrie wishing that he could fan away Mr. Yelland’s sour, stale aromas.

Captain Hughes, who had been lounging in the officers’ wardroom, came up from the upper gun-deck to peer about, and see what all the excitement had been. He had taken time to dress properly, and now was slowly pacing with his hands in the small of his back, as if it was just not done to appear too curious, or alarmed.

“I heard some shouting,” he said at last. “‘Sail ho,’ what?”

“We’ve spotted one of our ships down South of us,” Mountjoy told him. “We’ve found General Wellesley’s army, and we’re making our way there.”

“Have we? Capital!” Hughes said with a bark of delight. “Then I shall tell my man to pack my traps. It will be good to dine ashore this evening, even if Sir Arthur’s officers’ mess will most-like serve salt-beef and such. Field rations, ah!”

“They’ve been marching through country un-disturbed by the enemy, in high Summer,” Mountjoy supposed, “so they’ve surely managed to buy or forage the best of the local crops. Portugal is known for its own style of bullfighting. Perhaps they’ve found some fresh beef?”

“If they have, I’d relish it,” Hughes declared. “Relish it, I tell you. I’ve been bilious ever since I set foot aboard this ship.”

“Oh, my dear fellow!” Mountjoy pretended to sympathise. “You found naval fare distressing? My condolences.”

Lewrie bent over to give Bisquit some “wubbies” to hide his delight. When he stood back up, his expression was bland again.

“Mister Elmes, we will alter course to the Sou’east and close the shore,” he directed. “Hands to the braces, ready to ease the set.”

“Wasn’t Navy victuals,” Hughes carped, stifling a left-over breakfast belch. “Not actually.” He threw a frown at Lewrie.

“I found them quite toothsome and delightful,” Mountjoy said. “Captain Lewrie sets a fine table.”

“If you say so, Mister Mountjoy,” Captain Hughes leerily said. “Well, I shall get out from under-foot of the sailors, and see to my despatches.” And with that, he descended to the weather deck and went down the steep ladderway below.

Lewrie shared a look with Mountjoy, quite satisfied with the exchange, and with Mountjoy’s sly wit.

*   *   *

By sundown, HMS Sapphire was safely anchored bow and stern in about fourty feet of water. Hughes; his batman, a long-suffering Private from Hughes’s old regiment; and Mr. Mountjoy had gone ashore in the launch, and Lewrie was shot of both of them for a time, able to take the evening air on the poop deck in peace. There were several supply ships and troop transports closer to the shore, ships of less than half of Sapphire’s burthen which drew less water. Beyond them, past the two high headlands which framed the Maceira River, the night was aglow with campfires, where half-dressed soldiers took their ease by pale tan tents and cooked their rations with their arms stacked close by. It all looked quite peaceful, but once Lewrie employed his telescope, he could make out a chain of torches snaking down to the sea, and the rowing boats drawn up on the banks of the river and beach. There were even some carts trundling along, slowly and carefully. A closer look showed litter-bearers, and men on those litters.

“Permission to come up, sir?” Lt. Westcott said at the base of the larboard ladderway.

“Aye, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie allowed. “What the Devil?”

Westcott had stopped at the glim which lit the compass binnacle, to ignite a Spanish cigarro, and was puffing away.

“Thought I would indulge, before Lights Out is ordered,” Westcott explained.

“When did you develop the habit?” Lewrie asked.

“A week ago, on a run ashore at Gibraltar,” Westcott told him. “I find tobacco … restful, especially after a good shore supper, and with the trade cross the Lines so open, now, they’re damned near five pence for a dozen.”

“Those torches,” Lewrie pointed out to him, handing Westcott his telescope, “they look like wounded, bein’ rowed out to the ships for care. What does it look like to you?”

“I’d say you’re right, sir,” Westcott said after a long minute. “There’s been a battle, it looks like.”

“Beyond, the army’s camped in what looks t’be good order, so … dare we imagine that Wellesley’s met the French and beaten them?” Lewrie wondered aloud.

“Hmm, high Summer, bad food or water,” Lt. Westcott mused, “it may be sick men coming off the shore, not wounded. Disease will kill quicker than a bullet. Happens to every army that takes the field.”

“I think I’ll go ashore tomorrow morning,” Lewrie decided. “I want to know, either way.”

“And I must remain aboard to keep an eye on things, again, sir?” Westcott said in mock distress. “Damme, but you have all the fun.”

“If you made Commander and had a ship of your own, you could go play silly buggers, too, Geoffrey. I keep throwin’ opportunities at you,” Lewrie told him with a grin.

“When Sapphire’s active commission is up, I will pursue such,” Westcott vowed, “though it’ll be a wrench to part us, at last.”

“Aye, we’ve become good friends since we got Reliant in Oh-Three,” Lewrie agreed, “and I trust we will always be, no matter where the Navy sends us. If I can, I’ll even dance at your wedding.”

“My wedding!” Westcott suddenly hooted with mirth. “That’ll be a cold day in Hell. Ain’t in my nature, no. I’d put that off ’til I make ‘Post,’ and find a sweet little ‘batter pudding’ half my age like Hyde Parker did. Or less than half my age. Yum yum.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Lewrie chuckled.

“Said the pot to the kettle,” Westcott happily rejoined.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your ‘Devil’s Weed,’ and go prepare for supper,” Lewrie said. “Don’t go settin’ the bloody ship on fire.”

“Good night, then, Alan sir,” Westcott bade him, his harsh, brief smile baring his teeth which showed stark white in the glow of the taffrail lanthorns.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Lewrie had a change of heart and told Lieutenant Westcott to arm himself and go ashore with him, at the last moment. But when the cutter landed them on the North bank of the Maceira River, they had to wander about for a time to find the means to go further. At last, a young infantry officer on a nondescript horse accosted them with a shout and a laugh.

“Halt, who goes there, sirs!” he hoorawed. “What do we have here? Two French officers in blue, and under arms? Never do, sirs!”

“And who might you be, young sir?” Lewrie replied in a like manner, with a grin on his face. “We’ve come ashore from our ship to see what’s happening. Are there any mounts available?”

“Allow me to name myself to you, sirs, Leftenant John Beauchamp, of the First Battalion of the Ninth Foot,” the young officer gaily said, and doffing his bicorne with a bow from the saddle.

“Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, and my First Officer, Lieutenant Geoffrey Westcott,” Lewrie replied, doffing his cocked hat in kind.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintances, sirs,” Beauchamp said. “Horses? Only if you will settle for poor local ‘bone-setters’ like mine, sirs, but I can round a couple up. We’re damned short on cavalry remounts. Follow me, if you will.”

Lewrie and Westcott took station to Beauchamp’s larboard side and strolled along up the river-bank into the draw between the headlands. “We saw wounded coming off last night, sir.” Lewrie asked, “Has there been a fight?”

“Indeed there was, sir, and we sent the French packing in short order!” Beauchamp boasted. “We marched down to a fortified town by name of Óbidos, the French general, Delaborde, didn’t like the odds, and retreated to a line of steep hills South of the town. You’ll see them in a bit, once we’re further inland. Here’s our remount service, such as it is,” he said, making a face and leading them to where some locally commandeered Portuguese saddle horses waited, their forelegs hobbled to keep them from grazing or running off. Several were already saddled, and Beauchamp breezily ordered the grooms to lead out a pair.