“Mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie exclaimed. “D’ye mean t’say so long as I’m here, I’m senior officer present?”

“I fear so, sir,” Mountjoy told him. He tried to do so with a suitable amount of sympathy, but during his years aboard HMS Jester as Lewrie’s clerk, he had always been amused by Lewrie’s trademark phrase for frustration, and could not contain a grin.

“Sorry, Captain Lewrie, it’s just…” Mountjoy apologised.

“It ain’t funny,” Lewrie gravelled, scowling. He flung himself back into his chair, feeling that he was deflating like a pig bladder at the end of a semaphore arm; hanging useless!

“Good God Almighty,” Lewrie muttered. “It’s Bermuda or the Bahamas all over again. Backwaters like those I can understand, but Gibraltar? As vital to our interests as the Rock is? Mine…!”

“One would suppose, sir, that His Majesty’s Government, and Admiralty, imagine that the closeness of two large fleets, able to respond with more than sufficient force should they be called upon to do so, would suffice,” Mountjoy said more formally, and humbly.

“Aye, I suppose,” Lewrie grumbled, his head thrown back, deep in thoughts of how to salvage his position. “Hmm … it’s not as if either the French or the Spanish are able t’put an invasion fleet together, not after Trafalgar. They can pin-prick us with those gunboats you mentioned, cut out a prize now and then, but they can’t pose any real threat.”

“And if Foreign Office, and Secret Branch, can manage to manipulate the Spanish into withdrawing from their alliance with France, sir, there would be no threat at all,” Mountjoy pointed out.

“And how likely is that?” Lewrie asked, still in a wee pet.

“Spain’s bankrupt, and has been for some time,” Mountjoy told him. “Her overseas trade with her New World colonies has been cut to nothing, and all the gold, silver, and jewels they were used to getting are not available, and what they do have is syphoned off to support the French. To make things worse, there’s Napoleon Bonaparte’s Berlin Decrees, which is ruining all of Europe, and frankly, ruining France herself.

“Bonaparte’s trying to shut down all trade ’twixt all of the countries he dominates, or occupies, and Great Britain,” Mr. Mountjoy explained further, “and that applies to Spain, which is going even broker because of it. Only Sweden and Portugal are hold-outs, and we have gotten rumours that France may take action against Portugal sometime in the future. But, if Spain turns neutral, then all her goods and exports are open to the world, as would all the world’s goods be available to Spain once more.”

“Hold on a bit,” Lewrie said, sitting up straighter and lifting an interrupting hand. “How the Devil are the French going to be able to take action against Portugal? They can’t do it by sea, by God.”

“Well, we’ve gotten informations from Paris that one of Bonaparte’s favourites, Marshal Junot, has been ordered to assemble an army,” Mountjoy said, almost furtively. “They’re calling it a Corps of Observation, and that ‘Boney’s’ Foreign Minister, Talleyrand, is in negotiations with Godoy in Madrid about marching across Spain to get the job done.”

“Christ on a crutch!” Lewrie hooted in sudden glee. “And the Dons are so lick-spittle they’d abide that?”

“London is trusting that they will not stand such an insult to their national pride, sir,” Mountjoy said with a sly and gleeful look of his own. “We’ve passed that on to ‘the Dowager,’ and Sir Hew relayed the rumour to his counterpart t’other side of The Lines, a General Castaños, in charge of all Spanish forces surrounding Gibraltar.

“Sir Hew has forged a very respectful and amicable relationship with General Castaños since his arrival,” Mountjoy added. “The enemy Castanõs might be, but his correspondence to Sir Hew has hinted that he, his officers, and men are disgusted with their Francophile government in Madrid, ‘Boney’s’ Continental System, and Spain’s alliance to the depraved, anti-Pope, anti-religious French.”

“They might rebel, and take all Andalusia with ’em?” Lewrie speculated.

“If the French cross the border and march on Portugal, it may be that all Spain might,” Mountjoy said, almost in a whisper.

“Ah, but how factual is your rumour?” Lewrie had to wonder.

“We have several sources in France, and in Paris itself, sir,” Mountjoy warily related, “despite the lengths that the French police go to discover them, or how strictly they intercept and read all correspondence posted, or smuggled. Trust me that our source is literally speaking from ‘the horse’s mouth’. She … forget that … has social access to everyone who matters in Paris.”

“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.”