The other oddity of the voyage to the Azores was the rare empty-ness of the ocean. The Bay of Biscay should have teemed with merchant traffic, with British ships outward bound, neutral American ships headed to Europe, and French and Spanish merchantmen hoping to sneak their way past the Royal Navy’s blockade, rare they were, though.

But, except for one trade of two-dozen East Indiamen bound North for English ports under a strong escort, one fast Liverpool slaver that flew past them on the first leg of the infamous Triangle Trade to pick up a cargo of “Black Ivory”, and one slow Portuguese ship headed to the Azores which they briefly spoke then left wallowing and plodding far astern, they had the sea to themselves.

Lewrie and his officers were relieved by that lack, though yet a touch uneasy. The Bay of Biscay ports were home to many French privateers which sallied from Brest, Quimper, Quiberon, L’Orient, St. Nazaire, La Rochelle, and the mouth of the Gironde river. And, there was still that large French fleet under Admiral Villeneuve to worry about. Villeneuve had been the bug-a-bear when Reliant was in the Bahamas in the Spring and Summer, when it had been rumoured to be down South in the Windward or Leeward Islands. That fleet’s sailing surely had drawn off the British blockading squadrons in the Bay of Biscay, as it had Nelson’s fleet, allowing French National Ships, their frigates and corvettes, a chance to put out and prey upon British commerce, too. Yet, there had been no sign of that threat, either.

So, it was with a great sense of relief when the cloud-shrouded peaks of the Azores loomed up on the Sou’west horizon, and those peaks became solid as they drew nearer to the island of Madeira. There was even joy as they rounded the Sou’east cape and could espy the port of Funchal and its wide, open roadstead, where they could meet up with the rest of the expedition, and turn their charges over to Commodore Popham, then come to anchor, and a quiet and peaceful, motionless rest.

*   *   *

“Well, where the Devil are they, then?” Lt. Westcott asked no one in particular as they beheld the roadstead … a very empty roadstead.

“Senhor?” the local pilot said, turning his attention from the approaches to the bay to Westcott. “The English expedition fleet? It has sailed, perhaps a week ago. They did not stay long.”

“For where?” Lewrie asked the pilot.

“South, Senhor Capitáo, is all I know of them,” the pilot said with a shrug.

“Perhaps we should continue on right away, sir,” Westcott suggested to Lewrie. “If we’re a week behind, and they’ll be needing our cavalry. To come all this way, yet miss out!”

“Miss out on the action, and the excitement, ye mean,” Lewrie replied with a smile. After three years or so, he knew Westcott’s need for any relief of boredom; combat, or women. “No, the beasts aboard the transports are runnin’ short on water, oats, hay, and straw, and a good place t’dump the stable sweepin’s. Our compatriots in the Army had planned to replenish here, counted on it, really. I fear we have no choice. We’ll stand in and anchor, and see t’their needs.”

“The stable sweepings, sir?” Westcott posed with a brow up.

“The Azores are rocky. They need all the manure they can get,” Lewrie told him, chuckling. “They might consider our arrival a gift from Heaven.”

“Rocky, and dry, Senhor Teniente,” the pilot chirped up, beaming wide. “Has been a drought for many years, and we do not have the pastures for enough animals. My mother’s gardens need more water and fertiliser. One point to starboard, Senhor Quartermaster,” he added, to the senior rating on the helm.

“Do you happen to know if there is a British Consul in town?” Lewrie asked their pilot.

“Oh, sí, Senhor Capitáo,” the perky fellow quickly supplied. “He is Senhor Gilberto Gilbao, a big merchant in Funchal.”

“Once we’re anchored, I’ll go ashore to call upon him, then,” Lewrie decided aloud. “Perhaps he knows where Popham has got to.”

“Full fig, sir?” Westcott teased, noting Lewrie’s everyday uniform, minus his marks of honour.

“He’ll have t’take me as I am,” Lewrie scoffed.

“The place I have for you, Senhor Capitáo, is close to town and the shore … deep water, five fathom, no worries,” their hospitable local pilot was quick to assure Lewrie. “You could come ashore with me in my boat, and signal for your own when you have done with Senhor Gilbao. I can even show you to his house.”

“For that office, senhor,” Lewrie responded, striving for the proper difference between the Portuguese and the Spanish for señor, “I give you my heartiest thanks. Uhm … good dining in Funchal, is there?”

“The finest, Senhor Capitáo!”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Once ashore, the pilot gave him a quick tour of Funchal’s small downtown features, pointed out a couple of restaurants, an upper-class tavern where music was played nightly for the entertainment of patrons, a laundress’s house, a vintner and a ship chandler, and a discreet brothel which he swore had the greatest selection of pretty doxies in all Christendom! Lastly, he saw him to a mansion one street up above the town’s docks and quays, facing a spacious and shady plaza, where the Gilbao family resided, and did their business.

Lewrie plied the large and ornate door knocker, and the door was opened by a woman in maid’s togs, a quite attractive young woman with sloe eyes which belied her prim demeanour, costume, and black hair that was severely pulled back and rolled into a bun at the nape of her neck.

Lewrie almost felt the need to take a second peek at the entry-way, and the plaque which announced the offices of the British Consul in both English and Portuguese; the maid’s attractiveness made him wonder if he’d found that forementioned discreet brothel!

He announced himself; she cocked her head over in puzzlement. When he managed to pronounce Senhor Gilberto Gilbao, she brightened and summoned him in, steering him to a large parlour, then padded off to seek her master.

It was a huge house, perhaps a century or more old, but well maintained, and full of costly furnishings, musical instruments left on display as if their users were merely taking a break, and artwork hung in profusion on every wall of the grand parlour, or stood upon plinths in the corners. There was a cool and shady atrium beyond a row of pillars and fine sets of glass-paned French doors, with a cool fountain plashing in its centre, surrounded with planted or potted greenery and flowers. Servants crossed the atrium now and then, on cat feet, without a sound. Above, the upper storeys were railed with intricate ironwork, the uppermost shaded with white and yellow canvas awnings. The only sound he could hear was the tinkle of water in the fountain. It was almost uncanny. Costly as all Hell, but uncanny.

“Senhor Capitáo?” a well-dressed youngish fellow enquired, appearing from the opposite side of the wide entry foyer. “My pardons, but Concepcion has no English, and could not manage your name. I am Gilberto Gilbao, senhor. I serve as the British Consul for the Azores.”

“Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, of the Reliant frigate, Senhor Gilbao,” Lewrie told him with a smile, and a formal bow. “I was expecting to see Commodore Popham and his squadron in port, but missed him. I was told that Madeira was to be the assembly point.”

“Ah!” Gilbao said with an open-mouthed and cheerful grin. “Come this way, senhor, to my offices. Allow me to offer you refreshments, and I hope that I may fully inform you as to the whereabouts of your … incredibly energetic Commodore Popham.”

Gilbao’s offices were nigh as spacious as the grand parlour on the other side of the foyer, and just as expensively decorated. They took two upholstered chairs to either side of a low tea table, quite informally, rather than Gilbao behind his desk, and Lewrie plunked in front like a supplicant.