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the Sultan at Tangier about your proposal to take Perejil, or Parsley, or whatever it’s named, the French legation at Tangier learned of it at once, and wrote to Paris. Bonaparte was furious, I’m told. He doesn’t have the navy or the transports to use Ceuta as a base, not with our Mediterranean Fleet in the way, and fears that we’d use Perejil for a landing to take Ceuta, first. Now we occupy the little speck—”
    â€œWe haven’t yet,” Lewrie had to tell him. “We surveyed it but Sir Hew’s still making ‘nicey-nice’ with Tangier, so nothing’s been done.”
    â€œGood Christ!” Mountjoy gasped, shaking his head in disgust. “Fine intelligence gatherer I am. Right cross the Strait, and I hadn’t a clue!”
    â€œYou wish, sirs?” a waiter asked, interrupting their covert mutterings.
    â€œAh … yes,” Mountjoy replied, as if coming up for air, “Oh, look! They have macaroni and cheese. And roast beef. Must be the weather, or the gloominess lately, but I’m craving something exotic for a change.”
    Lewrie went for spiced kid medallions au jus atop a bed of couscous, and a vegetable medley, whatever that amounted to in Winter with all trade cross the Lines shut down by orders from Madrid.
    â€œA basket of rolls to begin with, with herbed oil and butter, and lots of roast beef for me,” Mountjoy insisted.
    â€œâ€˜When mighty Roast Beef was the Englishman’s food … It ennobled our hearts and enrich-ed our blood,’” Lewrie attempted to sing.
    â€œYou sing, sir, on par with how you tootle on the penny-whistle,” Mountjoy said with a wince, and a laugh. Once the waiter was gone to place their orders, though, he leaned closer and lowered his voice to a mutter again. “London also believes that Murat will march on Madrid and oust the Bourbon dynasty, then place one of ‘Boney’s’ brothers on the Spanish throne. Bonaparte’s leaning towards Joseph, even though he’s already the King of Naples. From our source, whom you despise, we also strongly suspect that Murat dearly wants it for himself. He’s seen so many of his old comrades awarded duchies and minor kingdoms, and we gather that he feels he’s more than earned one, and it’s his due.”
    â€œYou say the Spanish people want Ferdinand, and no more truck with France,” Lewrie replied. “You ought to cheer up, Mountjoy, for if Napoleon does that, Spain has to revolt and change sides. That’s what they sent you here to accomplish, isn’t it?”
    â€œThe Spanish are proud enough to rise up,” Mountjoy said, looking glum. “But, will they, and will it amount to anything? There’s the rub.”
    â€œThen, let’s all keep our fingers crossed,” Lewrie suggested. “And like my First Officer says they do at the Artillery School at Woolwich, it depends on holding your mouth just right, too. Christ, Mountjoy, cheer up! The prospects are good … and, the menu shows they’ve a berry duff for dessert!”

 
    BOOK ONE
    Nothing should be left to an invaded people but their eyes for weeping.
    â€” ATTRIBUTED TO O TTO VON B ISMARCK , P RUSSIAN C HANCELLOR (1815–1898)

 
    CHAPTER SEVEN
    â€œAren’t they pretty, sir?” Lt. Westcott said in glee as they stood atop the poop deck to watch the gunboat squadron, now a dozen in number, exercise in the bay.
    â€œSo long as it’s someone else’s bloody gunboat squadron, I’ll allow that they look … smart,” Lewrie said, lowering his telescope. “Speaking of smart, has the dockyard sent us the paint we requested?”
    â€œThe Commissioner’s clerk says that there’s very little paint on hand, at present, unless we prefer green,” Westcott told him.
    â€œWell, I don’t,” Lewrie said with a growl. “Green? Mine arse on a band-box.