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Authors: Dewey Lambdin
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Whatâs that here for, the walls of the hospital?â
HMS Sapphire had spent the better part of the tumultuous Winter at sea off Ceuta, and what she needed was black paint to renew the upper-works of the hull, and whitish-cream buff paint to touch up the gunwale stripes along her gun-ports, which colour scheme was becoming the standard for the Royal Navy, Ã la Nelson.
âIt may be some months before an adequate supply arrives, sir,â Westcott said. âI suppose the old girl will have to look ⦠dowdy for a while more. Any more word from shore, sir?â
âIt seems that Spanish spies are as good as ours,â Lewrie told him with a bark of mirth. âThe Madrid papers printed accurate details of our planned attack on Geuta on the fourteenth of February. By the time General Spencerâs main body came in to harbour here, it was given up as hopeless.â
The Atlantic had been fierce that Winter, driving most of the expeditionary force back to ports in England, though some ships with three thousand of Spencerâs army did arrive at Gibraltar in late January much the worse for wear, and Sir Hew Dalrymple did send them on to Sicily, which occupying force had been reduced when London ordered Sir John Mooreâs eight thousand back to England, not back to Sicily. Now, Spencer had come, with nothing to do, and his remaining four thousand were added to the Gibraltar garrison, in case French Marshal Murat did indeed plan to lay siege to Gibraltar for the umpteenth time since 1704.
âJust waiting for the shoe to drop, we are, Mister Westcott,â Lewrie told him, strolling over to the windowed coach-top above his cabins to retrieve his pewter coffee mug and take a sip.
âPray God it does drop, sir,â Westcott said with eagerness to be doing something more than blockading Ceuta, âand flings us into a purposeful action. Iâm growing bored.â
âYouâve your mistress ashore to relieve that, surely,â Lewrie teased. Finding a wench had been Westcottâs first act as soon as he stepped onto the Old Mole, long before Lewrie had found his.
âShe proved faithless,â Westcott said, heavily scowling. âShe found herself an Army Colonel with a fuller purse to keep her. Weâve been at sea so long, so uselessly, that she grew bored, too.â
âAh, well,â Lewrie said in sympathy. âIâm sorry for that. By God, youâd think that Spainâd be up in arms, by now!â
French Marshal Murat crossed the border into Spain in the middle of February, they had since learned. On one pretext after another, the French had taken Pamplona, San Sebastian, Figueras, and Barcelona, and were reputedly bound for Madrid, just as Mountjoy had expected. So far, though, there were no agentsâ reports of any Spanish reaction. Another of Mountjoyâs agents, nigh as dashing as Romney Marsh, captained a filthy trading vessel along the coasts of Andalusia, pretending to be a Spaniard. He carried orders and requests for information from informers and brought back fresh news from Spain, and made a fair profit trading Gibraltaran goods to Spaniards starved for grains and luxuries. The harsh Winter seas had penned him in one port or other for weeks on end, but John Cummings, aka Vicente RodrÃguez, reported that news of the Spanish incursion had not yet reached the South of Spain, and it was he who had spread the news to the Andalusians. Now, here it was March of 1808, and the fuse to the powder keg had been lit, but so far, there was no bang!
âBoat ahoy!â one of the Midshipmen standing Harbour Watch shouted to an approaching boat.
âMessage for your Captain!â one of the boatmen shouted back.
Lewrie and Westcott crossed the poop deck to the starboard side to see what the fuss was as the boat was rowed to the bottom of the entry-port, and a shoeless boy in his shirtsleeves scampered up the boarding battens to hand a
HMS Sapphire had spent the better part of the tumultuous Winter at sea off Ceuta, and what she needed was black paint to renew the upper-works of the hull, and whitish-cream buff paint to touch up the gunwale stripes along her gun-ports, which colour scheme was becoming the standard for the Royal Navy, Ã la Nelson.
âIt may be some months before an adequate supply arrives, sir,â Westcott said. âI suppose the old girl will have to look ⦠dowdy for a while more. Any more word from shore, sir?â
âIt seems that Spanish spies are as good as ours,â Lewrie told him with a bark of mirth. âThe Madrid papers printed accurate details of our planned attack on Geuta on the fourteenth of February. By the time General Spencerâs main body came in to harbour here, it was given up as hopeless.â
The Atlantic had been fierce that Winter, driving most of the expeditionary force back to ports in England, though some ships with three thousand of Spencerâs army did arrive at Gibraltar in late January much the worse for wear, and Sir Hew Dalrymple did send them on to Sicily, which occupying force had been reduced when London ordered Sir John Mooreâs eight thousand back to England, not back to Sicily. Now, Spencer had come, with nothing to do, and his remaining four thousand were added to the Gibraltar garrison, in case French Marshal Murat did indeed plan to lay siege to Gibraltar for the umpteenth time since 1704.
âJust waiting for the shoe to drop, we are, Mister Westcott,â Lewrie told him, strolling over to the windowed coach-top above his cabins to retrieve his pewter coffee mug and take a sip.
âPray God it does drop, sir,â Westcott said with eagerness to be doing something more than blockading Ceuta, âand flings us into a purposeful action. Iâm growing bored.â
âYouâve your mistress ashore to relieve that, surely,â Lewrie teased. Finding a wench had been Westcottâs first act as soon as he stepped onto the Old Mole, long before Lewrie had found his.
âShe proved faithless,â Westcott said, heavily scowling. âShe found herself an Army Colonel with a fuller purse to keep her. Weâve been at sea so long, so uselessly, that she grew bored, too.â
âAh, well,â Lewrie said in sympathy. âIâm sorry for that. By God, youâd think that Spainâd be up in arms, by now!â
French Marshal Murat crossed the border into Spain in the middle of February, they had since learned. On one pretext after another, the French had taken Pamplona, San Sebastian, Figueras, and Barcelona, and were reputedly bound for Madrid, just as Mountjoy had expected. So far, though, there were no agentsâ reports of any Spanish reaction. Another of Mountjoyâs agents, nigh as dashing as Romney Marsh, captained a filthy trading vessel along the coasts of Andalusia, pretending to be a Spaniard. He carried orders and requests for information from informers and brought back fresh news from Spain, and made a fair profit trading Gibraltaran goods to Spaniards starved for grains and luxuries. The harsh Winter seas had penned him in one port or other for weeks on end, but John Cummings, aka Vicente RodrÃguez, reported that news of the Spanish incursion had not yet reached the South of Spain, and it was he who had spread the news to the Andalusians. Now, here it was March of 1808, and the fuse to the powder keg had been lit, but so far, there was no bang!
âBoat ahoy!â one of the Midshipmen standing Harbour Watch shouted to an approaching boat.
âMessage for your Captain!â one of the boatmen shouted back.
Lewrie and Westcott crossed the poop deck to the starboard side to see what the fuss was as the boat was rowed to the bottom of the entry-port, and a shoeless boy in his shirtsleeves scampered up the boarding battens to hand a
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