“Messy business,” Lewrie commented.

“Old Eliot was a good governor, and so was General O’Hara, even if he was getting on in years,” Fry went on, “but, the rotation of men got all muddled. The garrison became temporary duty for regiments who were shuttled in and out, and came back reduced by sickness and battle, and ready to get blind drunk and stay that way, and O’Hara lost control before he died.

“Then came General His Royal Highness Prince Edward, the Duke of Kent, five years ago, in 1802,” Colonel Fry spat. “Ever hear of him, sir? Ever hear of how the King himself had to relieve him from command of his own royal regiment for cruelty? The mutiny he caused when he commanded our forces in Canada?”

“Must not have made the papers,” Lewrie said with a brow up in astonishment.

“The Duke of Kent took over command of Gibraltar to replace old O’Hara, and had the post for a year,” Fry told him, sitting up at last as he warmed to his topic. “Damned if he didn’t cause another mutiny! Two parades a day, wake the garrison at three thirty in summer, five thirty in winter, ‘square-bashing’ for hours on end, working parties to shift supplies from one warehouse to another just to keep the men busy, drinkless curfews after Tatoo, confined to barracks … well, who wouldn’t mutiny after a time, I ask you?”

“Is it still that way?” Lewrie asked, fearful that allowing his crew shore liberty at Gibraltar would corrupt them, too.

“To a certain extent, Captain Lewrie,” Colonel Fry said, pulling a face as he reached for the whisky decanter to serve himself. “Drink still flows like water, and there are pubs on every corner, though the troops no longer get issued eight pence every day after being released from duties. Lieutenant General Sir Hew Dalrymple has been Governor since 1806, and I’ve had letters from officers serving under him there that conditions are much improved, but still … rowdy. Dalrymple’s called ‘the Dowager’,” Fry said with a faint grin of amusement. “He’s been a soldier since 1763, but only saw action in Flanders, and that was a disaster … not his fault, though. Put it all down to the Duke of York.”

“Christ, I was born in 1763!” Lewrie said, snickering.

“Scylla and Charibdis … rock and a hard place,” Fry jested, “and Gibraltar being ‘the Rock’, haw! My soldiers will either be bored to tears here, or debauched there, but at least they’ll not have any opportunity to desert where they’re going. Assuming that we can get going soon, Captain Lewrie, hey?”

“The Agent Afloat assures me that your troops could go aboard the transports by the end of the week, sir,” Lewrie informed Colonel Fry. “The only thing that’s wanting is a second warship to assist my ship. We’ll be crossin’ the Bay of Biscay, trailin’ our colours down the coast of France, and Sapphire may have the guns to protect your men, but not the agility, or the speed. I wrote Admiralty as soon as I got my orders, but haven’t heard, yet. Are we forced to wait much longer after your troops are aboard, then there would have to be some re-victualling, delaying us further. Then, there’s the wind and the weather to contend with, of course.”

“Hmm, it may be best did we get onto the transports as soon as possible,” Fry decided after a long moment of thought. “The men can’t desert from ships anchored far out, and even at anchor, they’ll have a chance to get a semblance of their ‘sea legs’, hey? Goddamn Napoleon.”

“Hey?” Lewrie asked, puzzled by Fry’s curse.

“The regiment’s war-raised, right after the war began again in 1803,” Fry explained, “All eager volunteers and independent companies of Kent Yeomanry. So long as Bonaparte threatened us with that huge invasion fleet and army cross the Channel, my troops were up for anything, but, once that danger passed, we all thought that we’d go back to the reserves. The Fusiliers are only a single-battalion regiment, d’ye see. Now, if we were off to a field army in the Mediterranean, with General Fox, say, on Sicily, with a shot at battle, that’s one thing, but garrison duty, well! That makes us feel, soldiers and officers alike, that that’s all we’re good for, and that’s hurt morale.”

“My tars feel much the same, sir,” Lewrie commiserated, “with nothing but Baltic convoy duty ’til now. A friend of mine’s cavalry regiment, much like your regiment, feels the same, I expect.”

“Which’un?” Fry asked.

“Stangbourne’s Light Dragoons,” Lewrie told him.

“Why, I know of them!” Fry said, perking, up. “We were brigaded with them for a time. Viscount Stangbourne’s done a fine job raising, equipping, and training them … though I don’t know how he maintains them, the way he gambles. Lovely fiancé, if a bit outré. Circuses and the stage? His sister, too, though she struck me as very cool and distant. Hellish-attractive, though, in her own way.”

“Aye, she is,” Lewrie agreed, feeling a sudden icy stir in his innards at the mention of her name. “Let’s say that, by the morning of Friday, round eight, your troops and my boats, and the boats from the transports, will be at the docks, ready to begin embarking.”

“Capital, Captain Lewrie!” Fry rejoiced. “Simply capital!”

“Weather depending, again,” Lewrie cautioned after tossing his glass of whisky back to “heel-taps”, and preparing to depart. “A rain, no matter, but if there’s strong winds and a heavy chop in the Great Nore, we’ll have to delay. Can’t drown half your lot in home waters, hey?”

“As your Transport Board agent says, one hundred and fifty men and officers per transport,” Colonel Fry agreed, “plus the sixty dependents that won the draw.

“Horse Guards only allows sixty wives of a regiment bound for overseas duty,” Fry explained, “and their children, if any. The rest … after they draw straws tonight, there will be a lot of wailing in the barracks. What makes it worse is that we’re a war-raised single-battalion regiment, with no home barracks in one town, so the others will get scattered over half the county. Oh, well.”

“Horses?” Lewrie asked, gathering his hat from a side-table, worried that he would have to arrange barges for them at the last minute.

“We will all be on ‘Shank’s Ponys’, Captain Lewrie. Officers’ mounts will be left behind,” Fry told him rather gloomily. “There’s no place to stable or exercise them on Gibraltar, or ride much, either.”

Lewrie could recall horses at Gibraltar from his earlier stops there, though not very many; the property of very senior officers and their ladies. Gibraltar was a gigantic fortress with very little flat land, and very steep, wind-swept hills.

“Well, I shall be going,” Lewrie said, rising. “See you at the docks on Friday morning.”

*   *   *

Lewrie took a hired lugger back to Sapphire, enjoying a lively dash out into the Great Nore on a fine breeze. His boat came alongside, nuzzling behind a large dockyard barge that was loading crates and kegs up the cargo skids ahead of the starboard entry-port. He paid his fare to the boatman, then went up the battens to the upper deck to the usual welcoming side-party and bosuns’ calls.

“Anything new, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked the First Lieutenant. “No disasters?”

“There’s a letter from Admiralty that came aboard in your absence, sir,” Lt. Westcott told him. “It’s in your cabins. And, Mister Harcourt asked me if you would consider putting the ship out of discipline for a day or two before we sail.”

“Wasn’t she out of discipline after she came in from the Baltic just before the duel?” Lewrie asked, pulling a quizzical face.

“She was, sir,” Westcott told him.

“Well, with any luck at all, we’ll be sailing by Saturday or Sunday, so that’s out,” Lewrie decided. “The hands’ll be issued their quarterly pay just before, and I’ll not have ’em robbed by the jobbers, pimps, and whores. The crew will have to wait for shore liberty at Gibraltar, which’ll suit ’em much better than a carouse aboard. Carry on, sir,” Lewrie said, doffing his hat and heading for his cabins.