“Vichyssoise,” she supplied, absently.

“Know what it’s called,” he snapped. “Had it, and I didn’t think much of it. As silly a notion as tossin’ fruit in a pitcher of wine. The utter ruin of a good wine, and barely makes cheap, sour wine palatable, hah!”

“The sangria is refreshing,” she told him, sounding as if she would make a very minor rebellion, with one brow up the only sign of being vexed. “Your English punch…”

“Mother’s Milk, m’dear!” he hooted, “and with champagne in it, the Nectar of The Gods! Can’t beat a good English punch, haw haw!”

She made no reply to that assertion, but faced away and leaned her arm on the balustrade again. Lewrie studied her, now intrigued, and as she turned her face back to her keeper, Lewrie locked eyes with her for a second, tossed off an exaggerated shrug, and pulled a face. He was rewarded with a quick, furtive smile, before the waiter came with their beverages, and Lewrie’s main course, on his tray.

As hungry as he was, and as tasty and toothsome his meal, Lewrie dawdled over his plate, shifting in his chair now and then to get a quick look at the young woman, and was able to share glances with her, which began as shy smiles and proceded to frank, speculative regardings. The bad part of that was haying to listen to her companion monopolise their conversation, him talking and deriding just about everything foreign, and laying out his schemes for winning the war.

Lewrie noted that the other subalterns and their girls sloped off rather quickly, instead of lingering over their drinks and flirting idly. It seemed that Captain “John Bull” had a depressing effect on them, too.

The fellow put down his first pint of ale quickly, and ordered a second, then slurped his way through a whole bottle of claret with his roast beef steak, which only made him louder and more opinionated. By the time Lewrie had finished his meal, topped off with a Spanish flan for something sweet, there were very few patrons in the dining room.

At last, there was nothing for it but to summon the waiter and call for his reckoning, leaving a generous tip and making sure that he called him “Michael” as he thanked him and got to his feet.

Standing and gathering up his cocked hat, Lewrie could get a better look at the young woman over the top of “John Bull”, and he liked what he saw. She seemed slim, with a fine bosom, a firm and graceful neck. A wee gilt cross on a thin gilt chain glinted at the base of her throat. At his rising, she looked up, her gaze level and appraising, and he nodded a smile at her, which engendered a fleeting smile and the faintest of nods in reply, with a slow lowering of her lashes.

As Lewrie trotted down the stairs to the common rooms, then to the street, Lewrie could thank her companion for one thing, at least; the Army officer’s loud voice had, in the course of his harangue, declared “Maddalena, m’dear”, so Lewrie had a name, well, part of a name, to conjure with!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Over the next two months, HMS Sapphire spent all but two weeks at sea, still searching for a suitable vessel to serve as a transport. Lewrie took her West to Cape Trafalgar, near Cádiz, not above poaching if he had to in the blockade fleet’s patch, with nothing to show for it. They chased many coasting vessels and sea-going fishing boats, frightened many, and caught and burned several, before returning to Gibraltar to confer with Mountjoy, who swore that he had written to Mr. Peel in London asking for more money, or some influence with the Admiralty Transport Board. So far, there was no joy in that direction.

Sapphire went back to her old hunting grounds, from Estepona to Valencia, pursuing, taking, and burning what they could, with equally dismal results. In mounting gloom, Lewrie even ordered the ship over to the Balearic Islands, and ravaged the fishermen and small traders of Formentara and Ibiza, and sailed several times round Mallorca and the main port of Palma. He did manage to capture a merchant brig of about 150 tons which at first seemed promising, but proved to be dangerously rotten, her bottom nigh-eaten through by ship worms and rats from the inside, and not even wood-sheathed, much less coppered. Did he send her off to the Prize-Court at Gibraltar with her shoddy load of cargo, he doubted if the meagre prize money would pay half of the Proctor’s fees! Once again, her small crew was allowed to row away just off Palma by a mile or two, and she was set fire, as an example of what happened to Spaniards who dared share the sea with the Royal Navy.

Just after that, strong gales whipped up, forcing the upmost masts and yards to be struck down, the tops’ls taken in to second or third reefs, the main course brailed up, and when the seas thrashed and clashed in fury, all 1,100 tons of the ship got tossed so violently that the galley had to shut down two days’ running, and several of the heavy-weather storm sails blew out and had to be replaced, with men aloft in a howling gale and a continual stinging rain.

By the time the weather moderated, and the top-masts could be hoisted back into place and the standing rigging re-mounted to secure them, Lewrie was more than ready to head back to a secure harbour.

*   *   *

“I’ll have the twenty-five-foot cutter for my needs, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie told the First Officer, turned out in his best shore-going uniform. “You can use the pinnace and the launch t’fetch water and firewood, then the Purser’s fresh supplies.”

“With so little expended since our last port call, I expect we can have everything needful aboard by sundown,” Geoffrey Westcott said as he pulled out his watch to check the time. “And with any luck, that will include a Moroccan bullock and a couple of Spanish hogs for fresh meat, too, sir.”

“Some of those heavenly cured hams that they sell across The Lines, yes!” Lewrie enthused. He looked round the deck and found his cabin-steward, Pettus, and his cook, Yeovill, turned out in their own shore-going best, Yeovill in a civilian hat, a waist-length white-taped and brass-buttoned sailor’s jacket with a red waist-coat underneath, a clean pair of tailored white trousers, and good buckled shoes, with a pair of gaudy-coloured stockings peeking from the trousers’ hem. He had his list, and a purse of Lewrie’s passage money. Pettus was also looking very dashing and nautical, with a laundry bag at his feet. It seemed that the old laundress near Mountjoy’s lodgings had an attractive daughter, so Pettus had taken extreme care with his appearance.

“Wish we had one of those, sir,” Lt. Elmes, who had had the watch as they’d entered harbour, wistfully said, jutting his chin at several merchantmen lying at anchor up by the Old Mole, one of them flying the plain blue flag of the Agent Afloat from the Transport Board. A convoy had come in from England, supply ships bearing shot and powder, salt rations and foodstuffs, and at least two large ships that looked like the right size for troop transports.

“Wish away, Mister Elmes,” Lewrie said, giving them a covetous leer. “Pray, cross yer fingers, spit and whirl about thrice … whatever works.”

“Aye, sir,” Elmes replied in good humour.

“Carry on, Mister Westcott, I’ll be…” Lewrie began.

“Boat ahoy!” Midshipman Spears cried, hailing an approaching rowboat with only one oarsman aboard.

“Letter fer yer Cap’m!” the oarsman yelled back, letting go his oars for a moment to cup his hands round his mouth.

“Come alongside!” Spears shouted, then went through the opened entry-port and down the battens to the mainmast chain platform to take the letter, then scramble back up and deliver it to the quarterdeck.

“Ah, hmm,” Lewrie muttered as he broke the wax seal, unfolded it, and read the quick and cryptic note. “Indeed!”

“Good news, sir?” Westcott asked.

“Could be,” Lewrie said, with a sly smile. “Carry on, sir. I’ll be ashore.”