“It looked a lot worse from here,” Lewrie said, allowing himself a quick sigh of relief. “The soldiers?”

“Captain Bowden’s company, in the centre, got the worst of it, sir,” Lt. Keane told him, looking weary and red-eyed. The right side of his face, right hand, and his mouth were stained with black powder from discharging and re-loading his own musket, from tearing the paper cartridges open with his teeth. “They were the first ones the Spanish saw in the gloom. I think he has three dead and ten wounded. Captain Kimbrough’s lot suffered one dead and six hurt.”

“How the Devil did the Dons come t’be there, I’m wonderin’,” Lewrie groused. “It’s only been a day and a night since we landed at Almerimar. Were they in strength?”

“About one company of foot, sir,” Lt. Keane replied, pulling a calico cloth from his coat pocket to mop his face, spit on one corner, and scrub the bitter grains of powder from his lips. “Fifty or sixty, or thereabouts? We took one of their officers as prisoner, and I gathered, given my little Spanish, that they were quartered overnight in the town, near the tower, but weren’t really there to guard the thing … they’d done a route march down from Órjiva just to keep their men fit, and had planned on marching back this morning, after a late breakfast. They’d been barracked overnight in a tavern, and I also gather that they’d had a good drunk.

“It was only our bad luck that some bloody farmer saw us when we were creeping through the wood lot and the orchards, and ran off to wake them, sir,” Lt. Keane said, with a shrug.

“Well, if they weren’t posted to protect that tower, then it’s good odds that some troops from Órjiva will be, later,” Lewrie decided. “If they’re that dear to ’em, that means that one part of our plan is working … though it’ll make future raids harder.”

Hell, impossible, Lewrie gloomed to himself; We’re down nigh a half a company of troops, and when I get the lightly wounded back is anyone’s guess. Would Dalrymple give me any re-enforcements if…?

“Major Hughes, sir?” Keane said.

“Hmm?” Lewrie asked, drawn back from his thoughts.

“Major Hughes, sir … we lost him,” Keane repeated.

“Fallen? Damn,” Lewrie spat, though without much sincerity.

“No, sir, I mean lost him,” Keane insisted. “He just up and disappeared, as if the ground had swallowed him up. We searched, after we had driven the Dons off, but there was just no sign of him.”

“How the Devil d’ye lose an officer?” Lewrie exclaimed.

“Don’t know, sir,” Keane replied, looking as if he took Lewrie’s question as a personal reproach. “We were more spread out than usual, with Kimbrough out to the left to keep an eye on the town, Bowden in the centre, and our Marines on the right flank, perhaps fifty or more yards ’twixt companies. Major Hughes was with the centre. As soon as we all spotted the Spanish, he started yelling for us to close up and sent runners, just before the firing began. Well, sir, I saw no reason to, since our volleys into the Spanish left were knocking them down like ninepins, and I ordered rear ranks to advance, to get closer.

“The Major runs over to me, screaming, ‘What the Hell do you think you’re playing at?’ and to shift left and form line,” Keane went on. “A runner came from Captain Kimbrough, saying that he was advancing by ranks, the same as me, and Hughes … got even louder and said something like, ‘Must I save all you fools from disaster?’ and dashed off, leaving the runner with us.

“Captain Bowden says he saw him as he ran past behind his own line, and angling off uphill to where Kimbrough’s men were closing, on the Spanish right,” Keane continued. “Bowden says that the Major ordered him to stand fast and suppress the foe with fire, and that’s the last anyone saw of him, for he never reached Kimbrough’s company.”

“Just damn my eyes,” Lewrie exclaimed. “I never heard the like. D’ye think it’s possible that the Dons captured him?”

“It’s possible, I suppose, sir,” Lt. Keane allowed, “but, neither Kimbrough nor Bowden recalls taking fire from any Spaniards between their companies, though he might have stumbled into a small party of shirkers or stragglers. The gunsmoke was getting pretty thick by then, so it was getting rather difficult for anyone to see damn-all.”

“Damn, what a pity,” Lewrie said.

No, it ain’t! he thought; I’m shot o’ the bastard, either way. If God’s just, Dalrymple might scrounge up a replacement. Perhaps he has another family friend’s son on his staff who needs t’win himself some spurs?

“We’ll be returning to Gibraltar, soon as everyone’s settled,” Lewrie assured Keane. “See to your men, sir, and tell them that they did damned well … and that we’ll ‘Splice The Mainbrace’ at Seven Bells of the Forenoon. I’ll need your written account of the action for my report, along with Kimbrough’s and Bowden’s, as soon as I can collect them.”

“Aye, sir,” Keane replied, doffing his hat in departing salute, then trudging down the starboard ladderway to the waist, where most of his Marines were gathered, after turning in their arms and accoutrements. Their initial muted moods had livened, and a trade was springing up in Spanish shakoes, waistbelt and crossbelt plates, and some rank badges ripped from dead Spanish non-commissioned officers.

The dead Private and the wounded were on the orlop and the cockpit surgery, by then, out of sight, if not entirely out of mind.

Lewrie looked over at the transport. Her boats were being led for towing astern, and all her troops were back aboard. He would collect Kimbrough’s and Bowden’s reports, he thought sadly, when he went aboard Harmony in the afternoon, once safely out at sea.

He had four sea-burials to conduct over there.

He hoped those did not signify a dead end to operations, and his vaunting plans.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“They weren’t posted there to guard the semaphore tower?” Mr. Thomas Mountjoy asked, as if he needed further assurance after he had read Lewrie’s report a second time.

“Not according to our prisoner, no,” Lewrie told him, sprawled in one of Mountjoy’s comfortable cushioned chairs on his rooftop gallery. He had a tall glass of Mountjoy’s version of his patented cool tea in hand, and was savouring a rare, cool breeze that had arrived with an equally rare morning rain. The gurgle of rainwater sluicing down the tile gutters to catch-barrels and the house’s deep cistern, was almost lulling him to a mild drowse. In all, he found it most pleasant to be away from the ship, on solid ground for a spell, and be cool, again. Autumn in the Mediterranean, on the coast of Spain, was still uncomfortably warm.

“They will, though,” Mountjoy mused, looking disappointed even if the latest landings had been successful, if not costly. “And, if they do, we’d need a larger force, and at the moment, well…”

“Seven dead, aye,” Lewrie said with a sigh, for Marine Corporal Lester had died of his wounds, and one of Captain Bowden’s soldiers had succumbed, as well. “And nineteen ashore in the hospital, with two permanently lost to amputations. When I can get the others back will take weeks … twenty-four men short. Kimbrough and Bowden can shift men around, but that’d give us eighty-eight men, all ranks, and that’s just not enough soldiers, and my Marines can’t take up the slack.”

“Dalrymple,” Mountjoy gloomed. “He’ll be loath to give us even a handful.”

“One just can’t take men from one of his regiments and splice ’em into another, among strangers, aye,” Lewrie said, equally gloomy. “Assumin’ he’d even consider it. Damme, Mountjoy, what we need is some more of your lot’s money, another transport, another draught of men, and one more escortin’ ship, maybe a frigate.”

“And, a Brevet-Major,” Mountjoy said with a wry expression.

“Damme, I didn’t lose him,” Lewrie hooted, “the bloody fool lost himself! We didn’t even find a single one of his damned egret plumes. It’s good odds the Spanish have him, and good riddance.”