“That’d take some fanciful imagining,” Lewrie groused.

“Well, think on this,” Mountjoy posed, leaning closer, again, lest he’d be overheard by French pigeons on the gallery outside. “We know that Dalrymple has good relations with his opposite number, General Castaños. If he and his officers are disgusted enough that they rebel against Madrid, that could ignite the whole country, and open a door for a British army to land, then, in hand with the Spanish, head for Cádiz and take it from behind!

“Then, there’s an earlier despatch that Marsh sent me, anent internal divisions in Madrid which may bubble over to our advantage,” Mountjoy went on in that insufferable “I know something you don’t” way that had always irked Lewrie, “King Carlos of Spain’s been reduced to a figurehead, under Godoy and his set of French-lovers, and the Spanish people blame him for all their troubles. They’d rather have Ferdinand, his heir, on the throne, even if he is a dim-witted, lantern-jawed fool. King Carlos distrusts Ferdinand, Ferdinand’s plotting to take the throne and get rid of Godoy, and Godoy is plotting against Ferdinand, so some sort of coup is bound to happen which could turn all Spain topsy-turvy, and against the French, at last.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it happen,” Lewrie grumped, going for another slice of toast, the butter plate, and the jam pot.

“It means nothing to you?” Mountjoy exclaimed, unable to grasp that Lewrie was not as enthusiastic over the prospects as he. “But of course, the suspension of operations, losing the troops, transport, and those boats has been an appalling wrench, just when you were getting so good at these new-fangled ‘amphibious’ landings.”

“It ain’t just that,” Lewrie grumbled. “It’s the Prize-Court.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

“The Prize-Court?” Mountjoy asked, puzzled.

“The bastards,” Lewrie said, getting his “fume” back, nigh as hot as before. “Oh, there’s no problem with the San Pedro, that’s as clear as day. No, it’s that French corvette I brought in months ago, Le Cerf. Comes of me tryin’ t’be just too clever by half! Remember that I had all four transports fly Navy ensigns, and pretend t’be a squadron? Well, the transports’ masters, and the shipowners, got an idea in their greedy little civilian heads that if they pretended t’be frigates, and sailed into battle ’stead of runnin’ off like they were supposed to do, then they were ‘in sight’ at the moment the corvette struck her colours, and it’s Navy custom for all ships of the Fleet ‘in sight’ when that happens get t’share in the prize money! They’ve put together a suit t’get their cut, and sent a lawyer down from London to argue for ’em!”

“My word!” Mountjoy exclaimed. “Can they really do that?”

“Whether they can or not, they’ve laid the suit, and it’ll be years ’fore a final ruling,” Lewrie gravelled. “The local Court’ll rule, but it’ll have to go to Admiralty, maybe as high as the Privy Council, to sort it all out. To make things worse, Colonel Fry, of the Kent Fusiliers, learned of it, and since they were play-actin’ as Marines at the bulwarks of the transports, damned if the regiment’s not laid a separate suit t’get their share, too, ’cause Army regiments have been seconded to serve as Marines in the past, and there’s a precedent! If the Prize-Court rules in their favour, and the transports’, it’d be the year 1900 before it’s settled, as bad as a contested will in Chancery Court! If any o’ my crew is still livin’ when it’s settled, they might get enough t’buy a bottle of Gibraltar ‘Blackstrap’ wine! Christ!”

“Hmm … well, look on the bright side, sir,” Mountjoy urged, striving for a sympathetic note to his voice, though Lewrie could see that he was having a hard time stifling his amusement. “You have the Spanish frigate to make up for it, and isn’t there some monetary reward for the other, even if she sank? What do they call it, Head and Gun Money, depending on how many cannon and men were aboard her? You have that straightforward, and … there is the credit you have won for the doing. I shall write Mister Peel in London to make sure that your victory is properly appreciated by Admiralty, by the Secretary of State at War, and by the Crown. The involvement of Army detachments will receive proper praise at Horse Guards, as well. I guarantee it.”

“Well…” Lewrie grumped, allowing himself to be cossetted out of his pet, after all.

“Not much I can do about your problem with the Prize-Court,” Mountjoy added with a shrug, “but, perhaps Mister Peel may be able to portray the Army’s suit, and the transport owners’ suit, as grasping and greedy in the London papers. One never knows, public sentiment can be quite powerful, now and then. A description of how clever your ruse was when confronted with two French warships might sway opinion to your side.”

“Well, there is that,” Lewrie grudgingly allowed. “The tracts that the abolitionists circulated saved my bacon when I got tried for stealin’ slaves, even if I’ll never live down ‘Saint Alan’ or ‘Black Alan the Liberator’. Gawd!”

“That’s the spirit, Captain Lewrie!” Mountjoy said, all but giving him an encouraging pat on the back. “In the meantime, there’s the gunboats that Captain Middleton is getting. They’ll need to be armed and manned, and that’ll keep you and your crew busy here in the harbour. I know, you don’t want them to go too stale, so you could leave some behind and cruise the coast, as you did before, while the men left in harbour staff the gunboats. In rotation, perhaps? Cruise, and make a minor nuisance of yourself ’gainst Spanish shipping. Can’t guarantee how long that may last, mind. As far as Admiralty is concerned, you are still on Independent Orders, seconded to me, but that could change, depending on how London reacts to the invasion of Portugal. More tea, Captain Lewrie?”

“After I return,” Lewrie said, getting up. “Where do ye keep your ‘necessary’?” He needed a good, long pee.

“In the bed-chamber, yonder,” Mountjoy said, rising to see him in the right direction, then sat and poured himself another cup.

In mid-pee, Mountjoy had a second thought, and shouted from the dining table to the bed-chamber. “By the way, Dalrymple told me that the Spanish authorities have sent word about Major Hughes!”

“Alive, is he?” Lewrie shouted back.

“Alive and well, and free on his parole at Málaga!” Mountjoy informed him. “And may be for some time, the damned fool.”

Lewrie returned from the bed-chamber and came to the table to pour, sweeten, and add lemon to a fresh cup. Mountjoy waved him to take the air on the rooftop gallery.

“How long?” Lewrie asked.

“When asked to declare his name and rank, Hughes said that he was a Major,” Mountjoy happily explained, leaning on the balustrade and sipping his tea. “Not a Brevet-Major, or his substantive rank of Captain, but plain Major. So, unless we’ve a Spanish officer of the same rank in custody, or several lower-ranked officers to exchange for him, I fear he’s doomed to languish. Dalrymple and the officers of his regimental mess are putting together a package for him, his ready cash, and his back-pay, so Hughes can afford decent lodgings and keep himself well-fed, well-liquoured, and amused. Now, on the off-chance that Spain becomes our ally anytime soon, they might send him back, with no exchange necessary, but…” Mountjoy said with a wry shrug. “The Spanish allowed him to send some letters to his family, and to his regimental mess, to make arrangements about his camp gear and his kit, what debts to clear with Gibraltar merchants, and such.”

“Did Hughes write to Maddalena?” Lewrie asked, “Was there anything for her up-keep?”

“Not a word, and not a farthing,” Mountjoy told him, screwing up his face in dislike for the man. “Will you tell her of his fate?”