Free Kings and Emperors by Dewey Lambdin Page A

and that enclave looked as somnolent as the Spanish Lines. A downward tilt showed Lewrie a close-up view of one of the British gunboats wheeling itself about in almost its own length as the exercises continued.
    â€œMaybe you should send some letters cross the Lines,” Lewrie told his host. “I don’t see any riots in the Spanish garrisons.”
    â€œThey’re military,” Mountjoy gleefully stated. “They aren’t allowed to riot. God, it’d be grand if Madrid sent General Castaños orders to march off and defend their country. Might be hard, though,” Mountjoy said, taking another deep swig from his bottle, and calming down. “I’ve heard that Murat’s sent a small advance party to scout our lines, with lots of money and grain, which the Spanish really need. Who knows who in their army can be bribed to go along with the occupation of their own nation? Castaños may be too closely watched for him to take action on his own. Yet.”
    â€œThe Dowager must be over the moon,” Lewrie speculated, going to the settee to have a sit-down, and a refill of his wineglass.
    â€œDamned right he is!” Mountjoy buoyantly said. “He’s still in a quandary whether Gibraltar is threatened, but very pleased with the news. If the revolts spread, as we expect, we may have Spain as an ally, and a British army in Spain to assist them. Not from here, ye see … not ’til we know one way or another what else the Spanish will do … but from England. As soon as the weather at sea is improved, London will be sending an army to re-take Portugal, and you did not hear that from me. Maybe Sir John Moore, again. Or, we might launch ourselves into Southern Spain from here, depending.”
    â€œWell, that’s all grand news,” Lewrie said, scowling in deep thought, “but it don’t signify to me, or Sapphire. That’s soldier’s doings, and I’d still be stuck here at Gibraltar, keepin’ an eye on Ceuta.”
    â€œGrand events, even so, Lewrie,” Mountjoy chortled.
    â€œAye, fun t’watch unfolding, like watchin’ a play, with no part in it but t’clap and laugh,” Lewrie sourly commented. “Grand, hah!”
    â€œLord, but you’re a hard man to please!” Mountjoy groused.
    â€œAye, I s’pose I am,” Lewrie admitted. “Last Summer’s raids … those were just toppin’ fine. We were doing something, killing Dons and smashing things, burning captured ships and semaphore towers. Now, it’s … plodding off-and-on the same bloody headland, days on end.”
    â€œYou could be in charge of the gunboats,” Mountjoy pointed out. “Be thankful you’re not. You could be ordered to join Admiral Collingwood’s blockading squadron off Cádiz, Charles Cotton’s off Lisbon, or do your plodding at Marseilles or Toulon as a minor part of the Mediterranean Fleet.”
    Lewrie feigned a shiver of loathing for either of those choices. He no longer had a frigate, and would have no freedom of action to probe and raid inshore, and it would be bloody dull sailing in line-ahead behind larger ships of war, continually under the eyes of senior officers and their Flag-Captains. Except for single actions or small squadron actions in the Caribbean or Asian waters, there had been no grand engagements since Trafalgar, now three years before. France, and her puppet ally, the Batavian Dutch Republic, still built warships, but, once built they sat at their moorings, their crews idling, bored to tears with “river discipline” training, which was not the same as the experience gained through long spells at sea. The best of the Spanish navy had been crushed at Trafalgar, and blockaded into ports ever since, and might never dare come out again.
    He’d helped in making them fearful a few months back in 1807, when he stumbled across a brace of large Spanish