The Iberian Flame

Chapter 47

Aboard Conqueror

‘Sir.’

‘What is it, Flags?’ said Rowley, irritably, jerking awake in his armchair. ‘You know I take my rest at this hour.’ He’d been awakened after a very satisfactory midday meal, a Spanish claret of remarkable smoothness and depth rounding out the repast.

‘Brig-sloop Laertes made her number, desires an army officer to board and speak with you.’

‘Bloody cheek! Tell ’em to lay off until four bells like everyone else.’

‘Er, the officer is one of rank as I saw, sir.’ Unless he was mistaken the figure on the quarterdeck in dark green and gold epaulettes was a general at the least.

‘Very well. Hoist him in, and I’ll see whoever he is here.’

He reached for a cup of coffee, which had swiftly appeared, and waited sourly for the officer, sure to bring unwelcome demands for this or that army deficiency, or claim for ships.

‘Sir, Lieutenant General Sir Arthur Wellesley.’

Rowley glanced up. ‘Do sit, sir. I shan’t be a moment.’

He made play of closely inspecting and shuffling his papers, the image of a busy admiral.

‘While you are about your business, sir, I have a fleet of invasion about its own.’

The voice was distant but had an edge of restrained ferocity that had Rowley start with surprise.

‘A fleet? What can you mean, sir?’

‘Sufficient attention to your orders will tell you that lately the government of Great Britain has seen fit to set to sea an expedition of force intended for the relief and support of forces in opposition to the French in the Iberian peninsula. I am in command of that force.’

‘Yes, yes, I’d heard of this – but it’s going to Spain and therefore does not concern me.’

‘It does. For various absurd reasons, I’ve been unable to make landing in northern Spain. My orders give me discretion to divert to Portugal, in particular Lisbon, if possible. At the moment my transports and escorts are floating about in a muddle, awaiting a destination.’

‘A … destination? What is this to me, sir?’

‘I require of you a suitable place of landing for my expedition on this shore, sufficiently sheltered to allow my boats to go in through the waves that bedevil this coast. Not too far from a road to Lisbon and, of course, sir, free of enemy interference as we land. Do you know of such?’

Rowley blinked in confusion. ‘This has never been in contemplation, sir, and – and – no, sir, I do not.’

Wellesley’s haughty, patrician manner carried an air of authority that perturbed Rowley, with its overtones of easy familiarity with Whitehall and politics.

‘Then who does, if not you, pray?’

‘Oh, well, our ships-of-the-line never venture so close and the minor craft that do are commanded by officers of low rank. I rather fancy it’s among my frigates that you’ll find your answer.’

‘So …’

‘Which are all out on a cruise, sir.’

‘Get one, if you please.’

‘Er, that is not so easily done. It were better to wait for one to return – shall we say the first that reports?’

Wellesley rose abruptly. ‘Then, sir, I shall be obliged should you let me know the very instant this happens. My ships have been at sea these several weeks and my men and horses are declining in condition with every day that passes. Good day to you.’