Page 65 of Once a Gentleman
Chapter Twenty-Four
A thirst for faraway places had been one of Andrew’s primary reasons for joining the navy. School had been so confining, his life at home so miserably bleak, that the thought of setting sail for really anywhere else had been extraordinarily seductive. The bustle of foreign ports entranced him, and no matter how squalid his surroundings, he had always found a way to enjoy himself.
Perhaps rather too much, in retrospect.
The city of Cadíz was at least rather more pleasant than Lisbon, where they had spent two days after proceeding there from La Rochelle upon receiving Admiral Spencer’s approval. That city had been still largely ruined after its thorough sacking at the hands of Boney’s troops three years before and had few charms—except, perhaps, for its abundance of both male and female whores with desperation in their dark eyes, something that no longer counted as a charm in Andrew’s view. Without taking advantage of their services nor even wishing he could, Andrew slipped the younger ones a few coins here and there, where he thought he might be able to do so without attracting the attention of thieves who would willingly crush his skull in for a few shillings.
He returned to the ship without any desire to explore Lisbon’s opportunities any further, and waited aboard with Harrison and kept the men in line while Captain O’Neill escorted Colonel de Brimeu on his mysterious business.
For two long, dull days they sat there, listening to the uproar of the soldiers quartered nearby, the shouts from the dockside taverns, and beneath that the endless creaking of the ship, a sound that had so ingrained itself into Andrew’s mind that he hardly noticed it anymore, except in those rare moments when other sounds died down.
And then Captain O’Neill and de Brimeu returned in a great hurry, accompanied by a Captain Martin of Wellington’s staff, and they immediately set sail again for Cadíz. Andrew had followed the progress of the war in the Peninsula well enough to know that Cadíz had been under siege for some time; putting the pieces together, de Brimeu had acquired some intelligence that would relate to the progress of the siege, or the movements of French troops. And now that they’d cooled their heels for two days, everyone was all in a rush to reach Cadíz as quickly as possible, of bloody course.
After two more days of beating against often-contrary winds, they rounded the peninsula of the Isla de Leon and dropped anchor in the city’s well-protected harbor. Martin and de Brimeu were hot under the collar to inspect the outer defenses of the city at once, though they wouldn’t say why, and Captain O’Neill pulled Andrew aside as the two officers expostulated with one another in low voices.
“Go with them, and take Harrison,” he said. “Martin seems a decent-enough fellow and might need some assistance if that bloody colonel gets out of line.”
Spending days on end in close quarters with de Brimeu hadn’t endeared him to O’Neill any more than it had to Andrew, or to anyone else on board. The fellow was a condescending prick. Andrew hid a smile and agreed, and the four of them set off from the harbor a few minutes later. The walk energized him. A sea breeze, balmy air despite the time of year—by Portsmouth standards, enough that one thought about taking off one’s coat—and a pleasant view, with the sky and water meeting in two shades of clear blue, and the city’s great cathedral looming over all of it like an over-decorated cake.
They met with Spanish and English officers as they made their way from the harbor, and Andrew and Harrison ended up leaning against a wall and taking their ease while the others all discussed and debated.
“D’you think we’ll be sailing for home after this, sir?” Harrison asked, tipping his head back into the sun. “Not that I can complain about the weather in Spain, but I hope we can leave this French fellow here and bugger off back to England.”
The last time they’d sailed, Andrew would have scoffed at that; Harrison might wish to see his family, but Andrew would have much preferred sunshine and mild breezes and the prospect of a new city full of pretty girls and taverns to Portsmouth’s fog and the confines of his own house.
“I do too,” he said, with complete sincerity. What did Cadíz have to offer—what did any place in the world have to offer, that could compare with Portsmouth? Kit was there. “We cannot possibly leave the man behind and sail soon enough.”
But there were duties to perform first, and eventually they were moving again, trailing after de Brimeu, making their way toward the Isla de Leon’s outer defenses.
“Be cautious, gentlemen,” one of the Spanish officers called back to them. “The French have been practicing with their artillery quite a bit this week. It is not so bad in the city, too far for their shells to reach with much force. But it is different where we go.”
“Pah,” Martin scoffed. “Their aim’s shite.”
That set de Brimeu off in a defense of his countrymen, and Andrew glanced at Harrison, who was rolling his eyes and wiping sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. He suppressed a laugh and walked on.
They had heard the pound of the besiegers’ artillery in the distance all the way from the harbor, but it grew louder the closer they went. A shell exploded a hundred yards away as they reached the walls.
De Brimeu and the other officers huddled in a group, looking at a document the colonel had produced from inside his coat. Martin stepped a few feet away, peering at part of the fortification. Another thump echoed from the French artillery emplacement.
Andrew looked up; he traced the path of the shell and heard the whistle of its descent. Martin bent to pick something up off the ground.
“Look out!” Andrew shouted, and dived forward, shoving Martin roughly away just as the explosion deafened him. He landed hard on top of Martin, hearing nothing but a ringing in his ears and muffled shouts, as if they came from underwater.
And then the pain hit, burning and stabbing and throbbing, everywhere at once, and there were more shouts, and hands on him, and they hurt even more…he was being seized, turned over, with faces swimming in a circle around him.
Andrew remained half-conscious throughout the whole agonizing process of what came next: movement, searing pain shooting through every limb with each jolt and jostle, voices roughened by worry, the sun in his eyes, blinding him, as he was lifted and then set down again, and then borne along. In a cart? Yes, a cart, and he groaned each time the wheels went over another bump, the straw beneath him poking into his wounds, the sun still beating down.
He fainted at last, partway through the journey, fading consciousness a relief despite the knowledge that he might never wake again.
He did wake again, though, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
Andrew levered his eyelids open, gasping through the burning agony coursing through his left leg and arm. Another spike of pain drove into his side, but that felt almost muted compared to the twisting, writhing fire in his thigh and knee.
A face swam into view: Harrison, his usually smiling lips set into a grim line, blue eyes sharp with worry. “The devil, sir, thank God you’re awake,” he said rather nonsensically. Andrew tried to smile, but his face contorted into a grimace and he let out a little groan. “You’ve been badly injured, but you’re all right. We’ll see to it. The surgeon’s going to try to save your leg, sir. Captain’s on his way.”
Most of that seemed to contradict the rest, and Andrew gave up the effort, clenching his teeth and closing his eyes again.
Harrison slipped a hand under his head and held water to his lips; he drank, spilling half of it down his neck. Rum came next, a full tot of it, and that Andrew swallowed eagerly, and the next.
