George Washington's Ghost

“You and I know that this war has been coming for a long time, Henry. We both tried to warn the Prime Minister and the Foreign and Colonial Office, and we’ve talked ourselves blue in the face with the people at the War Office, and the bally Army Department,” Philip De L’Isle went on, his exasperation simmering just below the surface. “I know the King has always been on our side but time and again the needs of the Commonwealth of New England have been subordinated to those of the broader Empire. So, we are where we are, and now this trouble has blown up in Germany we aren’t going to get anywhere near everything we want or need. At sea, we know that Lord Collingwood will do what he can do. Operation East Wind is hopefully the start of the fight back, notwithstanding, I suspect that if the FCO didn’t have its hands full with the Berlin imbroglio they’d probably be trying their best to tie Cuthbert’s hands behind his back. That’s the trouble with Whitehall, they’re obsessed with organising the peace without a thought for fighting and winning the damned war first! Honestly, it’s ridiculous, here we are in a major war in the Americas and might soon be in another in Europe, and those fools in London are still behaving as if there’s nothing a little bit of gunboat diplomacy can’t solve!”

The Governor’s Chief of Staff remembered his whisky, drank deep.

“I think Cuthbert Collingwood is more your man if your taste is for ‘battlefleet diplomacy’, Philip,” he smiled grimly.

“Well, hopefully, this chap in Texas will turn out to be a man with real mettle, Henry!”

“The King!” Henry Rawlinson proposed, finishing his drink.

Chapter 32

Sunday 7th May

Viano do Castelo, Portugal

Alonso Pérez de Guzmán felt like a complete cad, that most contemptible of double-dealing excuses for manhood. In fact, he was beginning to view himself as no better than the despicable breed of men he had always despised. To arrive at Viano do Castelo and to be welcomed like a prince by his mistress and the woman he adored; but to whom he had never dared to confess as much, and to be reunited, anew with the son he had thought he had lost forever a little over four years ago, in a funny sort of way, actually contrived to make him feel even worse.

And then he had artlessly compounded his misdeeds.

He had been morose, absurdly sorry for himself as Melody and Henrietta had sat him down to enjoy afternoon tea with them, and his son had gambolled around their feet without a care in the world, safe from all evil with his two beautiful ‘Mamas’.

He had not actually been rude, not gratuitously; simply a little distant, reserved, untalkative, overly polite and correct, almost formal in his introspection and brooding, hoping above hope that the two incomparable ladies in his life would assume he was just weary from his travels.

Coincidentally, those travels also, were a thing coming to an end now he had got a fresh grip upon his estates and holdings in Portugal – now his country of exile – and his Queen had summarily, almost but not quite cruelly, for he perfectly understood the reasons why and that her motivation was not, and had never been, ignoble, dismissed him from her service. He had, and he had not, expected that; just not believed it was going to happen until it did. That Sophie, whom he had known, seemingly forever, had reluctantly balked at the cost of fighting on, to her and more so to her many loyal supporters, had come as no real surprise. But to be exiled from her circle, well, that had been… a shock.

It ought not to have been, of course. He had known the woman who was to become his Queen from earliest childhood; possibly, no man in Spain knew, or even began to understand the bewitching enigma which was the once, and possibly, future Queen Consort of the Spanish Emperor, as intimately as he.

As any true, devoted courtier must, he had accepted his fate, knowing that to do otherwise would be to cause his Queen even greater distress.

So, here he was, the disinherited – in the lands of Spain at least – 18th Duke of Medina Sidonia, feeling sorry for himself, having made his excuses and retired to his rooms where he had dismissed his footman, and ordered that he not be disturbed.

He had lain these last forty minutes or so in a slowly cooling bath, alone in the steam with his thoughts.

At some stage he had opened up the hot water faucet to warm the water, almost to overflowing and sunk back into the warmth up to his chin. Later, he must have dozed off because whoever was at the bathroom door had had to knock twice, and then thrice.

“I don’t want to be disturbed!” He protested irritably, albeit without genuine angst. No man with any self-respect raised his voice or belittled a subordinate, an arms man or anybody else in his service. That was a lesson his father had, when he was young, beaten into him; probably the best thing the old monster had ever done for him…

There was another knock.

“Yes, what is it?”