A King's Commander (16 page)

“Not my doing, sir,” Spendlove assured him with some heat. “Nor the first lieutenant's. Uhm . . . your clerk, Mister Mountjoy, he, ahh . . .”

“Mountjoy?” Lewrie snapped.

“Said he thought they were normal correspondence, sir, that he . . . as your
assistant,
should read first, so . . .” Spendlove shrugged. Not in defense of the captain's clerk, no. By the tone of his voice, even a lowly midshipman could express a tiny bit of exasperation, or disgust, with a “new-come” who knew so little. Or could not seem to learn.

“Damn fool!” Lewrie growled. Ship's orders were addressed for captains only, for their eyes only. “Not
you,
Mister Spendlove. Pardon the comment, sir. No one else aboard has read them, yet?”

“No, sir!” Spendlove strenuously denied. “Mister Hyde was at the gangway to receive them, and took 'em aft, still sealed, to your quarters. We informed Mister Knolles, of course, and he thought it best if you saw them straightaway, so I readied a boat, to fetch you, Captain. But, were they urgent, Mister Knolles then thought to send them on, so he went aft, to get 'em, and he asked of them from Mister Mountjoy, well . . .”

“My ‘assistant'!” Lewrie hooted sourly. “My God, that's rich!”

But, as long as he had them, he might as well read them, so he stepped away for a tiny shred of privacy. When he discovered:

You are directed to ready your vessel for sea, and, at your earliest convenience, the wind being obliging, proceed to the port of Leghorn, upon the Italian mainland, carrying with you the assistant surgeon of the fleet, his appurtenances, and monies, for the purchase of a quantity of onions and thirty to forty pipes of wine from the Tuscan authorities; to store aboard as expeditiously as possible the aforesaid, upon affirmation by the assistant surgeon of the fleet as to the antiscorbutic properties, then to proceed afterward to San Fiorenzo Bay with the onions and wine . . .

“And just what do you draw, Lewrie, hey?” he muttered, half amused. “Jesus Christ!” There went all his previous speculation on hopes of neck-or-nothing sea service. Amazing, really, what fickle Dame Reality actually had up her sleeve!

He folded them and stuck them into an inner coat pocket.

“Very well, Mister Spendlove, Go back aboard, and deliver my utmost respects to Mister Knolles and the sailing master. They are to ready the ship for sea. Tell Aspinall we'll have a single piece of ‘live-lumber' aft, in the great-cabins, with some dunnage of his to store away in my personal lazarette. Have ‘Chips' run him up a bed cot. And warn my cook he'll be 'sizzling' for two, this evening.”

San Fiorenzo Bay was a mirror. There wasn't a breath of wind, and every commissioning pendant, every sail freed of its gaskets and let hung to prevent mildew, were as slack as a hangman's noose, still and flaccid. There'd be no departure this evening. Perhaps the morning might bring up enough wind to work out of harbor on. Or, they'd lower the ship's boats and row her out, in tow, to a sea breeze. He'd have about an hour, no more, to settle Phoebe, leave her some coin for incidentals, but would have to forego her expressions of “gratitude.”

Before he could inform her of that sad fact, though, he espied a Navy officer at the dockside, one familiar to him, about to mount a horse.

“Captain Nelson?” he called, walking down to the pier-front, to remake his acquaintance.

“Ah, Commander Lewrie!” the little minnikin of a post-captain cried jovially, once he'd gotten his “seat.” “Saw
your Jester
lying at anchor, on my way out to
Victory.
Just come in. And with such a wondrous packet of news, too, about Admiral Howe's splendid victory! How I wish I'd but been there to take part, but . . . And how do you do, sir?”

“Main-well, and thank you for recalling me, sir,” Lewrie said, doffing his hat. “And thank you again for the permanent loan of men off your
Agamemnon.
They eased our passage home wondrous well. Form the very backbone of my new crew. I can't express how indebted I am to you for your generosity, short-handed though you were at the time.”

God, what a complete toadying wretch you are, Lewrie, he chided himself; must be instinctive! Nelson's just another captain, not an admiral whose back you have to ‘piss down' for favors!

“And you are well yourself, sir?” Alan asked, as a party of seamen trudged by in a dust-raising shamble, loaded down with sacks like so many draught animals.

“In splendid fettle, sir,” Nelson assured him. “Been on shore service, over toward Calvi, d'ye see. As long as the French Navy is blockaded, there's the seat of the action. There's the very cockpit! A chance for action, great doings!”

Capt. Horatio Nelson was such a thin and nervous whippet of a fellow, so lean and wee to begin with, well . . . Lewrie thought his duty ashore had sweated him down. He didn't
look
in splendid fettle, really. Haggard as a dog's dinner, in point of fact.

“Why, were I half sunk with the flux, the opportunity for action against our foes would revive me from my very deathbed, sir,” Nelson assured him firmly, speaking a trifle louder, for the benefit, Lewrie imagined, of those trudging, plodding sailors, and the general audience at dockside.

Always did have a touch o' Drury Lane theatrics in him, Lewrie recalled, smiling in reverie.

“You should
see
what British tars can accomplish, Lewrie,” he “emoted,” regaining that infectious enthusiasm for a chance to get himself blown to bits, or knighted—whichever came first, “You simply must ride up and visit us, should you have the chance. Erecting batteries, man-hauling guns over hill and dale, digging trenches and parallels . . . ah, here's Captain Fremantle! Another of our stalwarts.”

Taller, lankier, and mastiff-dour, was Captain Thomas Fremantle, whose sole response to Nelson's introduction was a nod and a grunt.

“. . . shelling the Frogs night and day, storming their positions to keep monsieur on the hop,” Nelson rattled on. “Minding shot around their own ears no more than peas, I tell you, Lewrie! Been at it ever since the first days of the siege of Bastia. Well, Captain Fremantle
might
mind shot and shell, after our little . . . ‘incident,' hey?”

“Uhm,” interjected that worthy, shifting in his saddle rather uncomfortably.

“The Frogs got the range of us, at Bastia,” Nelson reminisced gaily, “and literally blew us off a hillside. Right down off the side of the path. Showers of earth, gravel, and dust. Fremantle was sore hurt.”

“Tore a good pair o' breeches,” Fremantle grunted laconically. “Now he swears he'll not walk within a musket shot of me, sir.” Nelson chuckled. “I attract too much attention from their gunners!”

Sounds like Fremantle is smarter than he looks, Alan thought.

“Should I do come visit, sir,” Lewrie said with an agreeable chuckle of his own, “I'd hope for better horses than these for the journey.”

While all the while swearing that it would take a battalion of gaolers to drag him
anywhere
near Calvi's trenches. Or Nelson's side.

“Spavined wretches, are they not, sir?” Nelson shrugged, even as he patted his ill-featured mare's neck. “A poor prad, but mine own, to quote the Bard. And, well . . . Father's a churchman, and our glebe didn't run to blooded hunters. Then I, away to sea at such a young age . . . I must confess I am nowhere near as confident upon this horse as I am upon my quarterdeck. This idle waiting, and swinging around the anchors . . . I quite envy you, sir, your freedom of a smaller ship. Out at sea, our proper place . . . anything exciting by way of orders for you yet, Lewrie?”

“Onions, sir.” Lewrie sighed. “Onions and wine. I'm off for Leghorn at first light, pray God the wind returns, to purchase onions to prevent the scurvy.”

“Oh, poor fellow.” Nelson seemed to commiserate for a single sober moment, though he perked up rather quickly, not a second after. “Still, your turn will come, sir, be confident of it. Once Calvi is ours, we'll all be free to seek out our foes, and win such glory as even a Hawke, Anson, or Drake might envy!”

Lewrie continued to smile, though he did raise one rather dubious brow. Fremantle, though, who'd been slouching like a sack of onions in his saddle, sat up a bit straighter, got a light upon his dull visage, as if he'd just been Saved, and was leaving Church with his Life Amended. Uncanny, how this wee fellow Nelson could inspirit people! “Well, sirs, if you must ride as far as Calvi before dark, I won't keep you a second longer. And the best of fortune go with you, sirs. Captain Nelson, Captain Fremantle . . . I'll save you a sack of my very best . . . mmm, produce, sirs,” he could not help saying with a deprecatory smirk. “My word on't.”

“Likewise, good fortune attend your voyage, sir, and I
would
be much obliged for something more savory than ‘Army' rations. For the men, d'ye see.” Nelson beamed. “Godspeed, Commander Lewrie!”

He kneed his spindly mare into motion, to clatter off to join a procession of heavily laden mules, heavily laden sailors, and top-heavy two-wheeled carts crammed with ammunition.

Damme, I just promised to deliver them onions! Lewrie shuddered. Now I'll
have
to ride up there, once I'm back. Within speakin' distance of Nelson, and let's hope the Frog gunners're sleepin'!

Wherever that firebrand went there was blood and mayhem. And the Devil's own amount of shot and shell involved in a Nelson “outing.” Forever thrusting himself forward, all that Death or Glory twaddle . . . and Alan suspected the little minnikin actually
believed
what he was forever saying.

Still . . . he could almost essay a feeling of . . . dare he call it jealousy? . . . to be left out. Grubbing about in trenches, plagued with insects, flinging oneself flat whenever a shell howled over. Well, an officer could
wish
to fling himself flat, but had to stand and take it, like a dumb ox. To inspire courage, so please you! Sleeping rough as a gypsy . . . well, perhaps not. Alan wished to make his name, and his ship's name, at sea, where sailors belonged. Not playing greengrocer, certainly, but . . .

He felt a hellish snit coming on. Sent off to be a carter for the fleet, 'stead of a fighting cruise. Deprived of Phoebe's charms—that he'd by God paid damn'
dear
for!—not even one evening with her in their new “house.” The prospects of a damn' dull supper, with a “sawbones” for company; they were usually horrid drinkers, and just how much of his wine cabinet would be left to him by the time
Jester
returned to San Fiorenzo Bay? he wondered.

It all put Lewrie in a Dev'lish black fettle.

Mayhem? Well, God help Mountjoy, when he got back aboard. A chance to shout, to rant and scream at someone, to vent all his frustrations . . . it sounded
damned
pleasant, of a sudden!

Ego, dum cremandis trabibus accrescit rogus,
sacro regentum maria votivo colam.

Now while the pyre feeds on the burning beams with promised gifts will I worship Him who rules the sea.

Hercules Furens,
514–15
L
UCIUS
A
NNAEUS
S
ENECA

N
ow
this
is more like it, Lewrie told himself, fidgeting, but with pride, as he stood foursquare on his quarterdeck, with his hands clasped together in the small of his back. Rocking and swaying on the balls of his feet, easy, as
Jester
tore through the waters, gun ports open, and artillery run out.

It was a rare day, no error, a brilliant, glittering morning of bright-water winds, whitecaps and horses, the sea heaving and chopping in short, close-spaced waves, and the sirocco up from the south was a force one could almost lean into, a stout, clear-weather quarter-gale, deafening in his ears. A hat-snatcher of a wind into which HMS
Jester
pounded close-hauled, in pursuit of prey.

A clumsy old Provence bilander already lay far astern, a prize easily snatched up from the clutch of odd vessels assembled in convoy. No matter that she'd sported a massive lateen mains'l on her after, or mainmast, the compromise of her foremast crossed with course, tops'l, and t'gallant yards, had made her slow to windward. Taken with but one warning shot fired cross her bows, and a long ten minutes of nail-biting frustration as a boat was gotten down, and a prize crew under Wheelock, the master's mate, rowed over to secure her. Then
Jester
was off once more, lumping and drumming into wind, spray flying high to either beam, with a bone in her teeth.

They'd spotted the convoy at dawn, on east-to-west patrol sixty miles north of Corsica; a gaggle of
tartanes, bilanders, and pole-acres to their south. Lying-to, hardly moving, as if awaiting the coming of dusk before closing the coast in the wee hours, when they might stand a chance of sneaking past other patrol ships. Immediately,
Jester
had hardened up, beat to quarters, and taken off in pursuit. Now the motley collection of ships had become what were termed “Chases.”

The nearest Chase, Mister Buchanon informed them, was a tartane, a single-masted coastal trading vessel with a fore-and-aft lateen mains'l and a bowsprit that allowed her to set jibs and stays'ls to go closer to the True Wind than
Jester
could ever hope to. She might have made an escape, outpointing them, if she'd been longer, or been less heavily laden. She merely ploughed along, burying her bows whenever she met the rolling chops, and flinging clouds of spray and foam over herself, as if trying to hide in it.

“Starboard foc's'le carronade!” Lewrie shouted to the gun deck. “One shot across her bows!” They'd overhauled her rapidly, striding up to within half a cable—one hundred-twenty yards—of her larboard side, as she labored to flee.

A sharp bark, a quickly dissipated bloom of smoke, sulfurously bitter and smelling of rotten eggs as it whipped past the quarter-deck, and then a great splash and pillar of spray as the ball struck short and a little to the right of “across her bows.”
Under
them, was more like it. The eighteen-pounder round-shot, five inches and four parts across, caromed up from first graze like a goosed dolphin, smashed into the underside of the hapless
tartane's bows, shattering the jib boom and bowsprit, amputating it just beyond the cutwater!

“Sofort! Ja!”
Quarter-gunner Rahl could be heard to exult as he saw the results of his handiwork.
“Genau!”
Exactly!

Without jibs to balance her helm, she sagged alee, veering away to starboard under the press of that great lateen sail and yard, showing her weeded quick-work as she heeled precipitously.

“Helm a'weather, Quartermaster! Ease us a point free!” Lewrie snapped, so
Jester
would surge up even with her, still on her lar-board quarter, showing her there would be no escape. “Number one gun, ready!”

He waited until she rolled more upright, so he wouldn't lose her by putting a ball through her hull, too far below the water-line to be repaired. “No more warning shots, Mister Crewe. Show her we mean it.”

A quick fiddle with the quoin for elevation, a tug on the side tackles, then the crew scrambling back from the line of recoil.
Bang! the nine-pounder erupted. At one hundred yards, the ball's strike was immediate, a crash of timbers, the
squawk!
of rivened wood as a star-shaped hole three feet across was blasted into her side, just before her mast, and the
tartane shook and rolled alee once more to the impact. Then, down came her long lateen yard, crashing to the deck as halliards were cut, instead of handed. Eight or nine men—perhaps her entire crew—appeared at the rails, hands flailing, arms raised in prayerlike pleading, and jabbering away fit to bust in French!

“Mister Hyde, she's your prize, sir,” Lewrie crowed. “Mister Tucker the quartermaster's mate, and six hands to go with you. Hoist what sail you may, once you've secured her crew, and follow along aft of us as best you're able. Take the jolly boat.
Move
yourself, sir! Mister Knolles, fetch us to, to lower away the boat.”

Two prizes, already, and it had barely gone eight, he exulted. Why, we might take
all
of 'em, by the end of the forenoon! And not a single other sail in sight to share with! Any other British warship, with even her royals 'bove the horizon, “in sight” at the time that a prize surrendered, shared in the prize money adjudged by an Admiralty Court. This morning, Lewrie was feeling particularly greedy. Hungry for more than his breakfast!

'Sides, there's my bloody expenses to make good, he sighed, as the jolly boat was swung high off the cross-deck beams that spanned
Jester
's
waist from gangway to gangway, even before she came to a full halt in a welter of foam and a calamitously windy din from aloft.

“Come on, come on, damn yer eyes!” he muttered under his breath at how long it was taking. Take in fore and main courses, so they'd not be torn; topmen aloft to trice up yard tackles with clew jiggers, hook on burton purchases from the tops to the yardarms, jump a triatic stay between the stay-tackle pendants, and send the falls to the deck; lift the jolly boat off the cross-deck beams that spanned the waist, with stay tackles; swing her outboard with the yard tackles, and six guy lines for preventers; then lower away together. Then, even before the boat crew was down overside, take in all the hoisting gear, which was in the way aloft, ungasket the course-sails and clew them full of air once more . . . !

His own gig was away to the bilander, with Andrews in charge of it. Now the jolly boat. There was only the one twenty-six-foot cutter left, which took eight hands to row, and one to steer. Only one more prize taken, before he ran out of conveyances for prize crews? he groaned. Surely, not!

“Cony!” He decided. “Half a cable's worth of messenger line to the jolly boat, as a painter. Once she's alongside the prize and empty, walk the painter aft and use it as a towline. We'll keep her with us!”

What seemed an hour later, they were off again, this time chasing what looked like an Egyptian dhow; high-pooped, two masts with lateen sails, a sweet curve to her sheerline, almost saucy—almost too cute to frighten. But a prize was a prize. Like the
tartane, she was too short on the waterline to make any speed.

But beyond . . . !

Spreading out now, hauling their wind to escape individually, all order gone, were three rather substantial, and rewarding-looking ships. One, the nearest, heading sou'west, and another pair farther off bearing sou'east, still almost in company, dodging away with the boisterous wind abeam. Three-masted poleacres, with lateen rigs upon their fore and mizzenmasts to take the place of spank-ers or jibs, but oddly, and downright gruesomely, square-rigged on their much taller mainmasts, with courses, tops'ls and t'gallants towering over their decks, as bastardly appearing as “hermaphrodite” brigs!

They fetched the dhow-looking coaster up to their starboard side in a brief quarter-hour. Up close, she was scarred, weathered, faded, and neglected, as stained and dull as an old dishcloth. She labored within close musket shot, about fifty yards off, her few crewmen stock-still and hangdog at the rails. No warning shot was even required!

Down came her lateen yards, collapsing those triangular ellipses to her decks, and
Jester
fetched-to once more. The jolly boat was led around to the entry port by its towline, and Midshipman Spendlove, with Quartermaster Spenser and six seamen, rowed over to take charge of her; the jolly boat hauled back to
Jester
afterward for further use.

“Hardly seems worth the effort, Captain,” Lieutenant Knolles remarked, laughing in scornful appraisal. “A dowdy old tub, she is.”

“Well, let's hope she's a decent cargo aboard, to pay for our efforts, Mister Knolles.” Lewrie shrugged. “Mains'l haul, and let's be going.”

Now their problem was that of a single staghound that had come across an entire herd of deer—which to pursue next. The nearest to them was running due west by then, about two miles off. The other two poleacres had fallen off the wind to east-sou'east, were closer together, but had at least another mile lead on
Jester
before she got back to full speed of nearly eleven knots.

“Mister Buchanon?” Lewrie called to his sailing master.

“Aye, sir?”

“Those two masters yonder know something we don't, sir? Current around the east'rd of Corsica?” Lewrie inquired. “Seems silly, to run east-sou'east, closer to the Bastia peninsula.”

“North-set current, Cap'um, aye,” Buchanon agreed, pointing to a chart. “Runs up past Cape Corse, 'tween 'ere an' th' Isle of Capraia . . . an' in shallower water, too. Nought t'dread, 'tis deep enough even for a 1st Rate, but . . . do they get into its . . . fan, I s'pose, an' with this southerly wind, 'ey'll fly like a pair o' pigeons. One an' a half, mayhap two knots, more, 'ey'd gain.”

“
If
they may weather Cape Corse!” Lewrie intuited, at once. The poleacres had run far enough south, within forty or so miles of Corsica, that flight in that direction could come to an end, hemmed in by bluffs and shoals. If they stayed somewhat on the wind, as they still were.

“Sir, starboard Chase is altering course!” Knolles cried out to warn them.

Inexplicably, the nearest poleacre had come about to the starboard tack, as if suicidally intent upon making Calvi, after all, and arriving in late afternoon—broad daylight! Even as close-hauled as she lay to the eyes of the wind, she'd cross ahead of
Jester
's present course. Or, their courses would meet, like the two upright legs of a triangle, and
Jester,
of course, would shoot her to rags, and then take her.

“Mister Knolles, ready about! Stations for Stays!” Lewrie said with a wry smile. “We'll come to starboard tack. Make our new course east by south.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Knolles replied automatically, though sounding quizzical. “Mister Porter, pipe hands to Stations for Stays. Ready to come about!”

“Only a purblind fool'd come about like 'at, Cap'um,” Buchanon opined. “Meanin'
her,
yonder, sir, d'ye understand, no disrespect . . .”

“My thoughts, exactly, Mister Buchanon,” Lewrie agreed with a soft laugh. “Remind you of a mother goose, leading the stoat away from her hatchlings?”

“Flaggin' th' broken wing, aye, Cap'um.”

“That pair to the east'rd, they're hoping to get away. This'un might be their leader. A merchant poleacre, yes. But perhaps carrying a French naval officer aboard. As short of ships as they are, it might even be a well-
armed
poleacre, servin' as escort. It'd be a criminal waste to send these poor vessels out to resupply Calvi without at least
one
warship. I'll wager that pair has the valuable cargo.”

“Ready about, sir,” Knolles reported.

“Very well, Mister Knolles. Tack the ship about.”

Half an hour on starboard tack, floating almost without visible effort, now, across the seas, on a close reach with the winds nearly on her beam. Striding closer and closer to those two poleacres, who were forced by her presence, and the threat of the so-far unseen Cape Corse to haul their wind even farther, steer due east 
to try and beat
Jester
to that underwater river of current that would speed them back up north to the French Riviera coast, where they'd come from.

“Sail ho!” came a cry from the foremast lookout, Rushing. “
Two
point off th'
starb'rd
bows!”

Lewrie twitched, almost began a quick dash to the shrouds to take a peek for himself, but checked his motion. It looked like an upright stumble, which made him blush in chagrin; chiding himself for appearing to start at the slightest omen, like a goose-girl!

“Two points to weather, that'd be . . .” he said, instead, stalking to the chart, trying to seem deliberate, this time. “Down near the Cape, I believe, Mister Buchanon?”

“Aye, sir. Inshore o' Cape Corse, west o' it, do we see her with her royals'r t'gallants 'bove th' horizon,” Buchanon agreed.