A King's Commander (18 page)

“Helm down, sir!” Lewrie ordered, once he'd gotten erect. “A tack, cross the wind, and keep the wind gauge 'bove that bastard! My telescope.”

So close, one bloody instant; so far apart the next. The Frog pole-acre had fallen off the wind, was running large to the nor'east— minus her mizzenmast and lateen spanker. In the round ocular, Lewrie saw she'd been beaten to a pulp by that broadside, fired so close they could have spit at each other. Her larboard side was bashed in, with several large punctures below her gun ports, and about a third of her bulwarks had been torn away, merging two gun ports into one long tear. Larboard mainmast stays were sagging loose, the chain platforms, and the deadeye blocks that tensioned those shrouds savaged! And on her quarterdeck! That mob on her stern, her officers and after-guard, were gone! Barely half a dozen figures could be seen moving about, mostly throwing themselves on the abandoned helm. Topmen were sheeting home her main course and tops'l, not trusting the upper t'gallant mast with the pressure of canvas, her foremast lateen sail swung almost athwart-ship. Trimmed for a run!

“'Ware, below!” Bosun Porter shouted, as
Jester
swung up close to the wind. There was a rending screech of pine as top-hamper ripped, as
Jester
's
own royal and t'gallant topmasts sagged backward, shedding blocks and rigging. Crosstree slats snapped like twigs, freeing tension on shrouds, and the entire mess slowly inclined farther astern, until everything above the crosstrees sagged back into the mainmast stays, and hung up on the main t'gallant yard, tangling stays'ls and halliards, jears, and lift-lines, into a rat's nest!

“In der irons, Herr Kapitan!” Brauer reported from the wheel, as
Jester
poised in the very teeth of the wind, and stalled, unable to complete her tack and slowing to a crawl.

“Secure from quarters. Porter, Cony! Secure what you can, till she pays off,” Lewrie ordered. However much a draw the battle had been, it was now over. It would be long minutes before
Jester
could fall off to either beam, even more a long half hour to clear away all the raffle and take up pursuit once more. By which time that poleacre would have sailed herself almost hull-under for Toulon or Hyeres Bay. Beaten, at everything she'd tried; ignored when she'd attempted to lure them away, useless when charged with protecting her convoy. And, shot to ribbons when she'd tried to retake the prizes, denied even that crumb of comfort. Still, she would escape them. Lewrie devoutly hoped he'd slain her captain. Had it become a real broadside-to-broadside slugging, he wasn't sure he might have won, after all, unless that bugger had died.

Aye, he hoped that poleacre's commanding officer had been shot to a blood pudding, by a cloud of canister! Should he live to fight another day . . . there was a
damn'
dangerous Frenchman on the loose, a one too clever for anyone's good. A one too dangerous to live!

“Two dead, outright, sir,” Surgeon Mister Howse related grumpily, still streaked with splotches of blood on his butcher's apron. “One more to pass, by sunset, if God's good to him. Nine injured.”

“I see.” Lewrie nodded, almost numb, still shaken by how brief, yet how savage, the engagement had been, “Those injured, uhm . . .”

“Two, Captain.” Howse scowled, a bite to his voice, as if war's mayhem was Lewrie's fault, and the “butcher's bill” the captain's debt. “Amputees, to be discharged. Both Marines. T'other seven, well . . . few weeks to mend, light duties after. Assuming suppuration does not take them. I have their names. For your clerk.”

Howse offered a quick-scribbled list, almost official-looking . . . but the red “wax” seals were his gory thumb and fingerprints.

“Thankee, Mister Howse,” Lewrie replied, gingerly accepting it and passing it to Knolles at once. “Adjust the watch-and-quarter bills accordingly, Mister Knolles. I'll go below, to the surgery, for a moment . . .”

“Aye, sir, but . . .” Knolles answered. “Uhm, as to the foremast. You said you wished to oversee . . . ?”

“Aye, right with you, then,” Lewrie harrumphed. There was little more to do, for the short run, than to strike all that damaged top-hamper off the foremast, right down to the fighting top. The mainmast, too, had lost its royal and t'gallant topmasts and spars. A spare foremast tops'l pole stood, quickly doubled to the lower foremast cap, so they could raise jibs to work her to windward, into shelter. And the hands to see to, to visit the wounded, tell them their suffering was . . .

“'Scuse me, Cap'um,” Bosun Porter intruded, doffing his hat to him. “But th' hands from th' prize crews you recalled is come aboard.”

“Aye, Mister Porter,” Lewrie all but snarled. “Do you and Cony tend to alloting them work. With Mister Knolles, and his damn'
list!
”

“Aye aye, sir.” Porter nodded, almost scraping his feet as he backed away from his captain's foul mood.

Damme, so much for being a lucky ship, Lewrie mourned in silence. Everything going so bloody good, so far, the crew shaken down and main-well content.
Proud
of her; and now this! Should have been a day to celebrate, taking three prizes, and sharing in another two, then . . .

He hoped they weren't as dispirited as
he
felt, right then. He heaved another bitter sigh, and started forward to judge their jury-rig repairs on the foremast.

“Sir!” Spendlove cried, as he came back inboard on the larboard gangway. “Sir?”

Another
damned interruption! “
What,
Mister Spendlove?”

“Sorry, sir, but . . . this fellow . . . master of that dhow-thing-gummy?” Spendlove said, gesturing to a civilian he'd fetched along with him in a borrowed longboat. “Spot of bother, sir. Says he's Genoese, and he has papers and manifests you must see, sir. At least, that's what I've gathered so far, sir. Speaks damn-all French or English, a word or two, and I've no Italian, so . . .”

“Mister Spendlove, this is hardly the time.” Lewrie glowered at him. “He was caught for fair, sailing in-convoy with French ships, and with French escort. Admiralty Prize Court's the place for him.”

“Well, sir, he
claims
neutrality, and all . . .” Spendlove allowed, one more member of the crew suddenly wary of his captain's wrath.

“If I may, sir?” Mister Mountjoy offered, of a sudden, popping up like a jack-in-the-box from their offhand side. Whether Lewrie knew it or not, Mountjoy had been dogging his footsteps, making hasty notes and juggling (fumbling, more like!) a sheaf of record documents, such as the forms for “Backstays Shifted During the Course of the Commission.” And pestering one and all with questions to inscribe upon those forms—as if that made everything tidy!

“
What,
Mister Mountjoy?” Lewrie demanded impatiently of him, as well.

“Mister Spendlove's concerns, sir,” his clerk said with an apologetic purr. “Why I was so pleased to take the position under you, Captain . . . to the Mediterranean, and all?”

“Bloody . . .” Lewrie huffed, ready to explode at the nearest target to hand, the very next pestiferous . . . !

“I've a good ear for languages, sir,” Mountjoy hastened to explain, backing up a few half steps. “The Romance tongues were my particular forté. A hobby, at school—languages? French, Italian, Portuguese, Spanish . . . ? Should I converse with this merchant captain for you, sir? That's what I meant. Begging your pardon, sir.”

“Ah.” Lewrie sighed, deflating once more, and unable to fume at such a whey-faced tom-noddy, with such a sheepish expression. He had already delivered one prime rant, over the opened orders, weeks before, and Mountjoy had been as shy and missish about him as a dormouse in a roomful of ram-cats, ever since. “Aye, deal with him, Mister Mountjoy . . . practice your skills. Make him no promises, mind. Think of it as an exercise before the bench, perhaps. And him a debtor.”

“I will, sir.”

With that, Lewrie went forrud, with Knolles and Cony, Mister 
Rees the carpenter and his crew, to complete what at-sea repairs they might. By dusk, they could be anchored in San Fiorenzo Bay, begging supplies from HMS
Inflexible
for permanent repairs.

“Looks a whole lot worse'n h'it really is, sir,” Cony told him confidentially, after they'd descended the newly rove larboard fore-mast stays from the fighting top. “Larboard cathead's shivered, we'll need a new'un. Frame'r two busted, carline posts broke . . . and scantlin's on the larboard side stove in, o' course, but that'd be 'bove th' gunnels, Mister Lewrie, sir, an' nothin' permanent like, 'less'n there's no oak plankin' 'r baulks t'be had.”

“Well, it feels damn' bad, Cony,” Lewrie confessed to him.

“Aye, sir, that h'it does,” his longtime confidant agreed with a sad shrug, “but we give a whole lot worse'n we got. Them Frogs woz bein' blown high'z their own main-yard, last I seen of 'em. Heads an' arms, an' all. One second they woz thicker'n fleas on th' bulwarks . . . th' next, 'twoz clean'z a tavern counter at op'nin' time. Weren't all that much fun, I'll lay ya, sir—t'be on th'
receivin'
end o' carronades f'r th' first time, but we beat 'em, sir. Beat 'em bad.”

“And the lads . . . ?” Lewrie asked, chary of Cony's optimism.

“Lord, sir!” Cony grinned. “They got eyes, too, Mister Lewrie. An sense 'nough t'know that we got off easy, compared t'th' Monsoors. And, uhm, sir . . . well. Five prizes, alt'gither, took afore Noon Sights, sir. And th' share-out'll be better f'r them wot lived, sir. Take yerself a gander, sir. Give an ear to 'em. This ain't no beat crew, not by a long shot, Mister Lewrie. They're a
lucky
crew, they thinks. With a lucky captain.
Jester
got blessed, back in th' Bay o' Biscay. Seal, 'e spoke t'ya, Mister Lewrie, after 'e come f'r little Josephs. We're still a
lucky
ship.”

“Dear Lord, they believe . . . ?” Lewrie sighed. He'd say no more about it. If Cony was right, and as a damned good seaman and boatswain he usually was—as a decent and caring person who usually knew more, and had more sense than his superiors—then he still had a crew who would be willing to dare. A crew who'd be willing to toe-up and fight once more, in future. At that moment, he didn't care
what
the “people” believed was responsible; if they wished to 
sing praises to Mahomet or Pitt the Elder, he couldn't have cared less. And, if they wished to hold to the belief that a pagan sea god had come to them and blessed
Jester
as one of his chosen, blessed “Ram-Cat” Lewrie as a captain they should follow, then so be it! Lucky ships were made of even
more
insubstantial moon wash than that. And lucky ships triumphed, in spite of all!

“Signal from
Ariadne,
sir!”

“Uhm. What now, then?” Lewrie asked, feeling relieved of his foul, guilty mood, though still burdened by the deaths and injuries of those who had taken their King's shillings, and blindly allowed him to lead them to such a slaughter.

“Do You Require Assistance? Then . . . Submit . . . Remain on Station.” The signalman striker read off slowly, bawling his translation from far aft. “His Number . . . Escort Prizes . . . Into Harbor, sir!”

“Be damned if he will,” Lewrie snarled. “Make . . . Negative, to his question of assistance. Then . . .
Our
Number . . . Escort Prizes into Harbor! And add . . . ‘Require Repairs.' The greedy bastard!”

Lewrie went aft, while the signal pennants soared aloft, sour again as he contemplated what a report
Ariadne
's
captain might write. She'd taken the pair of poleacres without a scratch, and had run down to
Jester
long after the French warship had sailed out of gun range. She'd made a halfhearted attempt at pursuit, but had broken it off after half an hour, and beat back to
Jester
and her huddled prizes.

Report, Lewrie thought. I'd best be writing something myself, and get Hood's ear first. Why, there's no telling what
Ariadne
could claim he did to recover the first three prizes—and share in the lot!

“Mister Knolles, Mister Buchanon, let us get a way on her,” Alan decided. “Best course to San Fiorenzo. Make sail, conformable to the weather.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Knolles agreed.

“Ah, Captain, sir?” Mountjoy harrumphed shyly, once Lewrie was back on the quarterdeck.

“Aye, Mister Mountjoy. Our Genoese?”

“Yes, sir. A most specious case, sir,” Mountjoy said fussily. “His papers, uhm . . . what any court might construe as highly . . . colorable? Then, there is Mister Spendlove's hasty inventory, as to what she carried, as opposed to what is listed in her manifest, do you see . . . water, wine, flour, and biscuit, uhm . . . rice, dry pasta . . . outwardly it might
seem
innocent. But there is the matter of powder, flints . . . boots, premade cartouches and pouches . . . all bound in cases bearing French markings. Most conveniently
not
listed as cargo, sir,” his clerk concluded, preening a bit, now that his legal, and linguistic skills had been of some use at last.