A King's Commander (19 page)

“So his ship and his cargo are certain to be condemned in Prize Court, aye,” Lewrie surmised. “Well fine, then, Mister Mountjoy. A fair morning's work, sir.”

“There is uhm . . . well, sir?” Mountjoy rejoined. “As I stated, I was a scholar of languages. Our recent foe, sir, was called
Fléche,
Signore Capitano
Guardino rather grumpily informed me.”

That worthy, at the mention of his name, drew himself up to his full height, which wasn't much worth mentioning, and tucked his voluminous coat over his greasy, straining waistcoat.

“A most interesting regional dialect, sir, the Genoese,” Thomas Mountjoy happily digressed. “So quite unlike that Neapolitan Italian that I first heard . . .”

“Anything
else,
Mister Mountjoy?” Lewrie pressed, sensing that there was. And unwilling to waste half the rest of the day letting his clerk maunder and prose.

“Uhm, that her captain . . .
Fléche
's captain, that is . . . was named Michaud. Signore Guardino refers to him in rather a hostile manner, so I intuit, sir. A perfect Tartar, altogether. The
signore capitano
did express the wish that you blew him back to Hades, where he came from, I believe were his exact words, sir? Or at least made him as hideous as his superior, who is, in the
capitano
's mind, Satan himself, had he to choose betwixt the two. A cheese-parer, a miser, he called him,
and
a fiend, sir . . . this Brutto Faccia. Or, Le Hideux. He derogates him in Genoese,
and
French, with equal ease, sir.”

“Both of which
mean,
sir . . . ?”

“In Italian, sir . . . that is to say, ‘Ugly Face.' ‘The Hideous,' is the French vernacular. Signore
Guardino's ship was lying at Toulon, sir, and was, he protested,
dragooned
into French service. Such excuse for his participation, he believes most strongly . . .”

“Won't do him a damned bit of good,” Lewrie said, smirking.

“Well, sir. ‘Le Hideux' is some new senior officer, just come down from Paris, so Signore
Guardino related to me, sir . . . to command their convoys, and arrange escorts,” Mountjoy related with a confidential air. “And to, uhm . . .
inspire
loyalty and enthusiasm in those officers and men under him. Brought his own guillotine, so 'tis said, sir,” Mountjoy concluded with a shivery, theatrical shrug,

“Then, Mister Mountjoy, do let us wish that Captain Michaud, have we not
already
knackered his arse,” Lewrie said with a grin over hearing the first bit of news that could possibly be considered cheery, “his loss of this convoy will encourage his ‘Hideous' superior to harvest his head! Very well, Mister Mountjoy. Well done.”

“Er . . . thank you, sir,” Mountjoy replied, nearly stunned to be complimented.

“Do you see Mister Knolles. He'll have work for you. And when he's done, there's a fair copy of my report to be produced for Admiral Hood.”

“Oh,” Mountjoy said, dashed at the prospect of another slew of correspondence. “Very well, sir.”

Damme, I just
hope
the bastard gets the guillotine, Lewrie sighed to himself; this Michaud was just too clever by half! We'll have a much safer, and quieter, time of it, with him toasting on Satan's coals!

Commander Alan Lewrie, RN
,
surveyed his ship, peering forward at the truncated main and foremasts, the untidy, unbalanced jury-rigged display of low-angled forestays that bore spare canvas jibs, of masts spreading nothing cross-yarded above the tops'ls. The sail-maker, Mister Paschal, and his crew had taken half the foredeck for their work area, and were busily stitching and patching. No,
Jester
wouldn't
dash
into harbor in triumph; she'd
limp,
no faster than the odd clutch of prize vessels she would escort! It would be near the end of the Day Watch, the beginning of the First Dog, before she dropped anchor.

Time, and enough, to go below and visit the wounded first. See that fellow who was sure to pass over before then, if Howse was correct in his assessment . . . and think of something to say to him.

The report could be done later, after all. Delivered verbatim, in Hood's presence, really, with a written account to follow. Perhaps a rough draft in hand, should he
dictate
it to Mountjoy . . . ?

And in the waist, along the ravaged larboard gangway, Marines in slop clothing, and sailors, toiled. Sluicing and holystoning away the bloodstains. Hammering and driving what spare lumber they carried in carpenter's and bosun's stores, to the music of the fiddler and fifer. Not the dirge he expected—they labored to the easy-paced lilts of “The Derry Hornpipe.” Soft-joshing each other, faint smiles and some bleak chuckling, now and again. A subdued and fairly somber crew, aye, he thought; but not a broken one.

HMS
Jester
was still a useful instrument of war.

A
nd,”
Lewrie dictated to Mountjoy, who was scribbling away as fast as he could to get a rough draft, “at
no
time were the three previous captured prize vessels
ever
actively threatened with recapture . . . as HMS
Ariadne
's
captain suggests in his report. Therefore, sirs, his claims upon them are . . . damme, Mountjoy, what's a good
legal
word for horse turds?”

“I should think ‘nugatory' would suit, sir,” Mountjoy allowed with a brief grin. “Of little or no consequence.”

“Right, then,” Lewrie exulted, mopping his sweaty brow with a handkerchief, almost stifling in the great-cabin's enclosed warmth . . . and “exercised” with sullen ill-humor, to boot. “Therefore
Ariadne
's
claim of shares in the aforesaid three vessels, taken solely by
Jester
long before her arrival . . . on the horizon, mind! . . . are nugatory, and totally without merit.”

“Same thing, really, Captain,” Mountjoy said dubiously.

“Wrap it in ribbons, plate it in gilt and shit . . . you read the law, you know the catch phrases.” Lewrie snorted impatiently. “Hold him to the coals, and paint him the greedy fool. Trot out your really big guns and hull him, Mr. Mountjoy. The Prize Court's bought every one of them, and their cargoes, and the settlement's been adjudged at nearly £30,000. And the lion's share should be ours.
Ariadne
didn't even get a scratch. Aye, add this . . . or something like it—couch it however you will—
Jester
fought the French national ship, and by her valiant duty reaped the higher
honors,
the greater glory, so . . .”

“To the victor belong the spoils, sir? Something like that?” “Capital!” Lewrie rejoiced. “I'll leave the rest to you, you know the form by now for closure in Navalese. Have it, and a copy, in hand for my signature by tomorrow morning . . . just into the forenoon.”

“Yes, sir,” Mountjoy assured him. “I meant to say, ‘aye aye, sir.' Sorry.”

“Very well, Mister Mountjoy, that should be all. Aspinall?”

“Aye, sir?”

“I'll have that fresh shirt and stock now, for shore.”

“Insufferable damn' pinchpenny,” Lewrie still fumed, even as he made his way uphill to his town house, sweating that fresh shirt and stock, his waistcoat and breeches, to a pearl-gray rather than white. San Fiorenzo Bay had turned into a roasting pan, the last month or so. Aboard ship, one might snatch a cooling draught of air under awnings, or down a ventilator chute made from a topmast stays'l, but ashore . . . ! The town had grown in size, had spread out along the strand and up over the scraggly hills on either hand, in the blink of an eye. But, a tent city, mostly—for the sick and wounded from the siege of Calvi. More sick than wounded, though. Illness that accompanied a land force slew even more than shot or shell.

That tumbledown
osteria
at the waterfront, that sprawling, and sleepy little tavern, had become a fresh-painted wonder; had added some patios, tables, and benches, almost doubling in size. The owners bowed to him as he passed, saluting him in the local dialect, as if he were their feudal liege.
Osteria Paoli,
their large new signboard boasted, replete with a crude portrait of the Corsican patriot leader. British officers (officers
only,
Lewrie noted!) were its principal patrons who almost filled every seat and table. Them, and their doxies.

“'Least someone's profiting.” Lewrie scowled, begrudging. Soon as the Prize Court had released their judgment, the month before, he'd fought a running battle to keep what he'd captured. Off at sea again, taking another pair of prizes in the meantime—large pole-acres, this time. Burning or scuttling at least half-a-dozen more for which he'd been unable to supply prize crews . . . those new captures were all his. But every return to San Fiorenzo had brought new obfuscations about the convoy! And the share-out of prize money. Admiral Hood and his flag captain, his small staff, had already been awarded their eighth, while both
Jester
and
Ariadne
were still waiting for their portions. And Lewrie's two-eighths represented nearly £4,500! He suspected the agents and commissioners of the Prize Court were having an enjoyable time, just living off the interest, and their “take” for performing their duties—and those badly. “Probably spinning this out, damn' near till next Epiphany, so they can play with the . . .
hullo?
”
He had groused under his breath, suddenly stopped short at the corner, having seen his and Phoebe's town house. “What the
Devil . . . ?
”

There were
two
fashionable carriages, coach-and-fours, along the curbing, equipages that gleamed in the sun. Teams of decent-looking horses flicked their tails and manes against the ubiquitous flies, and liveried coaches and postilion boys did their duties as their masters prepared to depart. Richly clad civilians, done up in gowns or suits that wouldn't have looked out of place on The Strand, back in London!

And another brace of dray wagons along the side street, laden with heaped picture frames, paintings, chairs, and tables. Had Phoebe moved again, taken cheaper lodgings, been forced to . . . ? No, they'd paid the year in advance. Or had she
left
him? he shivered.

He crossed the street, ready to lash out at somebody . . . anybody! But was greeted most jovially, in French or Italian; most of which he couldn't follow, but did get some gist from, something to do with being affiliated with “la contessa,” or “vicomtesse.” Which association perplexed him even further! Just who the blazes lived here now?

“Phoebe?” he bawled, once past those posturing clowns, and into the cooler air of the courtyard.

Which had turned into a furniture gallery, it seemed. Couches, wine tables, armoires and cabinets, gilded chairs were everywhere, two-a-penny.

“Ah, Alain,
mon amour!
”
a familiar voice called down from the upper floor, and Phoebe appeared in the iron-guarded bedchamber window of the guest room above. “I be down wiz you, immediate,
mon chou!
”

She was wearing a new sack gown, something suitable for presentation at Court, though her hair was down, informal and unpowdered, as she tripped across the flagstones to embrace him.

“What the bloody hell
is
all this, I ask you?” he tried to say sternly, just before she threw her arms around his neck and lifted her feet off the ground. “Phoebe, I'm serious, girl. Don't . . . answer me.”

“Oh, Alain, eez merchandise,” she replied, waving one hand, to “pooh-pooh” its presence. “I tell you, remember? Ze
émigrés royaliste?
Zey are sell zer s'ings,
bon marché.
I buy from z'em, an' when people come to San Fiorenzo, zen zey buy from
moi! Non ze bon marché!
'Ow do you say, ze uhm . . . profeet,
oui?
”

“You've gone into
trade?
”
he huffed, scandalized.

“Non, Alain.” She smiled, proud of being so clever. “Non
trade.
I deman' ze cash, on'y, now.”

“Phoebe, I thought . . .” he babbled; not knowing
what
he thought!

“
D'avant,
uuhm . . .” she explained, threading an arm through his to lead him inside, skipping girlishly, “. . . in beginning,
oui,
I trade. Zose wiz'ou' furniture, zey 'ave jewelry, an' mus' 'ave beds. Or 'ave gold an' silver plate,
si belle!
But, 'ave no
monnaie
for food, so . . . ze
osteria,
zose nice people, an' Signore
Bucco 'oo rent to us? Some ozzers, we mak' ze arrangement. Food an' lodgings for trade jewelry, or furnishings. Ooh, Alain, close you' eyes,
plais!
I s'prise you!”

“You've already done that, Phoebe,” he declared, though obeying her whim and shutting his eyes, allowing himself to be led inside as her “blindman's buff.”

“
Voilà,
Alain!” she cried, giggling a-tiptoe.
“Regardez!”
“Bloody . . .” He could but weakly gasp at the transformation. The parlor now held cream-painted, gilded couches and chairs, upholstered in shimmery white moire silk, with gold-flecked filigrees. Deep, rich tables and chests—cherry, mahogany, or rose-wood, marble-topped or delicately inlaid with precious ivory. Coin-silver candelabras, tea-things, vases, and trays . . . the kaleidoscopic prism speckling of late-afternoon sunlight glinted off fine crystal gewgaws, or from the magnificent gilt-and-crystal chandeliers! The sooty fireplace had been redone with new marble inlays, dressed in carved stone that was very Romanesque. There were cloisonné, silver, gilt, or Chinese vases, cherubs, candlesticks on the mantel, below a gigantic gold-vein mirror hung above it. Paintings in baroque gilt frames, portraits, landscapes . . . Painted, scoured, papered in some places, elegantly draperied . . . ! The parlor was now a showplace, and not anywhere
near
the gaudy he'd expected from someone of Phoebe's provincial, and untrained, background. Their plebeian lodgings had become a miniature
palazzo,
as genteelly elegant as any fine mansion in the whole of England!

“Sit,
mon chou. '
Ere. A cool glass,
n'est-ce pas?
”

He
had
to sit; he was too dumbfounded to stand. He fell into a deep, wide, massy armchair done in burgundy chintz over priceless rosewood, so elegantly carved, his senses reeling as she dashed off to fetch him a glass of something.

Joliette appeared, prancing into the parlor with her tail erect. She hopped up on the matching hassock and hunkered down warily, barely out of reach but looking as if she
might
like a petting. Around her slim little ruffed neck, there was a brown velvet riband, from which hung a tiny amber cameo, set in real gold! A cameo of a cat, of course.

There came the promising
thwock!
of a cork being pulled, somewhere off to his right in the kitchen. And a moment later, Phoebe reappeared bearing two exquisitely cut crystal flutes of champagne, followed by a slim, dark-haired maid he'd never clapped eyes on before, who carried a most impressive silver wine tray, and a chilling bucket that held the bottle, a wine bucket as big as a coehorn mortar barrel, heavily ornamented with cherubs, pans, and grapes. Solid silver? he goggled. It had to weigh three or four bloody
pounds!

“Cool, too,” he muttered, after the maid had poured them both a glass, and departed without a word.

“I kep' ze bes', you see?” she informed him, waving a slim hand over her new fineries. “You like ze champagne, Alain?
Bon.
Ve 'ave ze dozen-dozen bottles, now. A
ver'
good year.”

“Just how did you ever . . .” he began to marvel.

“I tol' you, Alain,” she chided with a pleased little laugh, as she came to sit on the wideish arm of his chair and play her fingers in his hair. “Signore Bucco, 'e is 'ave
beaucoup
'ouses for to rent,
mais,
ze
émigrés,
zey cannot afford,
n'est-ce pas? I
am shopping, for pretty new s'ings, 'e come to tak' ze old shabbies, as we agree. An', 'e ees afraid-ed zat what we tell 'eem ees
vrai . . .
true . . . zat you' Army will tak' 'ouses non rented. Zen, when I am market, I fin' so many
émigrés
impoverish . . . 'ave s'ings of grande value, but no
monnaies,
for to eat? So I mak' ze arrangement wiz ze Monteverdes at ze
osteria,
'oo know ze farmers, ze shopkeepers,
aussi, et voilà
. . . ze entreprise we begin. 'E 'ave
monnaies,
I 'ave
une peu.
Pardon, but I see you' agent, 'e advance me
all
ze fif'y pound you leave for me at firs'. Be non to worry,
mon amour,
I pay eet all back, wi'sin ze mont', from my profeet,” she said with another pleased chuckle, and a toying with his hair.

“You parleyed fifty pounds into all
this?
”
“Oui,”
she admitted, with a proud cock of her head.

“Bloody hell, you should be in London, at the 'Change!” He gaped. “You'd make a fortune, overnight. And show them how.”

“
Merci,
Alain, you are please-ed?
Bon.
”
Phoebe smiled, rewarding him with a fond kiss. “Now, non more trade. You' Navy, you' Army, so many at San Fiorenzo, 'oo deman' 'ouses, rooms, food an' wine. An' ze refreshment, from ze siege? Ze grande
émigrés,
zey mus' 'ave servants, pay rent, buy food an' wine. An', where are soldiers an' sailors and ze rich, zere come
domestiques,
chefs, ze restaurants an' cafés . . . ooh la, San Fiorenzo ees awaken! Tailors an' dressmakers, zey are mak' money so quick! So, even more people come, from Bastia, Ajaccio . . . all need what we 'ave,
comprende?
Ze people 'oo are jus' depart, zey open ze
maison public . . .
ze 'ore-'ouse, wiz so many beautiful
jeune filles. Maison public mus'
be elegant, 'ave furnishings grande, an' I on'y am 'ave, no one else, so zey buy from
moi.
”