"Shut your mouth, Mister Rydell! Stop that noise!" he rasped. "Go below, if you wish to unman yourself. Lob-lolly boys? Get that… that, off the quarterdeck, at once!"
And turn his back, to deal with Duty.
"Oh, dear Jesus," LeGoff whispered as he came up from the cockpit on the orlop, the place of surgery during quarters. "Poor little chub!"
"Deal with it, Mister LeGoff," Knolles ordered coolly, after he was over his own funk. "Anyone else injured below, or aft?"
"No one, Mister Knolles, praise God," Lewrie heard LeGoff say to the first officer. "Here, you men. Scrap o' canvas. The carrying board. Take him below to the cockpit, and ready him for burial."
"Mister Buchanon," Lewrie inquired, his face a stony mask. "I believe we have enough sea room to return to larboard tack?"
"Aye, sir," the sailing master muttered, as shaken as anyone.
"Very well, then. Mister Knolles? Stations for Stays. Come about. New course, west-by-south, till we're well up to windward of our line-of-battle ships. Then we'll ease her due west, to parallel."
"Aye aye, sir," Knolles replied, happy to have something constructive to do. "Mister Porter? Stations for Stays!"
"Onliest one, sir," Buchanon continued, with a whimsical air.
"Hmm?" Lewrie grunted, still in pain, but curious about that tone in Buchanon's voice.
"Josephs, Cap'um. Onliest one e'en scratched!" Buchanon said more soberly, almost in a rueful awe. "We got our comeuppance from th' oP mad buggers. An' 'ey took 'eir due from us. Th' gods o' th' sea, Cap'um. Th' ol' pagan gods o' winds an' seas, 'ey took 'im."
"Surely, Mister Buchanon, in this modern age…" Lewrie began to scoff, a little angered by such a heretical suggestion. Or, maybe a little angered at what he did not yet know. At himself, perhaps, for having the boy "started." For making his last days fearful.
"Me da', he was Welsh, Cap'um," Buchanon related. " 'Twas oft he toi' me 'bout 'em. Him an' th' granthers, all, sir, on th' stormy nights, with th' rain an' winds a'howlin' 'gainst th' shutters, 'r th' public house. Onliest folk still take note o' 'em'z sailormen, sir. Priests an' Church, ey drove 'em out, into th' wide, trackless seas. But 'at don't mean 'ey passed away, Cap'um. Oh no, not at all!"
"Ready about, Captain," Knolles intruded.
"Very well, Mister Knolles. Put the ship about," Lewrie said in response, mesmerized, and only half paying attention to his first.
"Helm's alee Rise, foretack and sheets!"
"One 'ey named th' most, sir, 'at'd be Lir," Buchanon went on, paying only half attention himself, as Jester began to come about to the eye of the wind. "Don't know much 'bout th' ones crost th' seas, in th' heathen latitudes. Ones I read about in school, sir, 'em ol' Roman an' Greek sea gods, 'ey sounded like gennlemen ya could deal with, so long'z ya didn' cross 'em 'r 'eir boss Zeus. Sportin' sort o' gennlemen, who didn' mean much by it. But Lir, now, Cap'um. OP Irish an' Welsh sea god, one th' Scots dread, too, sir? Oh, he's a right bastard, sometimes. Jealous an' vengeful. Hard-hearted sort. A blood-drinker, some say. Nacky'un, too, Cap'um… smart'z paint. Th' sort who'll bide his time, 'til a body'd gone an' forgot what he done 'gainst 'im. But, he always takes his pound o' flesh, in th' end. He always gets his due, when ya least expect, an' hurts most."
And a hellish gobble more'n a pound of flesh, he took, Lewrie thought, trying to stifle an involuntary shiver of awe, himself, as he recalled the sight of that pitiful remaining husk. He turned his attention to his ship, away from this spectral higgledy-piggledy that Buchanon spoke of, this ancient superstitious folderol that he sounded as if he really believed!. Buchanon, a man who'd dragged himself out of the fisheries, gone to sea in the fleet, come up on science, for God's sake! Astronomy, mathematics, the art of navigation, study of weather, charts… the sailing of a ship, which was man's greatest, most complex engine!
"Now, mains'l haul!" Knolles was crying, as Jester finished most of her tack, passing the eye of the wind, as braces dragged the sails aloft to the starboard side where they began to fill and draw.
"Um, this Lir…" Lewrie asked of Buchanon in a conspiratorial voice, eerily fascinated in spite of himself. "Sea god of the British Isles, in other words."
"Maybe all of 'em have 'eir own domain, Cap'um," Buchanon said softly. "Poseidon around th' Greek Isles an' Aegean… oP Neptune, he has th' rest o' th' Mediterranean. Wherever Roman sailors went, sir? Lir, now… I'd expect he's got th' Channel, North Sea, all 'round th' British Isles, an' far down inta Biscay. Celts were 'ere, too, long ago. Down south o' Cape Finisterre we'll leave him, Cap'um. Now he has his revenge."
Lewrie shivered for real, in spite of his best intentions, as a cool zephyr of clearer air not shot to stillness crossed the deck. Almost an icy-cool zephyr, that raised his hackles and his nape-hairs as it passed. The sort of eldritch feeling Caroline sometimes called "having a rabbit run 'cross your grave," that unbidden spook-terror of the unknown, that harbinger of dire tidings.
"That far," Lewrie said, after clearing his throat.
"We should be fine, though, sir. His price'z paid, now. Lir's took th' mocker. Long'z 'ere isn't another, we can go in peace."
"Ahum," Lewrie commented, sealing his lips in a thin and wary line. "Ahum."
CHAPTER
6
"Toss yah oars," Andrews ordered as his captain's gaily painted gig came alongside Queen Charlotte, a venerable old three-decker; and the flagship of Admiral Earl Howe, better known as "Black Dick."
"Hook onta th' chains… boat yah oars!" Andrews snapped.
It was a hellish-long climb, up past an ornate lower gun-deck entry port as solid as an Inigo Jones house-front, to an upper gun-deck entry port, thence to the uppermost, on the gangways, Larboard side, though, Lewrie griped to himself; not the side of honor where subordinate commanders were usually received. Jester's position up to windward saw to that. And the proper side was probably shot half through, after a full morning of battle, he decided.
"Welcome aboard, sir," a lieutenant greeted him, with a minimum of fuss. "And you are, sir…?"
"Alan Lewrie, of the Jester sloop," he replied. Short as the time had been between attaining safety behind that wooden wall of warships, and receiving a flag hoist for 'Captain Repair on Board,' with his number, he'd had a quick shave, and thrown on his dress coat and hat. Admiral Howe was a stickler for details. And he hadn't earned that sobriquet, "Black Dick," simply because he didn't often crack a smile, either! "Come aboard, as ordered, sir."
Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered, this once, since the strange lieutenant's white-lapeled coat, waistcoat, and breeches were stained gray with powder, and Queen Charlotte looked as if she'd been rather badly knocked about.
"Allow me to name myself, sir… Lieutenant Edward Codrington.
Welcome aboard, sir. If you'd come this way?" the young man said as he gestured aft toward the poop. Lewrie followed him along the larboard gangway to the quarterdeck. A rather tall and slim, and rather handsome post-captain looked up as they passed. He wore a short tie-wig, no hat, and was holding a white cloth against his head. Looking rather befuddled and forlorn, too, Lewrie noted, hoping his battle had gone well for him, and that he wasn't looking so sunk in the "Blue-Devils," sitting on an arms chest like a felon, for good reason.
"You are feeling better, I trust, Captain?" Codrington took the time to inquire.
"Some better, aye, thankee, Mister Codrington," the man said, though looking as pale as a cross-eyed corpse. "And you, sir?"
Codrington did the introductions, naming him to Capt. Sir Edward Snape Douglas, Queen Charlotte's commanding officer. Then, they were off for the great-cabins under the poop deck, the admiral's quarters. That grand space was being put back in order again, guns bowsed taut against the bulwarks, furniture and partitions being restored by a procession of seamen. "Took something on the noggin, d'ye see."
"Ahem…" Codrington said, clearing his throat. "Sir, I have the captain of that sloop of war for you."
"Ah, good, good," a heavier-s
et post-captain said, leaving the desk where he'd been rummaging through a stack of hastily ordered papers. "Lewrie, hey?" He sniffed, after the introductions were once more done. "Can't say as I've heard of you, sir. Well… no matter."
Sir Roger Curtis was Admiral Howe's captain of the fleet, suave and slightly flesh-faced. Lewrie took an instant dislike to him, if for no other than that very reason.
"And what fetched you to our little dance this morning, sir?" Curtis asked. "Some dispatches from London for us, hey?"
"Dispatches for the Mediterranean, sir," Lewrie began to tell him, but was interrupted by Admiral Howe's arrival from farther aft, beyond some re-erected wood partitions.
Good Christ, Lewrie gasped, though in silence! "Black Dick"-with a smile on his phyz? That's a new world's seventh wonder!
"Milord, Commander Lewrie here, off Jester-that ship sloop that popped up like a jack-in-the-box-on passage for the Mediterranean already, to Lord Hood, I s'pose. The perfect thing."
"Damme, do I know you, sir?" Howe inquired with a puzzled look.
"Lewrie, sir. You interviewed me, early spring of eighty-six, before giving me Alacrity in the Bahamas, milord."
"Oh, my yes. That piratical business in the Far East." Howe sighed, squinching his mouth as if his dentures pained him. "Telesto, I seem to recall? Come to see the show, did ye, Commander Lewrie? A chair arrived yet? Damme…" Howe frowned, turning away before he could hear Alan's answer. Like a good sycophant, Sir Roger Curtis had a seat whistled up for the old fellow before one could say "knife!"
"Not quite my doing, milord," Lewrie smarmed, with his hat under his arm, once Howe had his chair. The battle seemed to have aged the old fellow dev'lish-hard. And he was sixty-nine, to begin with!
He quickly related his leaving Portsmouth five days earlier-the pursuit by French frigates, and his escape. Hoping the smoke had been too thick for anyone aboard Queen Charlotte to have seen him open fire upon the foe, still under false colors. Sadly, he'd assumed he was going to be chastised for it. Why else have him come aboard, when the decks were still reddened with casualties' blood, and the stench of gun smoke still lingered?
"Damme, Commander Lewrie," Howe almost wheezed with delight at the end of his narration. "A hellish well-managed affair. Wasn't to know, d'ye see… your gaining a command. But, from what I recall of our last recontre, you always were the plucky'un. Now, sir. During your passage, did you see any sign of Admiral Montagu? Gave him eight liners to escort a 'trade,' far as Finisterre. And he should have rejoined me, long since."
"Sorry, milord, but we neither spoke nor saw any English ships of war since sailing," Lewrie had to tell him. "Had a bad slant, the second day, sir." He dared to continue to, to "prose on" to a senior officer who hadn't asked yet. "Almost into Torbay, and nary a sign of him did I see, sir."
"Well, we did manage quite well, without Admiral Montagu, sir," Curtis said, sounding very smarmy himself. Boot-lickin' toady-ish, to Lewrie's lights. As a fellow who'd always known how to toady to those above him, Lewrie could appreciate a good performance. And did.
"Forgive me for being remiss about doing so, milord, but…" Alan could not resist interrupting, "allow me to extend to you congratulations 'pon your splendid victory this morning."
"Damme, Lewrie, we laid into 'em, aye!" Howe barked with a tiny yelp of rare amusement. "Twenty-five of us. Lost the use of Audacious early on, the first day-and Montagu already off with eight. Almost equal in strength to my opposite number, Admiral Villaret-Joyeuse, I'm told he's called. Four days of sparring with him, daring him to fight toe-to-toe. Him hanging up to windward of me, down south? Nettling him? Cost him the use of four ships or better, he had to send back to Brest undertow. Knocked three about… was that yesterday, Curtis?"
"Two days ago, milord," Curtis supplied, all but wringing his hands in concern for his chief's health. Howe looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, and his face-flesh so worn down it appeared to hang in tatters. "Cut off his rear, two days ago, sir, that's when we isolated those three, and shot them to rags."
"Aye, yes." Howe nodded; almost nodding offl With a jerk, he was upright again, once again enthused. "Forced him to wear about, sir! Took the weather gauge from him, then. And borrowed a page out of Rodney's book, at the Saintes. He lies to my lee, he'd imagine I must come down upon him, while he shoots high, damaging rigging, as the French are wont to do. I become too threatening, sir, he always has the lee advantage of hauling his wind and retiring in good order. But, sir! But, Commander Lewrie, our Villaret-Joyeuse was not ready for us to close with him direct, bows-on to him, then lask up alongside and lock yardarms. Signal I flew, sir… 'Closer Action'…"
"Though not all followed your instructions, milord…" Curtis said with a sad, begrudging moue. And Lewrie suddenly felt sorry for whichever captain hadn't gotten in pistol-shot range!
"Seven, Commander Lewrie!" Howe exulted, getting to his feet to cramp about wearily. Perhaps his shoes pinched him sore, Lewrie wondered. "Six taken as prize… one a total loss. Four more, and one of those a three-decker, mind! Four more battered so badly they might spend the next year, entire, in graving docks. Oh, aye, 'twas a splendid day, indeed, sir! Perhaps my last service to the King…"
"Oh, sir, surely not, why…" Curtis toadied some more.
"Damme, Curtis, I'm ancient," Howe countered petulantly. "I should be ashore, and allow some younger, fitter man a sea command. So, you are off to Admiral Hood, are you, Lewrie?"
"Aye, milord. Gibraltar first, then Corsica."
"Then we shan't keep you but the one hour more. Sir Roger will have dispatches for you, to carry on for me."
"I would be most honored, milord," Lewrie replied firmly, all but laying his hat over his heart and making a "leg" to the old man.
"Your clerk has a fair hand, sir?" Curtis inquired.
"Aye, sir."
"Then I shall deliver to you a single copy, and your clerk… and anyone else with a fair hand, may reproduce it while you're on-passage," Curtis decided. "It is vital. It is urgent… goes without sayin'…" Smirky little smile and a chuckle. "But hardly a national secret. Not after a ship gets word to London."
"One more thing, Commander Lewrie," Howe interjected, coming back to the desk after a fruitless search for something to drink, A wineglass was in his hand, from his re-erected pantry, though there was no sign as yet of his wine cabinet. "Sir Roger, an order for Admiral Montagu, directing him to place his squadron off Brest, denying the French re-entry. Explain to him that my ships…"
"Your most able ships, at least, sir…" Sir Roger suggested as he whistled for the flag lieutenant, who should be doing the scribbling for his betters. "And captains," he muttered sotto voce.
"Uhmph," Howe grunted, with a sour, dyspeptic expression, one more time reminding Lewrie of just how much "Black Dick" really did resemble the Rebel, George Washington, with an attack of gas! "… that until the fleet is fully found again, he must keep them from reaching the French coast. And that I will bring the main body along, as soon as we're able. Should he have taken prizes from the grain convoy… made contact with it at all… he is to send them into English ports under prize crews, without escort. Further, it is my appreciation the French, having suffered severe damage aboard those ships that retired our recent action, will be shaping course for Brest or L'orient, and quite possibly will be unable to make any reasonable or spirited resistance to any action he should undertake. Do you have that, Roger?"
"I do, milord. In essence," Sir Roger Curtis replied, making a few hasty scribbles of his own, and seeming to resent it.
"Lewrie, I cannot delay you 'making the best of your way' with dispatches, but… should you sight Admiral Montagu's squadron, you are to break your passage and speak him… deliver my orders to him."
"I will, milord. But… what if I should sight their grain convoy?" Alan asked. "Should I break passage and attempt to inform anyone?"
"No," Howe decided, after a long, mazy yawn and a period of weary reflection. "You carr
y on, with dispatches. I will use our attached frigates for scouting."
"And we rather doubt their convoy is actually close enough to even Mid-Atlantic, as of yet, Lewrie," Curtis added. "And most certainly, will not be taking a southerly track anywhere near your course."
"I see, Sir Roger," Alan replied, much eased that he'd not be swanning about for days or weeks, in a fruitless search. "Very well, then, milord. Should I stay aboard Queen Charlotte, to await orders, or go back aboard Jester? I am completely at your convenience, sir."
"No, best let Mister Codrington fetch them to you," Admiral Howe decided, after another stupendous yawn, and taking his chair once more. "I fear our hospitality, at the moment… given the circumstances… is none of the best, after all."
"I'll take my leave then, sir? Milord Howe? Sir Roger?" Alan said, beginning to bow his way out. "My congratulations once again, on this victory… a glorious way to usher in the summer."
"A most glorious first day of June, Commander Lewrie, aye!" Sir Roger Curtis brightened, making a little note to himself that he stuck in a side pocket of his "iron-bound" dress captain's coat.
"Sorry we could not make you more welcome, Commander Lewrie," Lieutenant Codrington said, once they'd gained the gangway. "After your actions, as well, in escaping those frigates, and shaving their battle line, well…! There should have been a bottle in it, at least!"
"I quite understand, sir," Lewrie chuckled in mock rue. "I'm quite satisfied the fleet was here, to rescue me, as it were. Uhm… when you come aboard, Lieutenant Codrington? The fleet will be off for home, soon?"
"I doubt that, Commander," Codrington told him. "Still all the Frog ships that got away to deal with. A letter to send?"
"Aye," Alan answered. "A letter of condolence to the parents of a lad who was killed this morning."
"I apologize, sir, I didn't know…"
"None needed, sir," Alan allowed. "I'd hate for them to think he's still, well…"
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