A King`s Commander l-7

by Dewey Lambdin

  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.

  H M S Jester was still a useful instrument of war.

  CHAPTER

  3

  "And," 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 catchphrases." 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 Ј30,000. 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 poleacres, 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 Ј4,500! 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, remembre? Ze йmigrйs royaliste? Zey are sell zer s'ings, bon marchй. I buy from z'em, an' when people come to San Fiorenzo, zen zey buy from moil Non ze bon marchй! '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 Buceo '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."

  "Voilа, Alain!" she cried, giggling a-tiptoe. "Regardez!"

  "Bloody…" He could but weakly gasp at the transformation.

  The parlor now held cream-painted, gilde
d couches and chairs, upholstered in shimmery white moire silk, with gold-flecked filigrees. Deep, rich tables and chests-cherry, mahogany, or rosewood, marbled 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 cloisonnй, 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 thwockl 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 Buceo, 'e is 'ave beaucoup 'ouses for to rent, mais, ze йmigrйs, 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 йmigrйs 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, e voilа … 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?"

  "Out," 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 йmigrйs, 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' cafйs… 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."

  "You're in the brothel business?" he yelped in alarm. "That's as good as saying we both are! Now, hold on just,.."

  'Course, everyone I knew in the early days said I'd make a hellish grand pimp, he recalled, somewhat ruefully.

  "Non, non," she countered heartily. "Sell, on'y ze furnishings. For monnaie, an' some wine. Wine, I sell to ozzers, at profeet. You' officiers Brittanique, mos'ly. Forgive plais, Alain, mon coeur, but…" She sobered, almost biting her lip shyly. "Mos' of zem, zey are 'aving trиs monnaies, but are… les folletes-ze leetle fools? Pay any sum I as' for zere port an' claret. An', zey mus' 'ave clubs, hein? Where officers go, when zey wish to be amusant? Zey need furnishing grande for zose, aussil An', so many gowns, an' jewelry I 'ave tak' in trade. Officers mus' 'ave zere courtesans… and courtesans mus' 'ave pretty gowns, or jewelry. Or ze les follettes, zey buy for zem, from moi."

  "So, we're… you're running a secondhand shop for whores and such," he stated flatly.

  "Non!" she declared, aghast, and suddenly losing her gay confidence and pride. "To shop, on'y, Alain, never to… I s'ought you be 'appy, zat I do so well. Zat I mak' ze 'ome beautiful, an' eet cos' you nossing!" She began to blubber up, her pouty little lower lip beginning to tremble. "I… I s'ought you be proud of me!"

  "Phoebe…"he crooned, abandoning his champagne to take hold of her before she fled in tears, to slide her down onto his lap where he rocked her and stroked her like a heartbroken child. "There there, don't take on so, my girl. Of course, I'm proud of you. 'Bout pleased as punch, don't ye know! You're a marvel, so clever, so enterprising…"

  Hold on there, he thought, though: let's not trowel it on too bloody thick! I still don't know what people think of this place. Or my association with it!

  "It's just such a surprise, that's all, Phoebe. Ma chйrie," he told her softly, cradling her head on his chest. "Aye, you have done a miracle with this house! I'd not recognize it. And so tasteful! Grand as the Walpoles, grand as the richest house ever I've seen back home in England! But I thought I'd be coming back to our… to you, my girl… and our little hideaway, where we could be private and intimate. Cozy and pleasant, hey, like you said? And I find people crawling about underfoot, jam-packed to the deck heads with stuff like a chandlery, too damn' busy a bustle, bad as the 'Change back home. And some of 'em not the elegant sort you should-a lady should-be knowing. Now, where is our privacy in all that, hmm?"

  "Ees jus'…" Phoebe hiccuped, snuggling closer even as she dashed away her tears with the back of her hand. "You' Prize Court… zey tak' so long, an' eef I mak' monnaies zen you non worry 'bout eef you can afford me, Alain! Merde alors, eef I lose you, what is zere for me to do? Become ze putain, again? Non. Never again, mon amourl"

  "Phoebe…" he gentled, stroking her back. Touched, though, to his heart by her concern for him. He plucked a dainty, gauzy silk handkerchief from the bosom of her elegant gown and began to dry her tears.

  "Someday, oui …" she whispered, turning her face up to his to be gentled. "You go 'way to sea, return to Englan'. Or, we grow tired of each ozzer? I pray zat do non 'appen for trиs beaucoup anй, mon amour] All zese I do, so you 'ave nossing to s'ink about but 'ow much you love me, ow much I love you! An' 'ow 'appy we are. Zose zat come 'ere…" She sniffed, taking the handkerchief for a vigorous swipe at her nose, "Zey non shame you, Alain… or moi. Zey do non come to trade wiz ze leetle 'hore 'oo 'ave e'spensive s'ings," she swore, all but making the sign of the cross over her heart.

  "Non, zey s'ink zey deal wiz йmigrй royaliste from Toulon. Our 'ouse ees non ze salon, or ze maison public. Ze courtyard, on'y, ees market. Non 'ere, in 'ouse. Oh, la, I store gowns an' jewelry, in ze ozzer bedchamber, for sйcuritй, mais … I do non entertain! An' I am non for sale, ever again, A
lain! Eef I mak' monnaies, honestly… zen I am 'ave sйcuritй so I never 'ave to sell myself to men, ever. Give to a man I love, wiz all my 'eart, oui … but, never sell."

  "Dear God," he whispered, in awe of her. "Forgive me for rowing you, Phoebe. Forgive everything I said, or thought. You really are a wonder. A bloody knock-down wonder!"

  "Oh, Alain!" she relented, flinging herself upon him once more, this time shuddering with relief, her tears turning to ones of restored joy.

  And a poser, and a puzzle, and God knows what else, Alan thought, damned well relieved, himself; but above all, girl… a sweet, cunning little… entrancing dear'un!

  CHAPTER

  4

  "Contessa!" the street vendor greeted her from his flower cart. Followed by some liquid Italian, and the offer of a nosegay of local blooms.

  "Contessa?" Lewrie frowned anew. It had been the sixth time in their short evening stroll that he'd heard the word, but the first that he'd associated it directly with her.

  "Zey call me zat, Alain." Phoebe shrugged, a bit too artlessly, and with too much nonchalance, though she could not hide her blushing.

  "Why is that, exactly?" he inquired, striving for an equally offhand air.

  "I do ze bus'nees wiz zem, loan ze une peu monnaies, so..," She blushed again. "A lady cannot be padrone, hein? Zat ees for men. I 'elp eem buy donkey for 'ees cart, an' now 'e pay me back, wiz 'ees profits, oui? Like ze padrone does, mais .,."

  Several gentlemen and their ladies, out for a stroll of their own, bowed or curtsied to them-to her, specifically-in the next half block, doffing their hats. Fawning over her, chatting away mostly in Italian, making raving sounds over the miniature portrait of Pascal Paoli that hung on a gold chain about her neck.

  "Zey are patriotes, Alain," Phoebe said, blushing even more prettily. "I tell zem where I fin' eet, an' zey wish to purchase, aussi."