A King`s Commander l-7

by Dewey Lambdin

  A quarter-hour of fidgeting and fretting that his plan misfired, that he hadn't thought of everything. A captain's proper duties, Alan glowered, worrying without showing it; about French cavalry, a battalion appearing over the heights, a battery of siege guns that might just be in-transit on the coast road toward San Remo and pop up to take Jester under fire, forcing him to sail off or lose her, abandoning the Marines. Survivors lurking in the kinky shrubs behind the battery, sniping and skirmishing. A French warship happening by out to sea, espying smoke from the bluff, and… That damned mob gathering its courage?

  At last!

  Smoke curling and wavering over the battery. Thicker smoke and the red flicker of flames as field carriages, wheels, limbers and shot and powder caissons were set ablaze. A gun barrel, man-hauled by rope about its cascabel, went rumbling down the steep slope of the entrance face, to tumble and roll, turning muzzle-up as the heavier weight of the breech dragged it. And trailing a plume of dust, gravel, and rock behind it as it fell, so that it looked as if it reeked powder smoke after being fired. A second followed it, and with his telescope, he could determine that Meggs and Crewe had done a very thorough job of it; trunnions blown or hammered off, making it impossible to mount it on a carriage again, even should the French recover it from the shoal beneath the bluffs.

  As overburdened as the supply roads already were, useless but valuable guns sent back to a foundry to be recast or repaired might be an even greater delay to the French, taking precious draught animals from moving things forward] Lewrie strongly suspected they'd rust out where they lay, alongside the detritus of Roman triremes, till the Last Trumpet, too hard to dredge for, or raise.

  Bootheby and his Marines appeared, a slim scarlet snake curving down the bluff road. A fife and drum playing, a short column of twos tramping in good order, with skirmishers thrown out ahead and to botli sides. And sailors in slop clothing a shambling blot in the rear. A five-minute march, and they'd be at the boats again. Lewrie heaved a huge sigh of relief. It was almost done. He turned to look at Bombуlo, which drifted bare-poled about one cable seaward of the channel. There was no signal from her that an enemy ship had come into sight, either! That mob…

  Finally, they were moving downhill, the mounted men leading them. Nothing like an army, it was still a righteous but disordered mob, with women and children alongside. No fight in them, Lewrie thought with even more relief; they just want a good excuse to shout. Probably hasn't been this much excitement in Bordighera since the Crusades, he allowed himself to chuckle.

  And along the eastern shore road, where the two French companies had been slaughtered. Hullo, there were Bordigherans there, he started. No, no threat in them, either. Old women in black, a few younger women in gayer gowns, some gaffers and kids.

  Keening and wailing over the broken dead, some of them. The wind brought thin screams, wails, and prayers to Jester, as civilians raised their hands in supplication, beat their breasts, and wrenched at their undone hair, throwing their heads back to howl like hounds in mourning.

  ' 'Ey've profesh'nal mourners back home beat all hollow, sir," Bucha-non grunted, as the civilians began to drag off the badly wounded, or prop up those lesser hurt and get them to their feet to stagger off, crying and weeping with agony.

  "Might give these local lads a bellyful of war, Mister Buchanon," Lewrie spat. "Were they of a mind to volunteer before, well…"

  "Mourners, my eyes, sir!" Buchanon said with an outraged snort. Looters, more like. Look yonder, sir."

  Sure enough, once Lewrie raised his telescope again, he could see pockets being turned out, boots and stockings stripped off, the bloody knapsacks being rifled. Taking his first close-up look at his handiwork, Lewrie could view horribly wounded men being rolled over, so the looters could get at their valuables, flailing their hands weakly, or screaming in protest, shaking their heads to be left alone to die, in peace. Those hands being stripped of rings, bloody purses, or tobacco pouches torn away from punctured waistcoat pockets. Urchin children quarreling over corpses, and their pitiful wealth, like buzzards. A few of the younger women honestly grieved, and took no part in looting.

  Simple little fishing-town girls, Lewrie thought, bedazzled by romantic young soldiers, so exotic, from so far away, bragging about booty and plunder and glory. When conquered, there were always those who'd snuggle up to the victors who could offer power, money, or food when everyone else went hungry. Or could offer novel adventure, love… yet even a few of those weeping young girls had the common sense to pick their dying lovers' pockets. For mementos. Or a token of security for their own precarious futures.

  "Mister Bittfield!" Lewrie howled. "A round-shot over their heads! Well over, mind. But scare those harpies off!"

  "Aye aye, sir!"

  Boom! went a larboard nine-pounder, its ball a rising black dash-mark aimed with the quoin below the breech fully out. A redoubling of the wailing ashore, but for their own safety now as they scattered, running in all directions, skirts hiked up to their knees. The shot struck earth a full mile away, but they weren't to know that. Again, the road was as empty of life as it had been just after the broadside.

  Another, larger boom atop the bluff, as the assembled powder charges and spare kegs exploded. Another Vesuvius-like eruption that flung charred gun tools and carriage timbers into the midmorning sky, and a patter of rock and gravel that rained down as far as the Marines re-embarking on the narrow beach.

  The mob, which had been so intent upon re-entering their town, perhaps advancing toward the battery, had also scattered to the four winds. Bordighera was as devoid of people, of a sudden, as Stonehenge.

  Five minutes more, Lewrie swore, pulling out his watch in spite of his best intentions to appear calm and unruffled. The boats would be back alongside, the people aboard, and he could quit this horrible place. And he didn't much care if those three tartanes were full of gold bullion. He didn't much care for the taste in his mouth.

  "All well, Sergeant Bootheby?" he asked, as the last Marines and sailors gained the gangway, and the boats were led astern for towing once more.

  "Not a scratch, sir!" Bootheby boasted, his grizzled bear-face glowing with pleasure in a soldier's proper job well done. "And thank you, Captain sir! From me and all the lads. That were a rare treat, sir. Anytime, sir. We're ready, anytime."

  "Damn' well done, Sergeant, and aye, I'll keep that in mind," Lewrie promised, smiling now that they could depart. "Mister Buchanon? Hands to sheets and halliards. Hands to the braces. Get sail on her, and get us underway. Once around the point, and well offshore, set a course for Vado Bay."

  "With pleasure, sir," Buchanon agreed, working his mouth as if he'd been chewing on something disagreeable, too.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Once well out to sea and headed east, shepherding their prizes, Lewrie had hoisted "Captain Repair on Board" to summon Knolles, so he could write his report on the action. To their surprise, Knolles had fetched along a French prisoner of war, a surly, coldly sneering lout in a midshipman's uniform that was a very tight fit, so bad that he appeared as if he'd stripped a much shorter and slenderer lad for his clothes; all out at the elbows and wrists, breeches that buckled up above his knees-had they buckled at all. A tall and lanky thatch-hair, who wore it long and un-clubbed to either side of his face, like a parted curtain. Midshipman Jules Hainaut altogether resembled a very dim-witted peasant, just off the turnip wagon, who'd been clad in some cast-off theatrical costume as a jape.

  "Speaks damn-all English, of course, sir," Lieutenant Knolles said with an apologetic shrug. "And only a word or two of Italian… those mostly food, drink, or something to do with whores… so Mister Mountjoy's skills as a linguist might not avail, either. He's French, I've determined… but from where, God only knows, sir. He's no French I ever learned. A Parisian would send him to the guillotine for bad pronunciation."

  "However did you catch him, Mister Knolles?" Lewrie asked.

  "He was aboard the largest tartane,
sir… the armed one. Popped off with a brace of horse pistols, missed by a mile, and dropped to the deck when Cony shot back at him." Knolles laughed easily, savoring his small triumph at the quayside. "Rather clumsily, at that."

  "So the Frog Committee for Public Safety, or Directory," Lewrie said, chuckling, "appears to have their own 'Bad Bargains,' as does our King?" "Aye, sir," Knolles agreed.

  "Now, the prizes, Mister Knolles!" Lewrie urged, turning to more rewarding thoughts, and dismissing the French midshipman immediately.

  "Lord, sir!" Knolles exclaimed. "Arms, uniforms, boots, packs… everything to equip and feed, and field two regiments. The smaller tartanes are Savoian, I've determined. The larger one is French. She carries some four-pounders, swivels, and a pair of twelve-pounder French-cast carronades, sir. Rather clever mounting, fore-and-aft, in the middle of the forecastle and at the taffrail. The slide-carriages are built atop a round wood platform, which can point in about three-quarters of a full circle. Quite ingenious, really. Pinned through the deck just like a sea-mortar platform. On a small vessel, without a lot of standing rigging to impede one's aim, sir, well…! She could employ them even closing or fleeing, on a bow-and-quarter line." "And her cargo?" Lewrie pressed.

  "Powder, made cartouches, cartridge paper, tents and blankets, mostly, sir. She escorted the others to Bordighera. I got that much from our French mute. But her main load was a company of French infantry, to do the training, sir. Half of that lot you erased on the shore road. They were raising at least one Savoian regiment of volunteers, Captain. With hopes of another, do you see." Knolles crowed himself. "And we put paid to that scheme, sir!"

  "But her crew?" Lewrie wondered aloud. "Where'd they gone when we closed them? They could have given you one hell of a scrap."

  "Oh, them, sir." Knolles sneered. "Savoians, too, for the most part. Fisherman and such, 'pressed' into French service. They offered a joining bounty, some fraternity cant… and gaol as the other option, if they didn't, uhm… willingly volunteer, sir. Even our lout yonder thinks them scum. Scampered off, soon as we sailed in, leaving their Frog masters to do the honorable thing."

  "Well, we've had ourselves quite a productive morning, Mister Knolles." Lewrie grinned. "And hurt the French cause, no end. Your part in it was gallantly carried, and I'll stress that in my report."

  "Thankee kindly, sir." Knolles all but blushed, thinking it was necessary to appear modest and unassuming.

  "Lord, don't scuff your shoes like a schoolboy, Mister Knolles," Lewrie genially chided him. "Save that for Captain Nelson, and your patrons. Just 'twixt you and me, it's quite all right to admit you're 'all the go.' "

  "Aye, sir." Knolles grinned, lifting his eyes. "If you say so."

  "Yon Frog tartane, Mister Knolles…" Lewrie pondered. "She's a bit stouter than our little Bombуlo? And a tad longer?"

  "About sixty feet, altogether, sir," Knolles supplied. "Cleaner, certainly. And doesn't reek of fish."

  "Condemned as a lawful prize, she'll swing idle for months, and then get disarmed and sold out," Lewrie griped. "How many four-pounders did you say?"

  "Six, sir," Knolles informed him.

  "Damme, let's keep her. And those novel swiveling carronades," Lewrie decided quickly. "Shift your crew over to her, and leave just a barebones crew aboard Bombуlo. You'd best shift our two-pounders aboard her, too. And the swivels. That'd be easier than stripping her, then rearming Bombуlo. What's her name, by the way?"

  "La Follette, sir," Knolles said, snickering. "The Little Fool."

  "Really!" Lewrie gaped with amazement, then began to laugh in hearty appreciation. "Most apt. The little fool, tender to a jester. Well, damme… it can't be coincidental, d'ye think?"

  "God knows, sir." Knolles shrugged. "But it sounds… lucky."

  There it was again, that thing of his, and Jesters luck. But perhaps it wasn't coincidental. Perhaps, with her capture, his luck, and his ship's, were turning for the better.

  "Very well, Mister Knolles, carry on. Send me Andrews, soon as you can. Cony to serve as your acting bosun. Five hands for Bombуlo, same as the other two prize tartanes, and we may have enough men to go around, till we drop anchor at Vado Bay. It's only eighty sea miles or so. With this sou'east wind, we could be there by dusk, pray God."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  A late dinner, bites taken between writing. And fending off his young ram-cat, who was ever fascinated by the waving plume of his quill pen. "No, Toulon. Sweetlin'? Can't you go play with mousey?" Lewrie attempted to cajole. "Aspinall?"

  "Sir?" his steward replied from the pantry. "Dangle something tempting, will you, for God's sake?" "Monkey-fist, Toulon," Aspinall offered. "See it swing, hey? Wanna fight yer monkey-fist, hey cat?"

  Toulon would. With an excited trill, he jumped down to dash for the pantry door, where a newish toy of intricately plaited small-stuff swung and jerked alluringly. It was Aspinall's first successful stab at decorative knot-work, a skill he was picking up from Andrews. There were rather good place mats woven from sennet in the great-cabins now, a set of restraining ropes in the pantry where he labored, prettily served with turk's-heads, so he wouldn't go arse-over-tit in the next spell of nasty weather. But Andrews had done half of those himself as examples.

  Crash! came the sound of a Marine guard's musket beyond the door. "Cap'um's dark, Mister Mountjoy… sah!"

  "Enter." Lewrie sighed around a chunk of salami and goat cheese. "Excuse me, sir," Mountjoy said as he entered. "But I expect you're almost ready for me to make a fair copy of the report from your rough, sir?"

  "Just about, Mister Mountjoy. Glass o' chianti?" "Aye, sir, that'd be welcome."

  "A tad puckerish, is chianti," Lewrie admitted. "But it grows on one. Aspinall, a glass for Mister Mountjoy. And a top-up for me." "Aye, sir."

  "A bit of news, too, sir," Mountjoy offered. "That French prisoner Mister Knolles brought aboard is Flemish. Did as you bid, sir, tried to speak with him, but I do declare, sir, I've never heard worse French in all my born days. But, most happily, Mister Rahl the quarter-gunner happened by."

  "Mister Rahl," Lewrie posed, a trifle dubious. Rahl couldn't put four words of the King's English together with a pistol pointed at his head. "The Austrian Netherlands, sir. Or rather, should I say, what was once the Austrian Netherlands," Mountjoy explained. "A polyglot, sir. Flemish, Waloon, bastard Dutch, a version of French as far from good French as Birmingham 'mumbletonian' is to English. But they do still know the tongue of their conquerors, sir. German. Mister Rahl was Wie Gehts?' and Was Machts Du?' with the clod, quick as a wink, sir. Our M'sieur Hainaut is the usual story these days. A 'prentice seaman, from Antwerp, or thereabouts, of French blood, sir. Joined up eager as anything, soon as the Frogs drove the Austrians out. Bad as the Frogs need skilled men, they took him on as a petty officer, much like Mister Cony…"

  "Bosun's mate," Aspinall said, almost under his breath, back to entertaining the cat after fetching the wine.

  "Uhm, quite… " Mountjoy frowned. "Anyway, sir, Hainaut rose to become a midshipman, double-quick. Acting, one might suppose. And poorly paid, if that's the best uniform he could afford, what? Earned the notice of a senior officer, came under his wing…"

  "Patronage," Lewrie supplied to enlighten Mountjoy's continuing ignorance.

  "Oddly, he won't tell me who he is, sir. Just refers to him as 'Die Narbe.' Rahl tells me that means 'The Scar,' Captain. Capitaine de Vaisseau Scar, sir. Might be another German who threw in his lot on the French side, but Mister Rahl believes it's more a nickname, sir. But then, German names, I've found, are much like Red Indian names… holdovers from tribal times, when 'Strong Arm' and 'Bear-Killer' were popular. So it could be a proper name, no matter what Mister Rahl believes. I gather this Captain 'Scar' is in charge of coastal convoys and their escorts." Mountjoy blithely shrugged off, taking a sip of his wine.

  "Sail hoi" came the interruption, making Lewrie almost tip his glass over.

  "Later, Mister Mountjoy," Lewrie said, getting to
his feet and into his coat and hat; and finishing his wine. First things first, he told himself. "Do you go ahead with the fair copy of the report, while I see to this." A final pat on Toulon 's head, and he was out the door and pounding up the ladder to the quarterdeck.

  "Where away, Mister Buchanon?"

  "Three points off th' starboard bows, sir," the sailing master told him, pointing an arm in the general direction. "T'gallants 'bove th' horizon, so far, Cap'um. I make us 'bout ten miles off th' coast, an' 'bout ten miles east o' San Remo. She's almost bows-on, sir, an' that could mean she's on a course t' a French-held port."

  "From somewhere to the sou'east, then…" Lewrie mused. "From Leghorn? To San Remo?"

  "Very possible, sir. Might be one o' 'em so-called neutrals 'ey told us t'watch for," Buchanon agreed.

  "Check with the signalman-striker, Mister Buchanon. Have him fetch out that French Tricolor we used off Ushant. And order Lieutenant Knolles in La Follette to come under my lee. I'm sure he has a tricolor aboard… but he'll be needing one of our smaller ensigns, to declare his proper identity when the time comes. A boat ensign'll do."

  "One aboard Bombуlo now, sir," Buchanon reminded him.

  "Very well, have him send a boat for that one," Lewrie schemed. "Damme, Mister Buchanon, were you an Italian captain, running goods to the Frogs, what would you make of our motley group?"

  "Be relieved, sir," Buchanon guffawed. "Couple o' French warships, escortin' a three-ship convoy long th' coast? Just th' thing. Better'n runnin' afoul o' one o' 'em nasty Englishmen!"

  "Would you be tempted to come close enough to speak them, sir?"

  "Were I worried 'bout any Royal Navy ships in th' area, I would, sir. Aye, I surely would sail right up an' ask, 'fore I put in to San Remo. Might have too much wagered to lose, else."

  "Let us devoutly hope, Mister Buchanon," Lewrie enthused along with him. "Once we've our flag situation settled, we'll harden up to windward a point, as if we're standing out to 'smoak' him. Like what a properly wary escort'd do."