A King's Commander

by Dewey Lambdin

  “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.

  “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 tha
t 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.

  C H A P T E R 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 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 ubiqu
itous 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.”