A King's Commander

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Excuse me, sir, but Captain Cockburn is come aboard, as you bid him,” Lieutenant Andrews informed him, “and is just without.”

  “Ah, show him in, sir!” Nelson brightened. “Devil of a fellow, Cockburn. Took a Genoese just off Finale, ’bout the same time as your Jester was at Bordighera, Lewrie. And, in much the same mysterious . . . ah, here he is! Come in, Captain Cockburn! Come in, sir! Do you join us. And join us in a glass,” Nelson offered. “Newcome claret!”

  “Captain Nelson, sir, good morning to you. Lewrie.” Cockburn nodded almost affably. Especially since Lewrie was sporting his newer full-dress coat, with the suggested epaulet and slash cuffs.

  Small talk was made for a few minutes, a review of Cockburn’s doings off Finale, which Lewrie felt politic to beam over; Lewrie’s doings far to the west, over which Cockburn raised a brow and simpered, almost politely.

  “And both of you have taken merchantmen violating our unofficial embargo,” Nelson summed up. “Ships that present to us a most striking and mystifying similarity of circumstances. One might initially think that their coinciding similarities were simply that; coincidence. But I now am coming to suspect that any similarity between them is a first inkling of something planned, do you see. First off, Captain Cockburn brings in Il Furioso, a ship of Genoese registry. All her papers seem to be in order, though she was observed departing Finale, a port that is now French-held. Her Captain Bavastro and her crew abandon her just as soon as they are able. She attempted to prevent Meleager ’s gallant First Officer, Lieutenant Thomas Hardy, from boarding. Her guns were loaded with canister and langridge, and her matches lit. Hardly the acts of a declared neutral, and therefore liable to legitimate seizure. Laden with valuables, too. Coin, gold bullion, silver plate, and such in her master’s great-cabins. Which are now here aboard Agamemnon. ”

  Damme, but Cockburn’s a lucky bugger, Lewrie groaned to himself!

  “Odd, though, that so far, Mister Francis Drake, ashore, cannot seem to find anyone who knows her as Il Furioso, or has ever heard of a ship by that name clearing from Genoa. More perplexing is the presence of a different name on her transom. Nostra Signora di Belvedere,” Horatio Nelson posed.

  “And mine, sirs . . .” Lewrie exclaimed, sitting up straighter.

  “Il Briosco,” Nelson agreed. “That is to say, Lively, as in a ‘lively tune.’ But bearing the name Nostra Signora di Capraia across her stern. Of Tuscan registry. Or at least, flying a Tuscan flag when taken. Lured in by Jester flying false French colors, and playacting as escort to a convoy, which were really his prizes and tender, Captain Cockburn. I strongly hold that only the nearness of Il Briosco to her captor, and her run-out battery . . . and the suddenness of Lewrie’s revelation as a British ship, which took them all aback, prevented them from resisting. Her guns, too, were loaded but not run-out. With langridge and canister,” Nelson stressed, lifting a finger, “one person, at least, did resist below, whom Lewrie suspects was a French spy, intent upon jettisoning a bag of incriminating documents. The man succeeded. Just as someone aboard Il Furioso did, Commander Lewrie.”

  “As if it were the drill, sir?” Lewrie puzzled. “No, it hardly sounds like coincidence at all!”

  “Take him, sir?” Cockburn asked.

  “Shot dead, in an exchange of fire with my Marines, sir,” Alan had to admit. “There’s a second, though, whom my clerk thinks might be another Frenchman, traveling under a false identity. Gave us a name . . . Enzio Brughera . . . but his companion, who called himself ‘Inconnu’ in his dying breath, didn’t quite empty this Brughera’s chest. There was a purse of Italian coinage, and a hefty purse of French gold, too. We found some odds and ends that show at least two more Italian names.”

  “I have him below, in irons,” Nelson said. “I intend to hold him here, until Mister Francis Drake may contact some, uhm . . . associates, more used to this sort of chicanery.”

  “And out of the hands of the civil authorities, sir,” Lewrie added. “Who might feel pressed, politically or militarily, to set him free. Or look the wrong way for a minute or two.”

  “Quite.” Nelson nodded grimly. “While your French midshipman may go ashore, once he’s given his parole, and may be exchanged, along with the civilian sailors and those passengers we think are legitimate.”

  “Another mystifying thing, sirs,” Lewrie commented, “is Captain Menzi of Il Briosco, or Our Thing-gummy— whichever—departed Leghorn two days after we arrived off Genoa Mole and set off on our blockade . . . yet, he knew to inquire about the presence of our ships along the Genoese Riviera, and off San Remo. Why was that?”

  “That, too, is intriguing, I’ll grant you,” Nelson agreed with him, waving a hand toward the decanter, so Lewrie could play “Mother,” and top them all up.

  “Well, sir.” Cockburn sniffed. “It is not as if British ships have been completely absent from these waters. They were engaged in a smuggling endeavor, after all.”

  “Genoese ships might know it is now considered smuggling, sir,” Lewrie countered. “But how did a vessel ostensibly Tuscan come to know of it, and so quickly? That, too, smacks of chicanery, of an organized and well-informed combination.”

  “Latins,” Nelson chuckled with a world-weary sigh and a raising of his good brow. “Gossip, and informing, is in their temperaments, I do declare—bred into their very bones and blood.”

  “Something larger than turning a quick profit, or any charitable motive, if you will allow me to color it so, sirs,” Lewrie continued. “Both of these ships feared the presence of the Royal Navy . . . not since we just did intend to stop up all coastal trade . . . but because they were engaged in trade with the French, sirs. Someone, perhaps a great many someones, are eager to aid their cause, beyond turning a profit. Those two agents aboard Il Briosco, the similarity of the subterfuge . . . then, too, there is the possibility that influential or simply corrupt people actually believe in the exportation of French Republicanism and revolution. And would do anything possible, ’long as they may make a fortune from it, to aid the Frogs. Undermine their own governments.”

  “A very large supposition, Commander Lewrie,” Cockburn drawled, pulling a face. “Nor one spun from whole cloth, but only a few raveled strands, as of yet.”

  “Well, perhaps the French may pay more than we can offer, sir,” Lewrie rejoined. “All the wealth seized from Royalists, from guillotined aristocrats, the Catholic Church in France. And what they looted from their recent conquests.”

  “We’ll leave it to the proper authorities,” Nelson decided for them, raising a brow slightly as he detected the slightest hints of animus between them. “We don’t have all the facts, and cannot discover more from Leghorn or Tuscany. Commander Lewrie, you did recover commercial documents from Il Briosco, which lead you to suspect, at least, a financial combination?” he urged.

  “ Il Briosco is owned by a Leghorn joint-stock company, much like the East India Company,” Lewrie said, sitting back in his chair. “Men invest as ship’s husbands, or as risk-coverers such as Lloyd’s, sharing the risk, and the possible profits. It’s called the Compagnia di Commercia Mare di Liguria. Rather confusing, though. Neither my clerk nor I can make heads or tails of it, so far, sirs. Captain Menzi is shown as a shareholder in some papers, just a hired captain in others. The super-cargo aboard, a Signore Gallacio, admitted he’s a shipowner, not a shareholder, Yet, there’s an inscrutable little ledger book Mister Mountjoy turned up that shows several people, or organizations, and their share of the profits of the ship’s voyage. There’s a ‘G-G,’ which I take to stand for Guilio Gallacio. The rest are just initials, and no telling what they really mean, sir. I find it odd, though, for a Tuscan company to call itself a Ligurian sea-trading firm.”

  “We are in the Ligurian Sea, sir!” Cockburn snorted.

  “Liguria is also the ancient Roman name for the entire coastal region, sir. North of Leghorn or Porto Especia. Were they really a Tuscan concern, sir, why did they not use their own sea, the Tyrrhennian
, or the entire Mediterranean, to describe their intended trading area?”

  “Another matter for Mister Drake’s associates, Commander Lewrie,” Nelson suggested. “After inquiries may be made in Tuscany. Should it be registered proper, the names of the major stockholders will be revealed to us. And if some of those majority owners turn out to be Genoese, or agents representing Genoese investors, then we may be able to say that it is, without a doubt, an illegal combination.”

  “And, most likely, such an inquiry may also reveal the names of ships to be on the lookout for,” Cockburn said with a sly chuckle, a tap of his finger against his temple. “With such information, we may concentrate on the largest, best-organized, smugglers. Their capture or elimination from the trade would daunt the smaller players. Were their ships to be seized often enough, they’d throw in their hands as a poor wager.”

  “If it is merely financial, and not political, sir,” Alan said, unwilling to concede the point, on principle certainly, because he still suspected the presence of French agents hinted at something dangerous. And hating to give the smug bastard the last word, in anything!

  “I daresay, Lewrie,” Cockburn allowed with a bemused expression, “that there is the possibility of the French being involved, taking full advantage of the greed, or the humane efforts of the Genoese to aid their occupied compatriots. Anything to undermine resistance in Italy. But, as I also said before . . . we simply do not know enough to take a leap of logic, into the speculative.”

  “I see, sir,” Lewrie relented. A bit truculently, it must be said; resenting being lectured to by a man ten years his junior. “But I will lay a wager with you, this very moment, sir,” he added with a sly grin. “That when we do come to discover all, there will be French collusion, and French gold, at the root of it. Name your sum, sir.”

  “Five hundred pounds.” Cockburn grinned back, just as slyly. Sufferin’ Jesus, Alan thought, his mind awhirl; now I’m for it! Even if the Prize Court came through with what I’m due, I’d still be bankrupt, if I’m wrong! Borrow it from Phoebe . . . No!

  “Gentlemen, really. . .” Nelson chided them, with the affable, and amazed, tone of a father interceding between two headstrong brothers. “Make it a shore supper, or a case of wine. And the terms are vague. Of course, the French are involved. Whether they are the instigators, or the recipients of a fortuitous accident, which they hope to exploit. Hardly a proper wager at all, really. It lacks the ‘either, or.’ ”

  “A shore supper, then, sir,” Lewrie amended. “That it is the full cabal, set up by the Frogs.”

  “And I say they are exploiting the greed of misguided, shortsighted . . . tradesmen,” Cockburn countered. “Aye, a shore supper.”

  “Done!” Lewrie cried, offering his hand to seal the bargain. “Done, and done, then.” Nelson laughed. “Well, I think that’s about it. We must suspect a formal, organized attempt to trade with, and succor, the French. The valuables suggest that. Il Briosco had a full cargo of flour, salt, boots, and shoes, what else . . . ?”

  “About a ton of tanned leather, sir, suitable for harnesses or belts and pouches,” Lewrie was happy to supply. “Cast-off military accoutrements, sail cloth suitable for tents, blankets . . . and quite a lot of naval stores. Salt meats, sausages and salami, cheese, and all the rough wine in the world.”

  “Which will fetch a pretty penny at Mister Drake’s sales.” Nelson beamed, rising to dismiss them. “And deny the French any joy of it. I think that will be all, until we know more. Gentlemen, thank you both for coming aboard, and sharing your information with me. And with each other, hmm? So you may cooperate in future, more attuned?”

  That wasn’t a hope; that was an order, Lewrie almost winced. “Stay a moment, Commander Lewrie, there is one other matter,” Nelson directed before they said their good-byes.

  “Aye, sir?” he prompted, once Cockburn had gone.

  “The matter of your tender, sir,” Nelson said, squinting over his report, impatiently turning for the best light in the great-cabins for his one good eye. “This little Bombolo. Quite a good idea. Most ingenious of you. Though you were damned fortunate, against such odds.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Lewrie smiled, glad it wasn’t to be a tongue-lashing for being at odds with Cockburn.

  “I fear you’ll have to keep her,” Nelson said soberly. “This La Follette. Better-armed, I grant you, and a valuable seizure. But she is a French ship of war, little or no, and must be properly condemned, then bought into the Royal Navy before I could possibly condone her addition to our squadron.”

  “I see, sir.” Lewrie sighed.

  “There are certain customs and usages of the fleet that even I cannot ignore, no matter the situation, do you see, Lewrie.” Captain Nelson laughed softly. “Only so many orders I may flaunt, or act contrary to. No, I am sorry, but she must go to San Fiorenzo. Our admiral may wish to inspect her unique carronade armament. That she is armed with carronades, at all, in the first instance. And the novel training platform beneath them, in the second. And, after all . . . I doubt if you would wish to give up your First Officer, Mister Knolles,”

  “Sir?”

  “You would, you know, were she taken in or sent off. She’s a lieutenant’s command, not merely a tender to another ship,” Nelson told him. “ Could I condemn her myself, and buy her in, well . . . I fear there are other lieutenants senior to Mister Knolles more deserving of command. And, were she a part of this squadron this instant, I would assign her to work inshore with Meleager, Inconstant, or Southampton, allowing one of the deep-draught frigates a shallow-draught companion. I fear you must recover your swivels and two-pounders from La Follette, and rearm Bombolo. You can tow her astern, ready for another bold raid on the French. But you can’t come nigh to hoisting your own broad pendant as an ex-officio squadron commander with her your consort.”

  “Oh well, sir . . .” Lewrie shrugged sheepishly, putting a good face on it.

  “I trust, though, that the prize money from her capture mollifies you, Lewrie,” Nelson offered by way of condolence.

  “Should the Court ever see their way clear to paying it, sir,” Lewrie reminded him, “then, aye, I s’pose it must.”

  “Aye, those . . . !” Nelson seethed for a moment. “I tell you, sir, I am determined to become an admiral! To have say in matters, redress so many shortcomings. Prize-Court doings, not the least of them, but . . .” he said coming around his desk to steer Lewrie to the door of his day-cabin. “Until then, there is the satisfaction that you did your duty, as best you saw it, with aggressiveness, pluck and daring. And, more than your own portion of good fortune. Confounded French recruiting, perhaps; certainly destroyed a battery, a garrison, and took those coasting bottoms they’ll sorely miss. And captured a French national ship into the bargain. This fellow who runs their convoys must, this very instant, be tearing out his hair in frustration.”

  “Confusion to the French, sir,” Lewrie boasted.

  “Amen to that, sir,” Nelson exclaimed, as a send-off. “Amen to that. Now, off with you, Lewrie. Recover your tender and we’ll be off about the King’s Business. Perhaps not quite so far as Cape Antibes . . . hmm? A little closer to home. A daily cruise west, returning to read my signals. Mister Drake suggests a large convoy, soon, a rich one . . .”

  “Aye aye, sir!” Lewrie heartily agreed.

  “Scour the coast for me, Lewrie. And good hunting.”

  C H A P T E R 7

  You . . . !” the scarred man sneered, his permanently scrub-pink complexion mottling with an anger so fatal it could have killed, just by itself, straight across the desk in the great-cabins of the French National corvette La Vengeance.

  Vengeance was at anchor in the port of Nice, but a southerly, a sirocco, blew into the harbor, making the agile three hundred-fifty-ton corvette do an edgy dance. Which didn’t do Lieutenant Henri Becquet’s attempts at composure any good, either, as he suffered the well-deserved tirade. As Lieutenant Henri Becquet attempted to find a way to wriggle free of
responsibility—and the threat of court-martial and the guillotine. France did not suffer its fools gladly, had no use for failure, or excuses for it.

  “You . . . !” the scarred Capitaine de Vaisseau hissed again. He partially hid his brutally scarred face with a black silk mask, an eye patch that extended upward to cover a broken-lined brow, downward to hide a cheek that had been slashed to the bone. There was no disguising, though, the tyrannical mouth, the upper lip and part of a nostril that had been savaged and crudely sewn, making him an offset harelip. “You stupid . . . goddamned . . . fool! ” he thundered. “Idiot!”

  “M’sieur . . .” Lieutenant Becquet shivered so violently that his teeth chattered. His very life depended on the next few moments, suspended in midair at the end of a figurative single skein of light thread . . . and Le Hideux the one with the razor blade! Perversely, Becquet cast a glance to the civilian aft near the transom windows, who was a dark, brooding shadow against the midday glare. Le Hideux was showing off, performing for the civilian, Becquet suspected. Covering his own failures with a spectacular rant, if the civilian was down from Paris, to inquire why the convoys failed so often, so much was lost . . . ?

  “What can you do?” the senior captain asked the ether, with a soft toss of his hands, and a look toward the deck head. He rose and paced slowly, his weakened left calf supported by a stiff knee boot reinforced with an iron brace. Clump, shuffle . . . clump, shuffle, and Lieutenant Becquet began to sweat an icy flood as Le Hideux approached him. “Here is the very sort of laziness I continually fight against, Citizen,” he said to the civilian. For his benefit . . . and his own. “Idiots, fools, shit for brains. Oh, they spout all the right slogans, cheer when you tell them, Citizen Pouzin. As if halfhearted enthusiasm for the Revolution was enough, n’est-ce pas? But, deep in their souls, they stay shop clerks! Open on time, pretend to work, then run for the cafés or the brothels, as soon as the door is shut for the evening. Without a thought of working! Without a care for anything but their comforts!”