A King's Commander

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Hullo,” he muttered, though. She wasn’t looking at him, she was looking to his right, at the lit windows of the apartment she had just fled. Rather forlornly, he thought in amazement. Even at that distance, in that dim light, her face appeared flushed. She spoke to the ostler, who trotted off to fetch her waiting coach.

  Twigg slid sidewise, to peer out the crack between the doors, to have a clear, unmisted view of her, still well back in the shadows.

  Claudia Mastandrea, he could see, was dabbing at her eyes, her breathing still deep and hitched. She opened her small string-purse to fetch out a lace handkerchief and . . . and dry her tears?

  “Poor little bitch,” Twigg murmured, as the entrancing-lovely mort allowed herself a shoulder-heaving sob, and buried her face for a moment in the handkerchief. “Damme, was he that pleasin’?”

  She seemed to shake herself into composure, stiffen her back and throw up her head, as her coach arrived with a clatter. Almost archly, with what was left of her dignity, she was handed in. But just before the coach rocked and began to depart, there was one last mournful, and almost wistful, gaze aloft, to that beguiling window-glow. Then, away she went, into the night.

  And Twigg allowed himself a smile, after all, and a deep breath of satisfaction.

  “B’lieve our boy Lewrie came through, after all, Mister Peel,” he muttered, going back to the center of the room for a top-up, and a long sip of a rather good red.

  “How do you come by that, sir?” Peel sighed. “Thought it was a cock-up?”

  “The signorina departed in tears, Peel.”

  “Failed, sir. Make anyone weep.” Peel snorted. “And with that Aretino creature about, no more access to ’im, more’s the pity.”

  “In tears, Mister Peel,” Twigg pointed out. “Had she failed, I would have expected an aloof stiffness of carriage, a ‘so-what?’ flouncing. You know women, Peel. You know how much ‘cross’ they can put into the swish of their skirts. She didn’t leave angry, or disappointed, I tell you. Heartbroken, more like. Embarrassed to be caught, but . . . I think she got what she came for. And a great deal more, besides. We will know, soon as we put it to Lewrie,” Twigg mused, almost humming with glee. “But I daresay we may ‘bank’ on it, now, hmm?”

  “Her last letter we intercepted gave no hint,” Peel complained of the fickleness of women. “Why’d she sail from San Fiorenzo now, at the worst possible time! ’Less she’s a French agent, too, sir? Half-French, and all? Working for Choundas, not Pouzin? Or someone else?”

  “No no, Peel,” Twigg pooh-poohed. “Sweet, amusing, but hardly bright enough for this. Just damn’ bad luck and timing. Missing her pretty sailor too much, I suspect. Damn her eyes.”

  “So what do we do about Miss Aretino now, sir?” Peel queried, his brow still creased in concern. “He can’t explain this away, without he tells her too much. And, can we trust the little mort to keep mum, after, sir?”

  “Ah, hmm . . .” Twigg pondered heavily. There came another gust of shrill shouting, the vituperative accusations of a woman wronged—and the gay tinkling of something else going smash. “Does Miss Aretino love him half as much as it sounds, Mister Peel, there is the possibility that she’d believe us. And keep mum, for him. After all, a few weeks will expose di Silvano and Signorina Mastandrea. And net us Choundas. After that, well . . . it’s up to them to reconcile. Or not.”

  “Make her . . . recruitable, sir?” Peel suggested with a leer.

  “No, not her, Mister Peel.” Twigg grunted. “Consider her former trade, and estate. Entering our trade, Mademoiselle Aretino would be right back where she began . . . on her back. She’d never do that, even at Lewrie’s bidding. He’d have to be the one to ‘run’ her, and neither could abide the thought of ‘sharing.’ He’d warn her off, in any event. To spite me, d’ye see. To protect what she’s attained. I gather that Lewrie really is fond of her, Mister Peel. In for the penny, in for the pound, is our Lewrie. He’s never lukewarm when it comes to his doxies. Damn’ fool. Now, on the other hand, there is Claudia Mastandrea . . .”

  “Sir?” Peel frowned again in puzzlement.

  “A picture to conjure with, Peel,” Twigg simpered with amusement. “Nothing feigned, there. More attracted to the lout than ever we could wish. Him for her, so it wouldn’t be exactly arm-twisting to get Lewrie to play-up, again. Do they have a rencontre, before she’s forced to go back to France once she’s exposed and di Silvano cuts his losses. The possibilities of a continuing connection, hmm? A chance for us to turn her, doubled-back ’gainst her masters, hmm?”

  “Well, possibly, sir.” Peel nodded in understanding, amazed all over again by Mister Twigg’s ability to consider every possible advantage, every possible use of people’s weaknesses; making notes for his career.

  The sounds of tumult had died down next door. With his glass to the wall, Twigg could discern weeping noises, some muffled explainings. Then a response from Phoebe Aretino, a hiccupy, louder cursing wail.

  “Poor bastard,” Peel said softly.

  “Yes, Mister Peel, poor bastard.” Twigg sighed, though with a wee grin on his face. “It is possible that we have laid their affair, and their mutual happiness, ’pon our sacred altar of Secrecy. Oh, well.”

  “Well, uhm . . .” Peel shrugged. “Should we go rescue him then, sir? Let her in on our doings? And Lewrie off the hook?”

  “Such a verisimilitude Miss Aretino’s arrival gave this night’s work, Mister Peel,” Twigg chuckled. “Now Claudia Mastandrea knows what a total cully he is over women, she may even be considering what use she may make of him, in future. Rescue?” Twigg thought aloud, as he found a heel of bread and some sliced provolone to savor from their picked-over repast. “Yes, I believe we should, at that.”

  But sat down at the table and began to root about for something else to nibble on, making a second cold supper, and pouring himself more wine. Sometimes cocking an ear to the ebb and rise of the angry, heartbroken slanging match going on next door.

  “Uhm . . .” Peel prompted, after several long minutes had passed. “Will we be rescuing him anytime soon, then, Mister Twigg?”

  “Soon, Peel, soon,” Twigg said airily. “No rush. After all my dealings with the brute, Peel, I must confess to enjoying the sound of it. Quite relishin’, in fact. Music to my old ears, my lad. Music to my ears!”

  C H A P T E R 4

  Reduced to t’gallants and jibs, Jester stood into Vado Bay at the tail end of November, after a pointless, but necessary, transit; rushed from Leghorn, south-about Sardinia to Port Mahon on Minorca, and then sent off to Gibraltar and back as an errand boy, bearing a heavy packet of dispatches, some pensioned-off soldiers and Marines, and the sea chests or campaign chests of officers who had perished, so they could be sent home to England.

  There had been at least one tiny satisfaction; awaiting them at Gibraltar had been a set of orders left with the local Navy officials to allow Jester to make good her complement from the pick of hands newly arrived from England in the receiving hulks.

  Twigg’s way of making some small amends, Lewrie had discovered, though there was little joy of it. Little joy to be found in much of anything, at the rate things were going, he thought. Phoebe . . .

  “An’ I s’ink you are not like ozzer men,” had been her parting, wailed, shot, no matter what Twigg and Peel had tried to say to her, no matter his own attempt, and pleadings. “I s’ink I trust you, Alain mon coeur, but . . . ! ”

  Hoist by mine own bloody petard, he thought to himself, feeling a bit disconsolate, still. Oh, he’d always known their affair was just temporary, an amour eventually doomed by circumstances, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less to have it over quite so soon. Or in such a messy way, so shamefacedly . . . or painfully, for the both of them. That long independent cruise had at least provided enough peace and quiet, and an isolated time to mend and ponder.

  “’Bout here, sir?” Knolles prompted.

  “Aye, Mister Knolles.” Lewrie nodded in agreement. “Round up
to the eye of the wind, Quartermaster. Back the fore and main t’gallants . . . and make ready to slip the best bower, sir.”

  As Jester slowly came about, he had time to survey the harbor, and the wide roadstead of Vado Bay’s anchorage. There were still some half-dozen prizes moored there, identifiable by being the only vessels stripped of all their canvas, so their crews couldn’t make any escape attempts, nor could a French raid from seaward cut them out and sail them away. There were a pair of Austrian supply ships, another brace of British, though little sign that any cargoes were being moved. One small Austrian brig o’ war was anchored, with her sails hung slack for airing— seemingly along with her crew, who had what looked to be an idle “Rope Yarn Sunday” going. Only one Royal Navy warship was in the roadstead close inshore, the Tartar brig. The rest were probably out at sea, farther west along the Genoese Riviera. Lewrie eyed the hills and pyramids of provisions and munitions for General de Vins’s army, a sign his commissary troops and garrison had grown some since . . .

  “Signal, sir!” Midshipman Hyde called out. “’Board Tartar! I make it, ‘Have Dispatches’ . . . ‘Urgent’ . . . she shows ‘Submit’ . . . next is ‘Close Me’ . . . ‘Send Boat,’ no . . . that’s ‘I Am Sending a Boat,’ sir.”

  “Does she, by God!” Lewrie growled, irked by the presumption of a junior lieutenant, or a commander farther down the Navy list than him, trying to order him about so.

  Pretty much what got me in the mess I’m in, he found wryly amusing, after a moment, though; ’bout half a mile alee? Too far to row . . .

  “’Vast anchoring, Mister Knolles! Back jibs to larboard, brace the fore t’gallant to starboard tack. We’ll anchor close to Tartar. ”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Jester came around slowly, falling off the wind again, to ghost across the roadstead to within a cable of Tartar before turning up to fetch-to. But there would be no need to anchor, since one of Tartar ’s boats was already down, and stroking hard for her side. Lewrie opened his telescope to eye her. Bowman, eight oarsmen, midshipman in the stern sheets at the tiller, and . . . damn!

  “Ah,” he said, his face stony. “Hmm.” He almost moaned as he slammed the tubes closed. And feeling an urge to spit, to cleanse his mouth of a sudden foul taste.

  It was ex-Captain Peel in the boat, clinging to a tall hat, with a small clutch of traveling bags at his sides on the thwarts. Peel; no sign of his master, Twigg, but that wasn’t cause for much joy. Peel at Vado Bay, as Twigg’s urgent emissary, was bad news enough!

  “Bosun, man the entry port,” Lewrie directed. “We’ll not drop anchor, after all, Mister Knolles, till we’ve sorted this out.”

  “Uhm . . . trouble, sir, do ye think?” Knolles simply had to ask. “You might say that, Mister Knolles.”

  To Lewrie’s great disappointment, Peel was an agile brute, just as spry as a seaman when it came to departing the boat and scaling the battens to the gangway. Alan had rather hoped he’d slip and break his devious neck—or at least get a good dunking, to wash the spy-stink off.

  “Mister Peel, sir,” Lewrie grumbled, doffing his hat as Peel doffed his in greeting. Feeling most uncivil, though.

  “Commander Lewrie, sir,” Peel rejoined, just as stonily. “I am required to give you this, at once . . . to be read at once, sir.”

  Peel produced a square of vellum, folded over from the corners and sealed with a large blob of candle wax. Lewrie took it and turned away, took a few paces to larboard for privacy, wondering what new vat of shit he’d tumbled into. He peeled it open.

  “Well, damme . . .” He frowned in puzzlement.

  It was from Captain Nelson, in his own hand, not his clerk’s. Lewrie and Jester were to consider themselves under his orders again. But the next paragraph instructed him to place himself and his ship at Mister Peel’s service until further notice, and to render to him, and his superior Mister Twigg, any and every service and assistance they requested.

  “Shit,” he whispered, hoping he’d seen the back of them, that Twigg had told the truth for once that his duties ashore at Leghorn had been “quits.” He’d lied, o’ course. Again. And what else was new?

  “Very well, Mister Peel, sir,” Lewrie drawled, stalking back to the man. “What assistance do you require from us?”

  “That I am only allowed to tell you in the strictest privacy, sir,” the stolid ex-cavalry officer replied rather guardedly, muttering only as loudly as necessary; as if sharing even a cryptic conversation with Lewrie was too much to bruit about in public. “Might I be allowed to urge you to do whatever it is you do, to return to sea, though, sir?”

  “Get underway?” Lewrie hinted, with a faint grin.

  “If that’s how sailors phrase it, sir, yes.”

  “To where, sir?” Lewrie inquired.

  “Uhm . . .” Peel darkened, clamming up.

  “ Point, if you can’t say it,” Alan suggested resignedly. “East, is it? Very well, sir. That wasn’t so difficult, now was it. Mister Knolles? Secure the anchor party, and make sail. We’ll stand out to sea. Get way on her and ready to come about to larboard tack. Once we make an offing, come back to starboard tack, course due east.”

  “Aye aye, sir! Bosun? Hands to the braces! Topmen! Trice up and lay aloft! Make sail!” Knolles bellowed.

  It took half an hour to work Jester back to sea, to scoot along in-shore, rounding up and gathering enough speed to tack, to stand away from the coast until it was about six miles astern, then come about to the east. Once assured that Jester was secure, Lewrie could head below at last, his simmering anger, and his dubious curiosity, both at a fine boil, by then.

  “So where is it you wish to go, Mister Peel?” Lewrie asked, as he opened the wine cabinet, after shooing his steward and servant out.

  “Genoa, sir,” Peel announced finally.

  “But didn’t you just come from there?”

  “I did, sir. To await your arrival and deliver those orders to you,” Peel admitted, accepting a glass. “My employer said to extend to you his compliments, Commander Lewrie. And his apologies. For the uhm . . . upshot of Leghorn. And for not being able to fulfill his word to you that he would pester you no longer. But it’s quite urgent that you assist us just this one last time, sir.”

  “So?” Lewrie snapped.

  “It’s a total, bloody cock-up, Commander Lewrie,” Peel confessed, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “The trap we so carefully laid . . . went amiss. Choundas never even went near ’em! They didn’t see anything on their voyage. Put in at Vado, then had to scamper back to San Fiorenzo to rejoin Hotham.”

  “So I am still your bait? ” Lewrie fumed.

  “No, sir, we’re a bit beyond that, I fear.” Peel groaned as he took a seat, looking as if he needed one. “The real ship . . . the vessel that was really carrying the gold for the Austrians . . . well, sir, it’s been taken! That Choundas bugger outsmarted us, after all!”

  “Well, damme!” Lewrie exclaimed in surprise. Though he really didn’t think it much of a surprise, that Choundas had once more shown himself to be fiendishly clever. “Where, and how, sir? And how much’d he get away with?” he demanded, suddenly all impatience.

  “As to where, Captain Lewrie,” Peel sighed, “soon after she left San Fiorenzo Bay. ’Least the solid coin for the Navy, and our garrison on Corsica was safely landed. Perhaps within a hundred miles of Vado Bay? As to when, five days ago, we think. At any rate, four days ago, a French privateer put into Genoa . . . sailed right into Genoa itself, I tell you, sir! Put all the gold and silver ashore. As for how much? Nigh on £100,000! Which is now being used, sir, to pay the recruiting bounty, and to purchase boots and small-clothes at least, to raise volunteers to serve in the French Army! They’re drilling and mustering on the main plazas all over the city, Lewrie . . . swaggering and swilling as bold as brass! Singing their version of ‘La Marseillais,’ damn’ ’em!”

  “But they can’t do that, Genoa’s neutral, that’d . . .”

  “The bloody Geno
ese colluded with the French to take it, sir!” Peel snarled back, still simmering with anger and chagrin, days after. “Senator di Silvano and his cronies, we’re certain. The Senate allowed the privateer the right to anchor and unload, and they’re claiming she has a right to stay as long as she likes, ’stead of enforcing any time limit on a belligerent . . . since she isn’t a French national warship formally commissioned, they say, sir! But, do we do anything to take her, they’ll scream bloody murder. Your Nelson sailed in, to see what the hell was going on, but he was too late, and there’s little he can do about it but complain. They’re shame-faced enough to not demand that he treats the port as a neutral, but does he do anything to seize the privateer, it’d be just the sort of incident the traitorous faction wants. We don’t have the force to make Genoa cooperate with us, either. Bloody devious, two-faced . . . !” Peel sneered, and took a sip of wine—which gave Alan time to sardonically muse that for Peel to deem anyone devious and two-faced was a rare irony, after all he’d been up to!

  “So what does Twigg think I can do about it, Mister Peel?” he pressed.

  “Things are coming to a head, sir,” Peel insisted anxiously. “General de Vins has finally stirred himself and his army into motion. Like the gold was his, personal . . . took from his own quarters! Before I left, with the hope you’d be returning soon, he’d thrown his outpost line right to the gates of Genoa. To show them who’s in charge, we may suppose, and marched his forces west of Vado, at last, into contact with the French outposts. He’s going to fight, finally, before winter.”

  “You still aren’t telling me . . .” Lewrie huffed.

  “It’s Choundas, sir,” Peel announced suddenly, stone-sober, and bitter. “It was he, took the gold, himself. He’s aboard the privateer, at Genoa. He shows no sign of coming ashore, so there’s no way for us to get to him. Nelson can’t get at him, since Genoa won’t tolerate any belligerent action in their bloody ‘neutral’ harbor. We can expect to be held to the convention that Nelson can’t sail for twenty-four hours after he does. Though the Genoese can turn a blind eye to Choundas going out, anytime he pleases, once Nelson sails. Which he was going to do, Mister Twigg told me, sir. The only problem is, I was also told not to expect too much from Captain Nelson’s ship. That she was so slow and badly in need of a refit.