Dewey Lambdin - The King

Lewrie prodded the water butt with his sword, and it tumbled into the water, floating high and empty, the bung gone.

"Jesus Christ!" the bow-man screamed as the tarpaulin stirred. Lewrie felt the hairs on his head stand up in terror as a shape came up from the bottom boards of the boat, draped in the tarpaulin.

"A ghost!" one of the oarsmen keened in shrill horror.

Then the tarpaulin was flung back, revealing a ravaged face. That face also split in horror and screamed like a banshee, just as terrified as the boat crew! A bony, sun-scarred arm emerged with a seaman's knife clenched in a lean and bony fist. Lewrie put his sword forward, ready to lunge. "Hold!" he shouted.

"Oh God no don't kill me please don't kill me, h'ain't I been through enough?" the apparition managed to say through a dry throat and blistered lips. But he dropped the knife.

"Are you English?" Lewrie asked, aghast.

"Aye, sir. 'R you? Please don' be them Frog devils, oh, say yer English, please!"

"Cony, fetch the water butt," Lewrie instructed.

"Water, God yes, lord love ye, sir, water!" the man raved. "I h'ain't 'ad no water fer days, jus' some blood outen a gull, once't!"

"What ship?" Lewrie asked, feeling another shiver of dread.

"Cuddalore, sir."

"Cuddalore!" Lewrie burst out. "What happened to her?"

" 'At Frog ship Poison Door took 'er, sir. A week ago 'n more."

"Goddamn my eyes," Ayscough sighed, so pale and shaky it was as if he'd seen a ghost himself. "Is this Choundas in league with the devil? What the hell are we up against?"

"A bloody clever man, sir," Twigg replied. "A bloody lucky one, but still, just a man, Captain Ayscough."

"What else did he say, Mister Lewrie?"

"Sir, he said Cuddalore fought Poisson D'Or about a week ago," Lewrie informed them somewhat gloomily. "Close inshore of Banggi and with the help of several praos. They put up a good fight, the man said, but eventually they were overwhelmed. Lieutenant Choate was killed."

"Oh, poor man," Ayscough groaned. "His poor family…"

"Dismasted, shot to pieces," Lewrie went on. "They captured her, sir. Murdered the survivors. Lieutenant McTaggart and all the mates and warrants. This fellow Prouty was lucky to get away, sir. His mates got into the boat, cut it loose from being towed astern, but the French shot them, dropped a round shot through the bow to sink it and set it afire. Prouty went over the side and clung to the rudder where he couldn't be seen. They drifted ever since, forward or back on the currents and tides. No oars, no masts. 'Tis a wonder he lived. Had to use their corpses to staunch the inflow."

"What a gruesome experience he must have had," Ayscough said. "Will he live?"

"The surgeon is not too hopeful, sir. Burns and exposure to the sun, no food but for one gull in all those days." Lewrie sighed. "Prouty did inform us he watched Poisson D'Or take Cuddalore in tow, though, sir. Downwind to the north'rd."

"Balabac!" Twigg exclaimed. "Where else to leeward could he find harbor in which to strip her."

"And haul her in front of his Mindanao pirates to prove to them he's still worth alliance," Ayscough growled. "Aye. So, if it be Balabac, the best and most sheltered harbor is on the north end. See here."

Ayscough shuffled through several rolled-up charts to find the one he wanted, and rolled it out onto his desk. "A good channel to east and west, some small spits of land to the north to shelter against the winds when they come nor'westerly. And a village."

"A pirate village, sir?" Twigg asked.

"Not as I recollect." Ayscough shrugged. "We patrolled around here during the last war after the Spanish came in on the Rebels' side with France. Watered there, once. They were a peaceful enough lot. No big seagoing praos, just fishing boats and such. But if the Lanun Rovers put in, they'd have to go along with whatever those devils want, for safety's sake. Better to suffer some looting and a rape or two than end up massacred."

"Are there no better harbors, sir?" Lewrie asked, peering at the chart, which indicated several settlements and coves.

"There are others, to be sure, Mister Lewrie," Ayscough allowed. "But most of those are more suited to praos, which may be beached like Greek ships of old. But Choundas needs at least five fathoms of water at low tide to feel comfortable with a proper ship, and this is the only one of which I am aware. If one were to need a snug harbor for repair, and a place to strip another vessel, this would be my choice."

"And anything on the southern coast would be too exposed, no matter how tempting it would be to base closer to open water, I take it," Twigg added.

'The east-west channel leaves two avenues of approach or escape, yes," Ayscough agreed. "And open water, deep water, either way. Without having to claw off a lee shore whilst the winds are out of the sou'east each time one leaves port."

Ayscough drummed his fingers on the chart for a time, then slapped his palm on the chart, making them all jump. "My regards to Colonel Willoughby and Captain Cheney in Lady Charlotte. Signal 'Captains Repair on Board.' With luck, if we're quick enough, we may have this bastard at last!"

After his successful defense at Spratly Island, Captain Cheney was almost resigned to playing warship one more time, in company with Culverin and Telesto. Sir Hugo peered at the chart for a long time in silence, cocking his head this way and that. When he did leave off an irritating humming, he asked a few questions about the various beaches, what the interior was like, what Ayscough remembered from years before about the terrain.

"Do you put my troops ashore here," he finally said. "Three or more miles shy of the village. We shall proceed inland to here, where you remember crops and fields, Captain Ayscough. Open country where I may employ my troops to best advantage. That is, if you're set upon this completely, without reconnaissance."

"Oh, we'll scout, sir," Ayscough retorted. "We'll put a boat down and send her inshore once we're close enough."

"Then I should request some cloth," Sir Hugo said, smiling bleakly. "Something that could resemble yellow silk. A Navy Ensign as well, and some wood for staffs."

"Hey?" Ayscough asked, perplexed.

"I shall also have need of your pipers, sir," Sir Hugo added.

Lt. Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy, paced his tiny quarterdeck as the hours dragged past. Hands in the small of his back, head down deep in thought. And in worry.

A launch from Telesto had assured them that there were two European ships at anchor in the rude harbor at the north end of Balabac Island: one painted a golden ochre with white gunwales and one vessel that bore no masts above her lower masts and tops. There were also at least twenty native praos beached by the Filipino settlement, big seagoing boats with hulls painted blood red. It hadn't been much of a reconnaissance; just a quick peek in from seaward at sundown of the second day after they had discovered the lone survivor from Cuddalore.

Choundas is a clever animal, Lewrie fretted to himself during his limited pacing. He's sure to have hidden batteries on the harbor approaches. Perhaps hidden batteries off-shore on those low islands that to the north shelter the harbor. His minions in Stella Mans had not deployed artillery at Spratly past the palisade's walls, but they could not assume Choundas would make that sort of mistake.

"God help us, it seems he never makes mistakes," Lewrie cursed in the darkness. "And sentinels all along the bloody coast, on all the land approaches to…"

"Did you say something, sir?" Hogue asked with a yawn.

"Making my peace with the good Lord," Lewrie snapped, driving the acting lieutenant away. Who would interfere with a man praying at a time like this, Lewrie thought somewhat cynically.

Since Culverin was so shallow-drafted, she had been chosen once again, that evening, to ferry troops ashore from Lady Charlotte, which had to stand at least a mile off-shore. Three trips they'd made in all, in almost total darkness, with Culve- rin's decks and former mortar wells packed tightly with sepoys and weapons, with field artillery and all the accoutrements for six-pounder carriage guns, two-pounder boat guns on low, wide-wheeled mounts and coehorn mortars with their carrying blocks equipped with four small but wide wheels like dogcarts.

Lewrie also worried about Burgess Chiswick. When he had last seen Chiswick and shaken his hand before he embarked in a ship's boat for the beach with the men of his light company, Burgess' hand had been all atremble. That would seem perfectly natural in any man, but in Chiswick he felt it a sign of his friend's unpreparedness, his weakness.

There had not been time enough to say all the things one wished at a moment like that; there never was. Perhaps that lack of time was a blessing. Burgess had given him a small parcel of personal items he wanted passed on to his family should he fall. A final word for dear sister Caroline, and a promise Burgess had wrung out of him that should he… fall (there, that platitude again), Alan would swear to take care of Caroline, and the rest of his family as well as he was able in his stead. It seemed portended, that fall, and a gruesome farewell.

Parting with his father was much easier.

"Time, damnit," Sir Hugo had snarled. "Look here, lad. If we make a muck of this, I'm much happier you're safe aboard this little ship of yours. Think kindly of me if you're able. Lift a glass and toast my shade if you ain't. Take good care of the Lewrie name today, and I'll see to mine. Right! Goodbye, me son."

They had put the troops ashore starting at eleven that night on a leeward beach on the western shore of Balabac, a little more than a league shy of the village and harbor approaches. Once that was done, the three ships had stood out to sea, Telesto leading and Culverin in last place, making a long lee-board out to sea with the wind up their sterns and all sails double-reefed or brailed up to make it a vexingly slow lee-board which would place them due west of the harbor channel just before first light. There, Telesto would turn east and beat up into the sou'east summer Monsoon winds, close-hauled as she would lie and with all battle-flags flying.

And Lewrie had prayed. He'd been raised Church of England, and as much a Deist as any fashionable young gentleman of his class turned out to be after exposure to the better public schools, the classics and the latest eighteenth-century philosophy. Lewrie had also been tended to by a steady parade of governesses from lower stations in life who trended toward a more personal, vengeful God. Neither curriculum had turned him off the more than occasional venality, but when life got a bit too threatening, and he was at the bitter end of his cable, he found no comfort in a Deist's philosophical detachment, and sought out the sort of God who could wake up, reach down and pluck his arse to safety once more.

He prayed for Burgess' safety. He prayed for God's help that this time they'd comer this Choundas bugger for certain and carve him and all his kind into stew-meat so they could go home. He slung in a thought or two for his father (even if he was a rotten old bastard to me, Lord, he don't deserve gettin' turned off today), and finally, he asked for help so that his crew would not suffer too much, that they would win a victory at a low cost.

"Please let the sentinels be blind as bloody bats, Lord," he'd muttered in the privacy of his tiny cabins. "Get us past any batteries without too much hurt. And if you plan to scrag me today, then let it be quick and glorious. I'd rather not know about it when it comes, so let me go like Achilles and don't let the surgeon have me. Better I die a sinner than survive a helpless cripple, Amen."