Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"Not quite my doing, milord," Lewrie smarmed, with his hat under his arm, once Howe had his chair. The battle seemed to have aged the old fellow dev'lish-hard. And he was sixty-nine, to begin with!

He quickly related his leaving Portsmouth five days earlier-the pursuit by French frigates, and his escape. Hoping the smoke had been too thick for anyone aboard Queen Charlotte to have seen him open fire upon the foe, still under false colors. Sadly, he'd assumed he was going to be chastised for it. Why else have him come aboard, when the decks were still reddened with casualties' blood, and the stench of gun smoke still lingered?

"Damme, Commander Lewrie," Howe almost wheezed with delight at the end of his narration. "A hellish well-managed affair. Wasn't to know, d'ye see… your gaining a command. But, from what I recall of our last recontre, you always were the plucky'un. Now, sir. During your passage, did you see any sign of Admiral Montagu? Gave him eight liners to escort a 'trade,' far as Finisterre. And he should have rejoined me, long since."

"Sorry, milord, but we neither spoke nor saw any English ships of war since sailing," Lewrie had to tell him. "Had a bad slant, the second day, sir." He dared to continue to, to "prose on" to a senior officer who hadn't asked yet. "Almost into Torbay, and nary a sign of him did I see, sir."

"Well, we did manage quite well, without Admiral Montagu, sir," Curtis said, sounding very smarmy himself. Boot-lickin' toady-ish, to Lewrie's lights. As a fellow who'd always known how to toady to those above him, Lewrie could appreciate a good performance. And did.

"Forgive me for being remiss about doing so, milord, but…" Alan could not resist interrupting, "allow me to extend to you congratulations 'pon your splendid victory this morning."

"Damme, Lewrie, we laid into 'em, aye!" Howe barked with a tiny yelp of rare amusement. "Twenty-five of us. Lost the use of Audacious early on, the first day-and Montagu already off with eight. Almost equal in strength to my opposite number, Admiral Villaret-Joyeuse, I'm told he's called. Four days of sparring with him, daring him to fight toe-to-toe. Him hanging up to windward of me, down south? Nettling him? Cost him the use of four ships or better, he had to send back to Brest undertow. Knocked three about… was that yesterday, Curtis?"

"Two days ago, milord," Curtis supplied, all but wringing his hands in concern for his chief's health. Howe looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, and his face-flesh so worn down it appeared to hang in tatters. "Cut off his rear, two days ago, sir, that's when we isolated those three, and shot them to rags."

"Aye, yes." Howe nodded; almost nodding offl With a jerk, he was upright again, once again enthused. "Forced him to wear about, sir! Took the weather gauge from him, then. And borrowed a page out of Rodney's book, at the Saintes. He lies to my lee, he'd imagine I must come down upon him, while he shoots high, damaging rigging, as the French are wont to do. I become too threatening, sir, he always has the lee advantage of hauling his wind and retiring in good order. But, sir! But, Commander Lewrie, our Villaret-Joyeuse was not ready for us to close with him direct, bows-on to him, then lask up alongside and lock yardarms. Signal I flew, sir… 'Closer Action'…"

"Though not all followed your instructions, milord…" Curtis said with a sad, begrudging moue. And Lewrie suddenly felt sorry for whichever captain hadn't gotten in pistol-shot range!

"Seven, Commander Lewrie!" Howe exulted, getting to his feet to cramp about wearily. Perhaps his shoes pinched him sore, Lewrie wondered. "Six taken as prize… one a total loss. Four more, and one of those a three-decker, mind! Four more battered so badly they might spend the next year, entire, in graving docks. Oh, aye, 'twas a splendid day, indeed, sir! Perhaps my last service to the King…"

"Oh, sir, surely not, why…" Curtis toadied some more.

"Damme, Curtis, I'm ancient," Howe countered petulantly. "I should be ashore, and allow some younger, fitter man a sea command. So, you are off to Admiral Hood, are you, Lewrie?"

"Aye, milord. Gibraltar first, then Corsica."

"Then we shan't keep you but the one hour more. Sir Roger will have dispatches for you, to carry on for me."

"I would be most honored, milord," Lewrie replied firmly, all but laying his hat over his heart and making a "leg" to the old man.

"Your clerk has a fair hand, sir?" Curtis inquired.

"Aye, sir."

"Then I shall deliver to you a single copy, and your clerk… and anyone else with a fair hand, may reproduce it while you're on-passage," Curtis decided. "It is vital. It is urgent… goes without sayin'…" Smirky little smile and a chuckle. "But hardly a national secret. Not after a ship gets word to London."

"One more thing, Commander Lewrie," Howe interjected, coming back to the desk after a fruitless search for something to drink, A wineglass was in his hand, from his re-erected pantry, though there was no sign as yet of his wine cabinet. "Sir Roger, an order for Admiral Montagu, directing him to place his squadron off Brest, denying the French re-entry. Explain to him that my ships…"

"Your most able ships, at least, sir…" Sir Roger suggested as he whistled for the flag lieutenant, who should be doing the scribbling for his betters. "And captains," he muttered sotto voce.

"Uhmph," Howe grunted, with a sour, dyspeptic expression, one more time reminding Lewrie of just how much "Black Dick" really did resemble the Rebel, George Washington, with an attack of gas! "… that until the fleet is fully found again, he must keep them from reaching the French coast. And that I will bring the main body along, as soon as we're able. Should he have taken prizes from the grain convoy… made contact with it at all… he is to send them into English ports under prize crews, without escort. Further, it is my appreciation the French, having suffered severe damage aboard those ships that retired our recent action, will be shaping course for Brest or L'orient, and quite possibly will be unable to make any reasonable or spirited resistance to any action he should undertake. Do you have that, Roger?"

"I do, milord. In essence," Sir Roger Curtis replied, making a few hasty scribbles of his own, and seeming to resent it.

"Lewrie, I cannot delay you 'making the best of your way' with dispatches, but… should you sight Admiral Montagu's squadron, you are to break your passage and speak him… deliver my orders to him."

"I will, milord. But… what if I should sight their grain convoy?" Alan asked. "Should I break passage and attempt to inform anyone?"

"No," Howe decided, after a long, mazy yawn and a period of weary reflection. "You carry on, with dispatches. I will use our attached frigates for scouting."

"And we rather doubt their convoy is actually close enough to even Mid-Atlantic, as of yet, Lewrie," Curtis added. "And most certainly, will not be taking a southerly track anywhere near your course."

"I see, Sir Roger," Alan replied, much eased that he'd not be swanning about for days or weeks, in a fruitless search. "Very well, then, milord. Should I stay aboard Queen Charlotte, to await orders, or go back aboard Jester? I am completely at your convenience, sir."

"No, best let Mister Codrington fetch them to you," Admiral Howe decided, after another stupendous yawn, and taking his chair once more. "I fear our hospitality, at the moment… given the circumstances… is none of the best, after all."

"I'll take my leave then, sir? Milord Howe? Sir Roger?" Alan said, beginning to bow his way out. "My congratulations once again, on this victory… a glorious way to usher in the summer."

"A most glorious first day of June, Commander Lewrie, aye!" Sir Roger Curtis brightened, making a little note to himself that he stuck in a side pocket of his "iron-bound" dress captain's coat.

"Sorry we could not make you more welcome, Commander Lewrie," Lieutenant Codrington said, once they'd gained the gangway. "After your actions, as well, in escaping those frigates, and shaving their battle line, well…! There should have been a bottle in it, at least!"

"I quite understand, sir," Lewrie chuckled in mock rue. "I'm quite satisfied the fleet was here, to rescue me, as it were. Uhm… when you come aboard, Lieutenant Codrington? The fleet will be off for home, soon?"

"I doubt that, Commander," Codrington told him. "Still all the Frog ships that got away to deal with. A letter to send?"

"Aye," Alan answered. "A letter of condolence to the parents of a lad who was killed this morning."

"I apologize, sir, I didn't know…"

"None needed, sir," Alan allowed. "I'd hate for them to think he's still, well…"

"I'm quite certain Captain Curtis will have a frigate sailing for England with our good tidings, Commander Lewrie." Lieutenant Codrington scowled. "Dashing, really-sails set 'all to the royals.' When I fetch you the documents, you may rest assured your letter to the lad's parents will be aboard that frigate. My word on't."

"My heartfelt thanks to you then, sir," Lewrie said as they shook hands on the agreement.

"Ahoy, th' boat party, below! Make ready!" A petty officer shouted down. "Side-party… uhmm. Sorry, Mr. Codrington, but…"

"Do make no fuss over me," Alan offered. Most graciously, and modestly, he thought. "You've better things to do, at the moment, I'm sure, than take men away from repairs. Or seeing to their mates."

"Oh, thankee, sir!" The petty officer beamed in approval.

"An hour, no more, sir," Codrington promised, casting an envious eye over Lewrie's shoulder to the beautifully formed sloop of war that rode fetched-to, two cables off.

"Ship's comp'ny… off hats," Bosun Porter ordered, speaking in a throaty rasp, though one almost soft and reverent, for once, as the ship lay once more fetched-to, just at sunset.

Once free of Howe's fleet, just after sailing them under the horizon, the winds had come more westerly, more like what was expected in the Bay of Biscay, and Jester, on starboard tack, had loped nearly forty-five miles farther, by dusk. Now she lay cocked up to weather, some sails full of drive, others laid all a'back to snub her motionless.

T'gallant yards a-cock-bill, though, to signify a death, and a burying- lift-lines purposely put out of trim to speak grief.

The entry port on the starboard gangway to weather was open, and a party stood by with the canvas-shrouded corpse on a long eight-man mess-table board. The small hump beneath the Red Ensign seemed too small to bother with.

How much room did a mere boy take, Alan wondered; short before- shorter, now? There'd been little to find of his head and shoulders but scoops of offal. Josephs's body looked arsey-varsey; the two round-shot at his feet more headlike. Heretical it might be, but Lewrie had the thought anyway, as he opened the prayer book to the ribanded page… custom said the sailmaker took a final stitch through the nose of those dis-charged-dead, to assure the crew that the departed was truly gone over. Now, if there wasn't a nose, or a head…?

He shook himself, to silence such fell musings. The light of a spectacular sunset was fast fading. He had to hurry.

"O God, whose beloved Son didst take little children into His arms and bless them; Give us Grace, we beseech Thee, to entrust this child, Richard Josephs… gentleman volunteer… to Thy never-failing Care and Love…" he intoned from the prayer book. And followed its suggestion that, for the interment of a child, Lamentations 3:31-33 was particularly apt. "… for He doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men…"