Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"Thankee, Mister Howse," Lewrie replied, gingerly accepting it and passing it to Knolles at once. "Adjust the watch-and-quarter bills accordingly, Mister Knolles. I'll go below, to the surgery, for a moment…"

"Aye, sir, but…" Knolles answered. "Uhm, as to the foremast. You said you wished to oversee…?"

"Aye, right with you, then," Lewrie harrumphed. There was little more to do, for the short run, than to strike all that damaged top-hamper off the foremast, right down to the fighting top. The mainmast, too, had lost its royal and t'gallant topmasts and spars. A spare foremast tops'l pole stood, quickly doubled to the lower foremast cap, so they could raise jibs to work her to windward, into shelter. And the hands to see to, to visit the wounded, tell them their suffering was…

" 'Scuse me, Cap'um," Bosun Porter intruded, doffing his hat to him. "But th' hands from th' prize crews you recalled is come aboard."

"Aye, Mister Porter," Lewrie all but snarled. "Do you and Cony tend to alloting them work. With Mister Knolles, and his damn' list!

"Aye aye, sir." Porter nodded, almost scraping his feet as he backed away from his captain's foul mood.

Damme, so much for being a lucky ship, Lewrie mourned in silence. Everything going so bloody good, so far, the crew shaken down and main-well content. Proud of her; and now this! Should have been a day to celebrate, taking three prizes, and sharing in another two, then…

He hoped they weren't as dispirited as he felt, right then. He heaved another bitter sigh, and started forward to judge their jury-rig repairs on the foremast.

"Sir!" Spendlove cried, as he came back inboard on the larboard gangway. "Sir?"

Another damned interruption! "What, Mister Spendlove?"

"Sorry, sir, but… this fellow… master of that dhow-thing-gummy?" Spendlove said, gesturing to a civilian he'd fetched along with him in a borrowed longboat. "Spot of bother, sir. Says he's Genoese, and he has papers and manifests you must see, sir. At least, that's what I've gathered so far, sir. Speaks damn-all French or English, a word or two, and I've no Italian, so…"

"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 apologeticpurr. "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 forte. 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 foremast 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' receiviri 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 Fleche, 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… Flйche'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 that 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, md 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."