Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"Better, sir!" Spenser encouraged, spinning the spokes.

"Due east?" Lewrie asked him.

"Mebbe, sir!" Spenser allowed, chomping on his tobacco quid in a frenzy. "Nor'east, at best, I think, Cap'm. We're so slow."

"Good enough, then. Ready, Mister Crewe? We're coming about to weather some more for you!"

"We'll be ready, sir!" Crewe stolidly assured him.

"Give him a broadside, while he's tacking, then. Then load and run out, quick as you can. Soon as he's in arcs."

Choundas was standing away southerly, already on the eyes of the wind, sails rustling and luffing, and jibs just beginning to fill, and draw. His ship would heel over as she felt the force of the wind upon her braced-around square sails, delaying that raking broadside a little. Until she was more in control, her decks more level. And then…

"Meleager, sir!" Hyde crowed. "Signal, sir! 'Do You Require Assistance!' "

"Hoist 'Affirmative,' Mister Hyde!" Lewrie yelped in relief. "You're goddamned right we do!"

And there she was, about a mile off and coming hard, beating to windward with a bone in her teeth, guns run out and ready! She'd clear that western headland by miles, pass ahead of Jester' s bows even if she managed to attain nor'east. And chase this foe away!

Lewrie went to the starboard side of his quarterdeck, wincing in agony with each step, left hand still clamped atop his skull. Choundas was there, he was certain. Even at 200 yards, he thought there was a man on that opposing quarterdeck, a slight man with pale skin and dull reddish hair. A man who wore a large black patch. A man who was shaking his fists at him, his mouth open to howl curses at him.

"Got jibs, sir, at last!" Buchanon told him. "Come a'weather?"

"Close as she'll lay, aye, Mister Buchanon," Alan replied, with the shuddery sort of giggle a condemned felon might essay right after a hanging rope snapped and dumped him alive in the mud under the gallows.

Jester came up toward the wind, struggling to lay nor'east. As Choundas heeled over and stood out to sea, bearing sou'west. Men were aloft, letting the corvette's royals fall. Stern-to-stern, they were separating, no guns able to bear. Choundas had been driven away, not able to deal with a frigate's fire. Jester had been saved, would go on living. It was over.

For the moment, Lewrie thought wearily. There'd be a next time. Twigg would see to that, damn his blood! Pray God Cockburn catches him up and shoots him to toothpicks! Spares me the… spares me!

"We continue on this course, sir, we'll block Meleager's course," Buchanon cautioned, close by his side. Buchanon put a steadying arm to Lewrie, as he swayed and sagged, utterly spent.

"Aye, come about, again, Mister Buchanon. Due north, steer for the western headland, so Cockburn gets a clear passage to seaward close-hauled. Unless he wishes to come inshore of us, cut the corner…?"

Too tired to think, as if he'd gone fifteen rounds with a bully-buck at a village fair; it always was this way after a hard fight with him. He leaned on the bulwarks, tried to sheath his sword.

"Mister Hyde, hoist 'Submit,' followed by 'Pursue the Enemy More Closely.' 'Vast coming about,' Mister Buchanon. We'll stand on. Cockburn can gain on the bastard, if he cuts inshore of us. Stand on," Lewrie decided. He'd wait until Meleager was abeam, then come about, into the shelter of Alassio Bay. Jester would need quick repairs, perhaps even a tow, to get back to safety at Vado. She'd never crawl there on her own.

"Porter?" he shouted, wincing again. "Pipe 'Secure from Quarters,' then let's see what needs doing we can do for ourselves."

"Er… aye aye, sir!" Will Cony shouted back. He shrugged and pointed to a broken figure being borne below by the surgeon's loblolly boys on a carrying board. Bosun Porter was groaning and writhing over several large, jagged splinters, his right arm ravaged and soaked with gore. "I'll tend t' hit, sir," Cony assured him, beginning to rouse stunned hands back to their posts.

"Fancy a sip o' somet'in', Cap'um?" Andrews tempted, offering a small pewter flask, on the sly. "Neat rum, sah. Put de fire back in yah belly."

"Thankee, Andrews." Lewrie sighed, taking a small sip.

And wondering what thanks he'd have to give Cockburn, for saving his bacon. He grimaced at the sharp bite of the rum; and how even more insufferable Captain Cockburn might be, in future. Or how low he'd be groveling in gratitude, pretending to like the taste of boot polish.

Grateful, aye… Alan realized with a small, mournful groan of relief. He takes him or kills him, 'stead of me, I'll buss his blind cheeks! I don't ever wish to cross that bastard's hawse again. Ever!

"A desperate action, sir," Nelson told him in the privacy of Agamemnon's great-cabins. "Gallantly carried," he added. A bit more praise, very similar to their last meeting; though thrown out rather offhandedly, not quite so congratulatory, and bitten off, delivered in a moody, frownful snappishness. "Five dead, a dozen wounded? I am sorry for your losses. The only losses the squadron suffered in our cutting-out expedition. Not a single man even hurt aboard the rest. My condolences."

"The rest of the squadron didn't have to contend with Choundas, sir," Alan told him, a bit put off by Nelson's less than charitable air, wondering if the killed and wounded had ruined what might have been a fine report for Nelson to submit to Admiral Hotham.

"You're quite sure it was him, I take it?" Nelson demanded of him. "My opposite number, this will-o'-the-wisp, Choundas?"

"No error, sir. Saw him with my glass as he hauled his wind to break off the action, stern-to to us. A mite uglier than last I saw of him in the Far…"

"So this Mister… Silberberg wrote to me, Lewrie," Captain Nelson grumbled, his long dainty fingers fretting papers on his desk, still standing and looking down distractedly. "I do not very much care for spy-craft, nor for those who engage in it. Valuable though their information may be at times… they… some of them, put far too little emphasis or value on the fighting man, take too much upon themselves, and too much of the credit…"

"It sounds as if Mister Silberberg is now attempting to dictate to you as

well, sir?" Alan scoffed, offering a commiserating grin. And thinking Twigg had a challenge on his hands, for once.

"That is of no matter, sir," Nelson grunted, vexing his mouth in annoyance, or a bad memory. He looked up at last, as if resolved to the solution of a matter that plagued him. "There are before me, Commander Lewrie, at least three grave items anent you and your ship. Items most vexing. I thought it best to discuss them with you here, in total privacy, before they become formal complaints, answerable to higher authorities. Perhaps a court."

"What… a court?" Lewrie gawped. He creased his brow in utter puzzlement, which caused pain in his shaved and restitched scalp wound, and wriggled in his chair, recrossing his legs in defense.

"The first, sir," Nelson bleakly intoned, perhaps even with some anger (which was something new about him for Alan to discover) "concerns your raid on Bordighera. There's a letter of complaint just given Mister Drake, from the Savoian government, that your ship, cited by name, fired upon the town center, their fishing fleet, and homes and shops along the eastern shore, resulting in damage and destruction, and in some civilian injuries and deaths. I am told that Mister Drake is on warning that their former masters, our Sardinian allies, also contemplate a formal diplomatic grievance. The Genoese have also formally demanded an explanation. As to whether the charges are true, and if so, is this the way we mean to enforce our embargo-by the indiscriminate slaughter of innocents, and the destruction of civilian property. Now, sir… for the record, did you engage in any indiscriminate firing?" he coldly demanded.

"What the… no, sir! By God I did not, sir!" Lewrie countered quickly, outraged. "You have my report. We fired shoreward just twice, once we'd silenced the battery and entered harbor. First, to eliminate the French troops, so my Lieutenant Knolles had a free hand. Our aim was those soldiers, with canister and grape, not solid-shot to level buildings. A bit of damage might have been done, I grant you, sir… windows smashed and such, but…! We never fired on the town proper, never fired upon the beached fishing boats, since they were Bordighera's livelihood. Our second was a single round-shot over the heads of the looters to dissuade them pillaging the French dead and wounded, sir. Far over, sir. Fall-of-shot was beyond the town, in the eastern hills. We were about two cables off the beach, sir, and fired at maximum elevation, quoin out, so there's no way any civilians could have been harmed, sir!"

"A bit unfortunate, though. Perhaps unnecessary," Nelson said gloomily. "The specific charges are replete with eyewitness testimony that you loosed a full broadside, not a single round, killing or wounding many of those who'd come out to succor the wounded."

"Succor, mine arse, sir!" Alan spat. "That, sir, is a lying packet, concocted by the Frogs. They were looting, pure and simple. I put a stop to it. French soldiers or no, sir, they didn't deserve that pawing and stripping as they were dying. Besides, sir, the Savoian government's a pack of toadies and bootlickers to their new Frog masters."

"One witness purports to be a French midshipman, Jules Hainaut," Nelson informed him. "The prisoner you took, just exchanged?"

"How convenient, sir," Alan griped. "A toady to Choundas, he is. Consider the source, sir. Do you ask Mister Silberberg…"

"I have, Lewrie. I know of your past association with this man, and the reasons Choundas might have to wish to see you ruined," Nelson agreed, albeit reluctantly. "And the good use he made of returning this Hainaut to him. The problem, though…"

"Well, there you are, then, sir," Alan grinned, relaxing.

"You will not interrupt, sir!" Nelson burst forth, mottling with sudden rage. "Clap your goddamned mouth shut and listen, sir!"

"Aye, sir!" Lewrie mumbled in astonishment to hear the minnikin, ammiraglio piccolo Nelson shouting-cursing!

"Of course it's a lie, Lewrie!" Nelson fumed, lowering his voice from a quarterdeck bellow. "A damnable lie, but one the Genoese, and everyone else, will believe! The city mob takes it as bloody gospel… and it doesn't help that their own government's letter in question has given it an official stamp! Whatever your reasons for firing that shot, you did it, and I can't deny it. Can't refute the whole damned thing, just quibble 'bout the particulars, and do you know how lame that makes us sound? God Almighty, Lewrie! This might undermine the embargo, tie my hands… result in correspondence back and forth with Admiral Hotham… perhaps even London! It might result in our sudden withdrawal, under a cloud! And make this squadron, the Royal Navy, and His Majesty's Government a foul and clumsy jape… a laughingstock!"

Alan opened his mouth to make a contradiction, just what he didn't know right off… but Nelson's steely glare shusshed him anew.

"Making matters worse, sir," Nelson hammered onward relentlessly, "there are flyers making the rounds in several Italian cities adverting this incident, as well as Captain Cockburn's seizure of Il Furioso, as a continuing compendium of British… atrocities!"

"But those were successfully answered, and settled, sir."

"All a packet of lies, start to finish, I grant you. But what recognition Genoa made of their own breach of neutrality, and their acquiescence 'pon the matter, is not recorded. So it becomes another nail in our coffin. Another victory in a war of words and opinions, which we are losing!" Nelson almost snarled; half at Lewrie, half at a form of war conducted by cowardly, faceless innuendo and lying. "Also cited in these flyers, Lewrie… though of yet not mentioned anywhere official, is a further, even more serious charge 'gainst you and your ship, sir."