Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"Perhaps it may mollify him, were I to offer him my tender, sir? Little Bombуlo? I'll have no need of her at Leghorn," Lewrie offered, hard as it pained him.

"I should think that would be received as a most welcome, and a most gracious gift, Lewrie," Nelson replied with a tiny smile; a first of a gruesome half-hour's cobbing. He offered his hand.

Now there's a wonder, Lewrie thought, rising to shake it, taking it for dismissal, at last, thank God.

"I will make the strongest representation to Admiral Hotham that we've been hoodwinked by a clever and malicious French plot. A letter from that fellow Silberberg of yours, may be of aid, as well. That is, should your logs and journals satisfy me," Nelson stated levelly.

"Aye, sir," Lewrie flummoxed, seeing escape from Nelson's ire, and his predicament. "Assuming that Mister Silberberg is of a mind to be forgiving, since I didn't kill Choundas for him."

"That was his intent?" Nelson frowned, pulling at his nose.

"For someone to do it, sir, didn't matter whom. I was the bait to get at him. Just didn't expect him to pop up where he did, and so quickly. Crippling his squadron as we did, sir, that was only a part of it. Same with scooping up his convoy to Alassio."

And, barring the fight with Choundas, it had been a red-letter day; a corvette La Resolve taken, along with a small corvette La Republique, and two Barbary Pirate-type xebecs, three-masted-armed galleys, plus a total of seven assorted merchant ships crammed with munitions and food.

"Now we've bested him, sir," Lewrie dared to suggest, with his first grin of the last half hour as well, "his superiors might turn him out, and give you an honorable foe. Probably a man less dangerous, do you see. Then, it'll be Silberberg's pigeon. Poison in the man's soup, or a knife in the back in a dark alley… his stock-in-trade. Find himself an assassin who can…"

"This Choundas may be a wily foe, Lewrie," Nelson objected with revulsion, "as large a monster as he is painted, aye… but I doubt that anyone is so vital to the French, nor our fortunes grown so bleak, that we would ever sanction cold-blooded murder. To bring him to book, gun-to-gun, or with crossed steel is one thing, but… that's repugnant to me, to any honorable gentleman or Christian."

"War to the knife, sir. As Mister Silberberg put it, long ago."

"You associate with the wrong sort of people, sir," Nelson said with a sniff of disdain.

And don't I, just! Alan thought, fighting a rueful smile.

"Not exactly my choice, sir," Alan told him. "He's very good at using people, whether they like it or not."

"By God, sir, he will not use me!" Nelson declared. Which gave Alan as much joy as could be expected, given the circumstances.

Aut tuam mortem out meam.

Your life or mine.

Hercules Furens, 427

Lucius Annaeus Seneca

Lewrie had always been pretty sure that there were some quite positive things to be said for Greed, and Lust for Mammon. Positive things most likely said from the comfort of an expensive club chair. Though Tuscany may have gotten some of those inflammatory flyers, and a few of the merchants, some few of the shipyard workers of Leghorn may have resented, perhaps even despised Jester's presence at the careenage, in the graving dock, or moored stern-to at a stone quay, Dago fashion, they didn't allow personal grudges to mix with business, or a chance to turn a handsome profit on her repairs, and her refit.

One hellacious profit, if Mister Giles's ledgers, old Mister Udney's receipts, and Cony's stores' lists were anything to go by. There were other profits to be made, ashore, too, and Leghorn's brothels and taverns, food stalls and chandlers, pimps and bumboat marketers were as apoliti-cally avaricious as the rest when it came to shillings or gold guineas. And the resulting claims for damages to taverns and brothels, when those of Jester's people reliable enough to be trusted with shore leave occasionally went on "a high ramble," and were sometimes fetched back alongside in the custody of the neighborhood watch.

Certainly, glum and ever unsatisfied Mister Howse their surgeon, was prospering. He, LeGoff, Mister Paschal the sailmaker, and one of the loblolly boys who'd been a glovemaker's assistant were making a killing on manufacturing cundums-or administering the Mercury Cure for the Pox. Howse's purchases of mercury were beginning to rival what a small, but thriving, silver refinery might consume.

"Can't you put saltpeter in their food, or something, Mister Howse?"

Lewrie crossly inquired of him. "I mind a rumor around more than a few schools I attended that it was done regular, to reduce the parish pregnancy rates blamed on students. Or faculty buggery."

"I have no definitive proof that such an admixture is efficacious, Captain," Howse grumbled. "An old wive's tale, more like. And, should medical science admit it as a proper medicament… I am operating on a strictly limited Admiralty allotment per annum for the purchase of…"

"Which seems to be going for sheep gut and mercury." His much put-upon captain sighed in frustration over another damned indenture form from his medical staff.

"Should you order the ship back into Discipline, sir, keep our men aboard and away from the whores, you would find my expenditures and the crew's good health, and their moral state, much improved, I'm certain," Howse said, in that truculent, edge-of-accusatory way he'd perfected. "To allow the people to engage in such licentious manner, to 'spend' on whores their vital and precious bodily essences… which weakens their bodies and minds, renders them lackluster and feeble of wits… incites continual thoughts of lust, contributing to their perpetual moral decline, well… I'll say no more, sir."

"I should certainly hope so, Mister Howse," Lewrie snapped, at his breaking point. The reek of fresh paint being slathered on by the bar-ricoe, the din of hammering and sawing, had had him in an ill humor for days. That, and their enforced idleness. "What would you have of me… sir! Lash 'em below, seal the hatches on 'em, and let 'em free only when we need 'em? Sir? Would you be happier if they flogged the palms of their hands raw from 'boxing the Jesuit'? Or would you like a bugger's orgy in the cable-tiers… sir? By God, sir, you hired on as a naval surgeon, not a hedge-priest. Sew their wounds, cure their bodily ills… not Society's. Sorry your flock need to gambol like a pack of spring lambs, Mister Howse. Get blind-drunk and put the leg over some poll, now and then. They're men, sir, not your social experiment!"

"I can see, sir, that discussion at this point is…" Howse sulked.

"You take that tone with me one more time, sir," Lewrie warned him, glad to have someone or something to rant at for release, "do you dare look cutty-eyed at me when we suffer casualties doing our duty… and I'll bloody break you, Mister Howse! Men get hurt at sea, whether it's peace or war. Men die! I'm not your heartless monster to sneer at 'cause we've lost a few since you came aboard. Men I knew, men who served with me long before you brought your disdain, you…"

Lewrie turned away and took a sip of his coffee, on the verge of being personally insulting, of abusing a gentleman. Howse did deserve that distinction, at least. The coffee was tepid. And it stank from paint, tasted like cool enamel.

"That'll be all, sir. Get out," Lewrie ordered.

"Very well, sir." Howse all but coughed in outrage, but determined to be his captain's moral and intellectual superior to the end.

"Goddamn him!" Lewrie whispered, tossing his coffee overboard, out the opened sash-windows in the transom. Porter, minus his arm and pensioned off discharged, Bittfield off in hospital at San Fiorenzo… sure to die of sepsis; Rushing atop the amputated fore topmast. Five dead, a dozen wounded aye, and four of those maimed so badly they'd be cripples and pensioners once they got back to England. Teenaged topmen, first-voyage Marines too young to shave proper. Not too many of the petty officers, thank God, Lewrie thought, or the able seamen the ship depended on. Mostly the feckless young. The worst slaughter was usually reserved for them. The worst heartbreak…

Dolorous as the crew had been when they'd anchored at Leghorn, Lewrie had known… as Mister Howse never would… that sailors were a resilient lot. Beaten and terrorized as they'd been with Choundas close-aboard, they'd stood game, ready to dare to the last. Stubborn pride, courage… fear of letting mates down, revenge for the fallen friends, or that ineffable spirit of English sailors that their ship would win, that their Jester, their home, would never strike. That had been what kept them from falling apart, then. And what would save them now. A great deal of physical labor, beginning with stripping her down to the fighting tops and gant lines, hoisting out artillery, shot, powder, and stores to float her onto a careenage shore so they could scorch off the weed on her bottom, chip off barnacles, search for rot and missing copper. Physical labor took their minds off fell musings.

A long-delayed distribution of a portion of the prize money they had earned had helped. That, and the chance for a spell ashore, while Jester was uninhabitable, and days Out of Discipline once she was back afloat, so they could caterwaul and carouse their way back to feeling like men who were unbeatable.

Poxed, some might have been, staggering dizzily with their teeth gone gray from the Mercury Cure, which no matter Howse's lofty disdain fetched him fifteen shillings per sufferer, but they were still Jesters.

Floating catamaran work-stages alongside, bosun's chairs or wood trestles slung overboard so they could paint and tar, a perceptive ear could ascertain that they were working cheerfully. Fiddle and fife played to divert them. Hands near the great-cabin's quarter galleries chatted and joshed one another. Cursing the bosun, of course, for putting them to such a messy chore, for tar stains and paint splotches on even their worst old slop trousers. Which was about all they wore at the moment, rolled to their knees. The scuttlebutts were kept full and handy for all, the amount of thirst-slaking water unrationed for once. Mister Giles, with only mild objections to the expense, supplied small-beer in liberal amounts. There was fresh food come from shore almost every day, along with the tons of chandlers' goods.

Lewrie sat down to read it over, again, mind-boggled that he had been allowed so much, that Udney and the local Admiralty shore agent at Leghorn were so prodigal with Navy funds. Well, almost prodigal, Alan thought with a rare grin; the prices local chandlers charged were downright sinful, and limited the largesse he might take aboard.

New canvas and thread, new rope cable for standing rigging, and running rigging, new replacement masts and spars-all Tuscan pine or Levant cedar-of the highest, best-seasoned quality. Tar, turpentine, pitch, white-lead, and copper to pay the bottom with barnacle-poisoning, weed-killing lead over canvas and felt, thin sheet-copper to seal that so Jester would be as smooth as a baby's arse, and slip across the sea like a thoroughbred once more. Timber and planking of the best Adriatic oak to replace smashed or wormed hull members and blown-in bulwarks.

And paint, Lewrie gagged again, as the breeze shifted, bringing the heavy odor into his day-cabin. He threw his quill pen on the desk and leaned back in his chair, recalling what a captain outfitting back home in an English port had written the Admiralty, once he'd received the usual, meager, ration of paint from HM Dockyards: