Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"Which side of the ship do you wish me to do, sirs?" Alan asked the echoing cabins, with a faint chuckle.

Toulon came slinking in from up forrud, low to the deck, imitating a caterpillar, with a distressed, grumpy trilling yowl, on a beeline for Lewrie's lap. Where, once ensconced, he could make his strongest complaints over some new cat-galling disaster. Rather loudly!

"Poor puss, what's got you…?" Alan cooed. His hand came off Toulon's hindquarters wet with dull red inboard-bulwarks paint, which was used to disguise bloodstains. "Christ, you clumsy litFun. You've put your tail in the paint pot? Aspinall?" "Sir?"

"Fetch a cloth, 'fore it dries on him. Might need one dipped in turpentine, too. No, Toulon, don't lick it… God…!"

There was a pair of kerseymere breeches that had seen their last Day Watch, Lewrie sighed; a good shirt, too, if I'm not…

"I'll ask Mister Cony, sir," Aspinall vowed. "Back in a trice." Mister Cony. With Porter gone, Will Cony had risen to bosun, and Able Seaman Sadler, one of the old Cockerels from the times at Toulon had become bosun's mate. Just as Mister Crewe was now the acting master gunner, Yeoman of the Powder Room Hogge was gunner's mate, and the Prussian Rahl was acting yeoman. Another Cockerel, Preston, had become quarter-gunner, though Lewrie wasn't sure that Rahl's eye for gunnery wasn't wasted below, in the magazines. "Cap'um clerk, Mister Mountjoy… Sah!"

"Enter," Lewrie snapped, trying to hold Toulon still and not get paint-stained until Aspinall returned.

"Letter's come aboard for you, sir," Mountjoy announced. He coughed into his fist, looking cutty-eyed to all corners. More softly he added, "and this, too, sir. From your, uhm… banker? He's ashore and wishes permission to come aboard."

"Sergeant Bootheby to muster his Marines, Mister Mountjoy," Lewrie growled, opening Twigg's note first, no matter how he hated doing that; it was official, after all. "Full 'bullock' kit, red tunics and pipe-clay. We'll execute him by musketry, at the taffrail, а la Admiral Byng."

"Can… can you do that, sir?" Mountjoy gaped. "Should, I mean." "No, but I can wish, sir." Alan sighed futilely. "Very well… tell the devious bastard he may come aboard. A tradesman's welcome, do you inform the harbor watch. No honors."

Aspinall returned, to take Toulon from him and carry him off to the pantry for a cleaning with some dishcloths moistened with turpentine. "Well I'm damned…" Lewrie whispered as he opened the second. It was from Signorina Claudia Mastandrea!

He'd gotten several supportive, kindly letters from her, and her keeper Senator Marcello di Silvano. He'd sent the senator the expected "thankee" for his invitation, with apologies for missing the ball that followed. Twigg's doing, damn his eyes! Maybe just as well, though…? Claudia's first note had been just before Jester sailed, and more than the usual social obligation to a new acquaintance; so pleased she met him, sorry we missed our promised dance, do forgive the forwardness and blah-blah-blah… But laden with so much double meaning, that she might have rewarded him with more than one turn around the floor, that he still must allow her to show him that map, that collection… those treasures? That there should be perfect freedom between them? Hmm…

After the battle with Choundas, another brace of letters. The one from Signore di Silvano so outraged that he was being smeared with such a scurrillous set of lies; promises to get to the bottom of it and refute them, in concert with Drake and Nelson; how di Silvano had spoken to his fellow senators and the Doge, would use his every good office to maintain Genoese neutrality, and independence. That Lewrie should consider him a friend, with many mutual, historical interests to discuss when he returned from Leghorn.

Claudia's though… it was almost tearful, that a good and decent man had been falsely accused, and her remorse that Genoa was so ungrateful to him. A stronger hint, concerning her high regard, her inability to get him out of her mind, a wistfulness…? Hmm…

Now, this'un:

… patron travels to Leghorn and Florence on family and commercial affairs, and I must confess I have conspired to accompany him. Though once in the city we will be too little together most days, and a great many evenings, for he will be much upon the town and so very busy, while I languish. Many evenings he must attend the rich and prominent in their homes or at the theaters, accompanied by their wives and children, to which I am not invited though his hosts, being substantial men, covertly maintain their own convenient, pleasing, and similar "fictions"?

"Hmm, hmm, hmm!" Lewrie harrumphed, feeling a stirring, in spite of himself, in his nether regions.

Though our acquaintance has been so brief thus far, I am constantly mindful of you, and struck by how warm is my regard. How often I muse that after knowing you much better, I could not form a more perfect appraisal and appreciation of your fine qualities. Marcello will invite you ashore soon, to renew his budding friendship. Do please accept, so you and I may renew our own. Further, should the needs of your ship allow, you will then be free to call upon me while we are in Leghorn, or inform me of a shore residence you may use, so we may dine…

Would it not taste pretty much like lead paint or turpentine, he felt badly in need of a glass of something for "Dutch Courage," at that very moment. "To dine intime, well, well… just the two of us, alone?

Lewrie brooded, it must be admitted on his behalf, on past error. And they were legion. Whenever he'd been so idle, so out of sorts, and so sunk in the "Blue Devils." So close to shore, and all its allures. Betty Hillwood, Dolly Fenton, Lady Delia Cantner, Soft Rabbit, Phoebe… and a host of others whose names he'd forgotten, if not their charms.

More than two months since Alassio Bay, staying aboard most of the time, or in communal shore lodgings while Jester had been careened and empty. Male-only suppers, park strolls, the opera that was in Italian and wasn't meant to be understood, anyway, or concerts where the music didn't puzzle overly much, with Knolles, Mountjoy, Buchanon, or the midshipmen as unwitting chaperons. Then back aboard sober, alone…

But what was good for the geese was good for the gander. He'd let the hands have their ruts, so why not…?

No, damme… in enough bloody trouble already, ain't I, he told himself sadly, turning her note over and over in his fingers; should I start again, I'll make a pig of meself. He did espy, and quickly take to memory, the carefully written return address, however. Duty, refit… so little time? Well, I have to write her, o' course, to beg off…? Fig- - piglet-teats-bouncers-God, stop me 'fore I tup again!

"Mister Silberberg is without, sir," Mountjoy interrupted.

"Have the vicious, two-faced fart come in, then, Mister Mountjoy," Lewrie barked in a quarterdeck voice loud enough for Twigg to hear beyond on the gun deck. And slipped the too-tempting note from Signo-rina Mastandrea into the middle drawer of his desk. "And fetch me poor old Toulon, soon's he's paint-free… th' widdle darlin'…" Lewrie said with a sudden surge of spite.

"How very clever, Lewrie," Twigg/Silberberg whispered, feigning amusement, though pale with sullen anger.

"So good to see you again, Mister Silberberg. And how's me shares doin', hey?" Alan chortled. "You'll pardon me if I don't rise."

"You press me too far, sir!" Twigg hissed, but softly. "I vow you'll overreach someday, to your regret!"

"Pretty much what I thought of you, sir," Lewrie whispered in return. "After you damn near got my arse knackered. Four dead, four crippled.

Like the score so far, do you… Mister Silberberg? Press me too far… someday, and…" Alan shrugged, flashing a toothy grin.

"We need to talk, sir. Privately," Twigg instructed, tossing his head to the pantry, where Aspinall hummed and crooned over Toulon to gentle him. "You and I. No others."

"And what about him?" Lewrie asked, his notice drawn to a side of beef in a dark suit who had accompanied Twigg aboard. "Feel need of bodyguarding, sir? A fine ox-carcass you've hired, I must say."

"Here 'e be, sir, good'z new, I reckon," Aspinall announced as he fetched the cat back. "Got all 'at paint off 'im, I did, sir. He weren't fond o' th' scrubbin', though."

Toulon was set upon the desktop, fluffed up with insult, tail bottled up and lashing. He would have finished washing his flank all by himself, but for the odor, and the presence of strangers. With a mean-spirited growl and hiss, ears laid back-which made Twigg pale even more and cringe far back in his chair-Toulon leapt away to go hide under something, where he could sulk in private, carping to cat-gods of how abused his pride was, how unfair Life's Portion.

"That'll be all, Aspinall," Lewrie said. "Go on deck, if you please. We'll fetch our own glasses. You, too, Mister Mountjoy."

"Yes, sir," Mountjoy replied, mournful that he wasn't included this time.

"Now, sir. What do you and I have to discuss, private or otherwise?" Lewrie asked, rising to open the wine cabinet for them. Brandy was too good, he thought; let 'em drink this cheap Dago red!

"You failed, Lewrie. Failed me." Twigg began, swiveling about to keep his eyes on him.

"Not for want of trying, sir. Or have you not noticed how bad Jester was knocked about? Didn't know you'd whistle him up quite that quickly, else I would have swallowed my pride and requested Meleager to stay seaward with me."

"Then he'd have never dared, sir," Twigg snapped impatiently as he accepted a glass, a pour, and tossed his wine back. He made a face, lurching back as if he'd been poisoned, and eyeing Lewrie hellish-sharp, as if he wouldn't put poison past him!

"You, sir?" Lewrie asked of the hulking stranger, so tanned and fit, so martial in his carriage. "Whoever you are?"

"Yes, sir, thankee," the apparition spoke at last, taking wine and sipping at it, showing no trace of disappointment with its taste.

"One of my associates, Lewrie," Twigg grumbled. "A most competent fellow. Ex-Household Cavalry. Allow me…"

"Looks far too intelligent to be Household Cavalry," Alan said tongue-in-cheek, "nor British Cavalry, at all\ And, if intelligent… then how'd he come to be stupid enough to associate with you, sir?"

"One should never kick strange dogs, sir," the dark fellow said with a faint smile, yet an air of menace. "They've been known to bite."

Officer, Lewrie surmised by his squirearchy, perhaps Kentish accent; ex-officer. Abscond with the mess funds, did you? Or your major's daughter?

"Enough of this rancor, Lewrie," Twigg warned. "As you refer to me, 'pon your life, as Silberberg… you will take as gospel that my man is ever to be referred to as Mister Peel. Or ex-Captain Peel."

"Not 'John Peel,' surely," Alan snickered, reminded of the old hunting song.

"No, 'tis James, sir… James Peel," the fellow purred, offering his hand, which Lewrie had to shake.

"Right, then… Captain Peel, Mister Silberberg," Lewrie said, sitting down, regretting his choice of wines, which he also was forced to drink. Thin, too fruity, and acidy; and fresh-poured already had a redolence of paint thinner. "So, what is so important that you sailed down from Genoa?"

"Coached," Twigg griped, shifting as if in pain. "As to that gruesome necessity, more later. What is important, Lewrie, is killing Guillaume Choundas. Still."