A King`s Commander l-7

by Dewey Lambdin

Jester bucked and trembled like a first-saddled colt as her guns, the enemy's guns, filled the short space between the racing hulls with hot gushes of gray-tan smoke, as both ships screamed in agony as heavy iron took them in their vitals!

  Lewrie could barely see enemy sailors at her rails, being tossed aside; bulwark timbers flying, bodies flying, hear the stupendous boomings of guns fired straight into his face. Oak screamed, masts cried, short stabbing blooms of pink fire lilies and swarms of amber-reddish sparks swirled spent as dazed lightning bugs in the smoke wall! Quick splinters of wood flew from Jesters wounds, flicking past, whickering and fluting, a giant's toothpicks, their sharp edges hungry for flesh!

  The high, terrier-yip blasts of swivel guns at the rails, which spewed loose bags of pistol shot and langridge-scrap-iron bits-at the French. And then the blessed barroomingl of the quarterdeck carronades, as the enemy command staff came abeam!

  Lewrie shut his eyes, staring directly down the barrel of their quarterdeck carronade the instant before the sight of his own death was blotted out, and he was staggered almost off his feet by the noise and the shock waves. Another shock wave, which made his heart flutter and pause, the breath stop in his chest! Turned half sidewise, and hammered to his knees for real, this time, as a round-shot passed within a few feet of him, howling over the quarterdeck, ululating off into the distance like an irate eagle robbed of its prey at the last moment!

  "Jesus, sir, ya hurt, sir?" his cabin steward whimpered, coming to his side with a box of pistols. Aspinall was shaking like a sodden hound might just after leaving a stream, terror-tears streaking, lower lip blubbering.

  "Don't think so, Aspinall." Alan grimaced, as if in real pain, feeling himself over quickly. "But thankee for askin'. Bloody hell, what're you doing on deck?" Aspinall's post during quarters was down on the orlop, to assist "Chips," Ship's Carpenter Mister Rees, as a dumb carrier and fetcher should any repairs be necessary.

  "B… bosun's mate, sir," Aspinall wailed, his teeth chattering so badly he could barely avoid biting his tongue. "Mister Cony, he toP me t'fetch ya yer pistols, sir. Said 'e thought ya'd be needin' 'em, so I did, an'. kin I go below, agin, Captain, sir? Now ya have 'em, like?"

  "Aye, with my gratitude, Aspinall, me lad. Just help me to my feet, first. Mister Knolles?"

  "Aye, sir?" the first lieutenant rasped back, his throat raw with gun smoke, and his hat gone somewhere on its own.

  "Helm down, sir!" Lewrie ordered, once he'd gotten erect. "A tack, cross the wind, and keep the wind gauge 'bove that bastard! My telescope."

  So close, one bloody instant; so far apart the next. The Frog poleacre had fallen off the wind, was running large to the nor'east-minus her mizzenmast and lateen spanker. In the round ocular, Lewrie saw she'd been beaten to a pulp by that broadside, fired so close they could have spit at each other. Her larboard side was bashed in, with several large punctures below her gun ports, and about a third of her bulwarks had been torn away, merging two gun ports into one long tear. Larboard mainmast stays were sagging loose, the chain platforms, and the deadeye blocks that tensioned those shrouds savaged! And on her quarterdeck! That mob on her stern, her officers and after-guard, were gone! Barely half a dozen figures could be seen moving about, mostly throwing themselves on the abandoned helm. Topmen were sheeting home her main course and tops'l, not trusting the upper t'gallant mast with the pressure of canvas, her foremast lateen sail swung almost athwartship. Trimmed for a run!

  " 'Ware, below!" Bosun Porter shouted, as Jester swung up close to the wind. There was a rending screech of pine as top-hamper ripped, as Jester's own royal and t'gallant topmasts sagged backward, shedding blocks and rigging. Crosstree slats snapped like twigs, freeing tension on shrouds, and the entire mess slowly inclined farther astern, until everything above the crosstrees sagged back into the mainmast stays, and hung up on the main t'gallant yard, tangling stays'ls and halliards, jears, and lift-lines, into a rat's nest!

  "In der irons, Herr Kapitan!" Brauer reported from the wheel, as Jester poised in the very teeth of the wind, and stalled, unable to complete her tack and slowing to a crawl.

  "Secure from quarters. Porter, Cony! Secure what you can, till she pays off," Lewrie ordered. However much a draw the battle had been, it was now over. It would be long minutes before Jester could fall off to either beam, even more a long half hour to clear away all the raffle and take up pursuit once more. By which time that poleacre would have sailed herself almost hull-under for Toulon or Hyeres Bay. Beaten, at everything she'd tried; ignored when she'd attempted to lure them away, useless when charged with protecting her convoy. And, shot to ribbons when she'd tried to retake the prizes, denied even that crumb of comfort. Still, she would escape them. Lewrie devoutly hoped he'd slain her captain. Had it become a real broadside-to-broadside slugging, he wasn't sure he might have won, after all, unless that bugger had died.

  Aye, he hoped that poleacre's commanding officer had been shot to a blood pudding, by a cloud of canister! Should he live to fight another day… there was a damn' dangerous Frenchman on the loose, a one too clever for anyone's good. A one too dangerous to live!

  "Two dead, outright, sir," Surgeon Mister Howse related grumpily, still streaked with splotches of blood on his butcher's apron. "One more to pass, by sunset, if God's good to him. Nine injured."

  "I see." Lewrie nodded, almost numb, still shaken by how brief, yet how savage, the engagement had been. "Those injured, uhm…"

  "Two, Captain." Howse scowled, a bite to his voice, as if war's mayhem was Lewrie's fault, and the "butcher's bill" the captain's debt. "Amputees, to be discharged. Both Marines. T'other seven, well… few weeks to mend, light duties after. Assuming suppuration does not take them. I have their names. For your clerk."

  Howse offered a quick-scribbled list, almost official-looking… but the red "wax" seals were his gory thumb and fingerprints.

  "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." Le
wrie 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 To
ulon, 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."

  "Er… thank you, sir," Mountjoy replied, nearly stunned to be complimented.

  "Do you see Mister Knolles. He'll have work for you. And when he's done, there's a fair copy of my report to be produced for Admiral Hood." "Oh," Mountjoy said, dashed at the prospect of another slew of correspondence. "Very well, sir."

  Damme, I just hope the bastard gets the guillotine, Lewrie sighed to himself; this Michaud was just too clever by half! We'll have a much safer, and quieter, time of it, with him toasting on Satan's coals!

  Commander Alan Lewrie, RN, surveyed his ship, peering forward at the truncated main and foremasts, the untidy, unbalanced jury-rigged display of low-angled forestays that bore spare canvas jibs, of masts spreading nothing cross-yarded above the tops'ls. The sailmaker, Mister Paschal, and his crew had taken half the foredeck for their work area, and were busily stitching and patching. No, Jester wouldn't dash into harbor in triumph; she'd limp, no faster than the odd clutch of prize vessels she would escort! It would be near the end of the Day Watch, the beginning of the First Dog, before she dropped anchor.

  Time, and enough, to go below and visit the wounded first. See that fellow who was sure to pass over before then, if Howse was correct in his assessment… and think of something to say to him.