A King`s Commander l-7

by Dewey Lambdin

  And that's the truth… isn't it? he asked himself. Where had that come from, of a sudden? And, does he believe me?

  Nelson glared at him, silent, his fine sense of honor outraged beyond all temperance, breathing high and shallow off the tops of his lungs, his lip beginning to curl in disdain.

  "I wrote a report of it, sir." Lewrie explained further. "Gave it to Admiral Howe's captain of the fleet to be sent to the Admiralty. I've received no reference to the event, since."

  That, he was certain was a true statement. But then, after such a glorious victory, who'd mar its odor with even a hint of a sanction, or sully the Navy's worldwide good opinion by even mentioning it?

  Christ, one tiny slip, a quarter-minute's inattention, out of a fifteen-year career, and I'm to be ruined? he gasped to himself. Court-martialed and cashiered as dishonorable, in shame? A lucky ship, hey, a lucky captain, mine arse! And where's bloody Lir when you need that bastard? Mine arse on a bandbox!

  "I promised all my captains I'd uphold them, Lewrie," Captain Nelson muttered more softly, though aflame with righteous anger. "As long as they did their duty, as best they saw it. You, however, make that vow rather more than difficult to fulfill. Damn you, sir! Whether you were half sunk, on your beam-ends, in the middle of a hurricane or pissed as a newt, honor was breached, sir! No matter how briefly, no matter how momentary your hair-splitting explanation may excuse it. Of all the blockheaded, slipshod things you ever thought of doing! Accident or design, it doesn't signify. It casts the foulest asperions on Navy, King, and Country. And, at a time when I, indeed England and what is left of the Coalition can least afford it. Made our task here even harder. And at the worst possible time. Do you see that, Lewrie?"

  "Aye, sir," Alan groaned, sure he was a goner.

  "Perhaps it's of no matter." Nelson sighed heavily. "I cannot print flyers of mine own to counter any of these charges, without giving them greater circulation. To deign to notice them is to show fear, which gives them even further veracity. And, sir… I cannot stoop to rebut this compounded slur in good conscience. That would be creating lies, to counter lies. To then be caught lying, later…"

  "That's what Mister Silberberg is paid to do, sir," Alan said with a miserable shrug, but a touch of gallows humor in spite of all.

  "The Admiralty took no notice of it?" Nelson inquired, with a very small sound of hopefulness.

  "No, sir. Not a word."

  "Nor have the French complained," Nelson glowered, sitting at his desk, at last. "Now it's public knowledge here, though, there is a chance Paris might find it useful against us, throughout Europe. As soon as this Choundas person, or his superiors, gloat over what they've gained by local exposure. Good God Almighty," he brooded, lowering his head and massaging his injured brow. "Admiral Hotham must be told, do you see, Lewrie. Loath as I am to communicate it to him, this is a matter we cannot sweep under the rug. He may assemble a court at San Fiorenzo."

  "I see that, sir." Lewrie sighed, just as morosely.

  "Thought better of you, I did, sir," Nelson declared softly. "Turk's Island, the way you spoke so movingly in your captain's behalf when he was wounded… way he spoke so well of you. Toulon. Taking Jester just after, saving all those refugees. Knew you were reputed to be a trifle rakehellish, one who'd tiptoe right to the edge. The Hamiltons in Naples spoke well of you, too. Lady Emma, especially. I have found her to be a shrewd judge of character, in the main."

  Lewrie bit on a knuckle, diplomatically, wondering what Nelson'd think, if he knew he'd got the leg over Lady Emma back in '93?

  "Trouble is, though, Lewrie, you're slipshod, slapdash. More so than a proper captain ought be," Nelson accused. "Given your previous good repute, though, I am given to believe your explanation. Your actions at Bordighera were honorable. Give me copies of all officers' journals, log entries, and such, concerning Ushant, so I may satisfy myself, one way or the other, before I communicate it to Admiral Hotham. There is always the possibility that he will deem it unworthy of note. Or, given the circumstances that obtain of late… he may consider it inexpedient to notice, do you follow, sir?"

  "Aye, sir." Lewrie nodded hopefully. Hotham had trouble with recalling what he had for breakfast, his bloody hat size; or dither so long in making up what passed for his mind, he'd soon forget it.

  "In the meantime, I may perfectly justify sending you away, then. Though I am already badly in need of reinforcement," Nelson stated.

  "Sent away, sir. I see," Lewrie stammered.

  "Your ship took damage, sir," Nelson said, brightening a trifle. "I believe you've been eighteen months without a rent, as well. Leghorn is the place for you, Lewrie. With Jester away… out of sight, out of mind?… the rabble-rousers who spread these filthy lies will have to cut new ones from whole cloth to inflame Italian resentments. You will perform such limited repairs as you may here at Vado Bay, then go to Leghorn to complete them, and do a proper refit. Take your time, there. No need to rush back. Once back, I may find you useful again. Perhaps well offshore, still out of sight. And operating under a set of orders and cautions, which I pray will spare us the risk of future embarrassments."

  "I see, sir," Lewrie said, even more gloomily. "Well, I'd best be about it, then. Was that all, sir? You said three…?"

  "Ah." Nelson frowned sternly again, getting to his feet, with his hands in the small of his back. "Yes. There was."

  God what bloody else, Alan sagged; adultery?

  "It is Captain Cockburn's complaint, sir… that you impeded his pursuit of Choundas's vessel… an enemy then flying… by the placement of your ship, by not obeying his flag signals to give him way seaward. Further, that your replies were preemptory and unsuitable for a junior to send to a senior officer."

  "Well, damme…" Lewrie muttered, quite nonplussed.

  "A close-run thing already, I warn you, sir," Nelson rejoined.

  "He asked 'Do You Require Assistance?' sir," Lewrie explained, feeling like he'd been doing so his entire bloody life! "My signals midshipman Mister Hyde's deck log will show that, sir. To which I sent 'Affirmative,' taking it to mean did I need rescuing from Choundas.. and I most heartily did, sir!"

  He laid out his crippled state, barely under control and unable to steer clear, barely underway and almost dead in the water. How he had sent "Submit," meaning that Cockburn should cut inshore, cutting a corner off the pursuit.

  "We did manage to claw about northerly, sir, when he ordered us to haul our wind. I had no intent to impede him, far from it. I meant no disrespect, or wished to 'serve him sauce,' either, sir. Were he to catch Choundas up and murder the bastard, I'd be the first one to sport him a royal fireworks, and a concert! That man needs killing more than anyone ever I did see, sir, and if Captain Cockburn got the credit for it, then I'd be the last man on earth to complain. Had he cut inshore, well… he broke off his pursuit not an hour later, so…"

  Nelson cut off his blathering with a chop of his hand.

  "I've already sensed animosity between you before, sir. And did I not warn you both that I wished my captains to work together? Did I not make that plain enough, sir?" Nelson intoned harshly. "I cannot tolerate officers under me who can't put aside personal grudges so the greater good is achieved. With due deference, and mutual respect."

  "But I was trying to communicate to him how best my situation, and his desire for a fight, might coincide, sir."

  "He may be young, to your lights, Lewrie," Nelson pointed out. "May have attained a great deal, perhaps an unseemly great deal in so short a time. But I find him to be one of the ablest, most honest and courageous officers it has ever been my pleasure to meet. Intelligent, with steel in his hand, and aggressive, with a burning desire to close with, and destroy the foe."

  "Well, of course, sir," Alan wriggled.

  "How many battles has England lost, sir?" Nelson sighed, gazing off in the middle distance, half turned away from him. "How many opportunities have we let slip, because of bickering and rancor, when they might have resulted in st
upendous, crushing victories? All due to the spite and jealousy of our leaders, I tell you. You were at the Battle of the Chesapeake in eighty-one, I believe, sir?" Nelson snapped, turning to face him again. "Hood and Graves, sir, confusing signals? I doubt it. There was lingering animosity 'tween them, and Hood disgusted that his superior allowed de Grasse to stand out and exit the capes in good order, so he held his division back from engaging, and Graves left unable to prevail, unsupported. Hard as it pains me to say about our mutual patron, and as fine a sailor, a gentleman, and officer as we may ever know, he is not free of human failings. There must be trust, respect, and cooperation between us, sir!" Nelson cried, a messianic glint in his eye. "We must allow nothing to get in the way of Duty. Nothing! Mankind will never be free of spite, never become so contented with their lot, or with one another, that they march in lockstep, like some wind-up, clock-work toys. I cannot hope, nor order, that my officers love one another, Lewrie. But it is not too much to wish that they are respectful of one another, and the others' individual talents. Like a houseful of good-natured brothers and cousins might deal among themselves. Chaffer at home, with no vindictiveness, but ready to spring to the defense of each individual with as much alacrity as they would for their family's good name. I will not tolerate an officer who cannot work cheerfully with his fellows, Lewrie. Nor one who would play the serpent in the Garden of Eden behind the others' backs."

  "Aye, sir," Lewrie replied, cowed by the vehemence with which Nelson spoke, his stubborn enthusiasm.

  "You will write Cockburn and make amends to him," Nelson told him; ordered him. "Explain yourself, and your signals, and the spirit in which they were intended. You might also thank him, even though you have already done so, for rescuing you at your weakest moment. Quarter-hour more, and you'd have been forced to strike, no matter how doughty a defense you presented, isn't that what you wrote in your report? It would not hurt to tell Cockburn that."

  "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.

  Book V

  Aut tuam mortem out meam.

  Your life or mine.

  Hercules Furens, 427

  Lucius Annaeus Seneca

  CHAPTER

  1

  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 bugg
er'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…