A King's Commander

by Dewey Lambdin

  Clump, shuffle . . . clump, shuffle, behind Becquet, who kept his gaze straight ahead at the silhouetted Citizen Pouzin, pleading with his eyes. And expecting a dagger in his kidneys.

  “A gun captain, did you know that, Citizen Pouzin?” Le Hideux sneered. “From the Garonne, where they do not understand the sea. A river man. A gun captain who turned against his ‘aristo’ masters when he saw which way the wind was blowing. When we broke up that elitist naval artillery corps, that pack of bootlickers! . . . Becquet turned on them. To save his hide, hein? So he could have his soup and bread, a ready supply of coin, only. For his wine, and his whores! Got promoted because he shouted the loudest. So he could make even more money to waste on wine and whores? ” Le Hideux accused, shouting into the lieutenant’s ear so close that spittle from his ravaged lips bedewed Becquet, as cold as Antarctic ice crystals.

  “ Capitaine, I did my duty, I . . .”

  “Too hard a task, was it, Becquet?” Le Hideux scoffed. “Too much to ask, to unload the cargo, as soon as you got to Bordighera? Even if you had to work past closing time, hein? But you had time. You docked at dusk? Answer!”

  “ Oui, Capitaine, just at dusk, but the Savoians . . .”

  “Let the infantry company go ashore, instead of ordering them to help unload,” Le Hideux growled, stumping back into his sight. “I ordered you to unload quickly, did I not? Dash in, dash out, before a ‘Bloody’ patrol saw you. So that the convoy would be safe. So those Savoian volunteers would get their arms and equipment. A direct order, and an important task. Which you nodded and parroted back to me, did you not, here in this cabin, Becquet? Swore on your honor you’d fulfill, to the letter, hein? Oui? ”

  “ Oui, Capitaine . . . but . . . !”

  “Thought one puny three-gun battery of light fieldpieces would be protection enough, did you? For ships in your charge? To protect your lazy hide? Were you aboard La Follette when the ‘Bloodies’ opened fire on the battery?”

  “Certainement, Capitaine!” Becquet declared.

  “Liar,” Citizen Pouzin asserted calmly, snapping Becquet’s head around. “A letter from your midshipman, Hainaut.”

  “ Oui, Hainaut!” Le Hideux chimed in. “Not four days since his capture, and we already have a letter he sent, asking for his exchange. He, at least, did his duty. You were not aboard. Where were you, in bed with a whore, up in the town? A whole half hour they took, before the battery was silenced. Were you so taken with wine that you needed a whole half hour to wake up? A half hour, Becquet. A real man would have mustered his crew, sailed out, and supported the battery. With the guns you had aboard La Follette, you could have deterred them entering. But what did you do with that precious time? Nothing! ”

  “The crew, they ran off, Capitaine, I tried to muster them . . .” “Not run off,” Citizen Pouzin countered, coming closer. “You gave them shore leave for the night. How convenient.”

  “They didn’t come back, I . . .” Becquet almost swooned in fear. “Some did. I brought them . . .”

  “From the same brothel where you wallowed?” Le Hideux scoffed.

  “The ‘Bloody’ corvette entered, and the few who’d stayed, or the few who’d come back with me, they . . .”

  “ Hainaut had mustered them for you,” Le Hideux accused.

  “Hainaut had sense enough to load the artillery. To load the artillery, do you hear, Citizen Pouzin? The gun captain’s guns were unloaded! Were they even loaded for the voyage, you idle fool?”

  “We drew the charges, once we tied up. Accidents, new allies . . .”

  “Convenient,” Pouzin whispered, coming close enough from those harsh shadows at last, so Becquet could see him. A square-cut, hefty man, quite handsome in a rough-and-ready way, with a blunt chin and a square head. All business. “Perhaps, Capitaine, too much so.”

  “All you had thought for was a bottle or two, a good supper, and a plump whore, wasn’t it, Becquet?” Le Hideux snapped. “Crew let go for the night, so they could have a good, easy time of it with you, so they would like you? Perhaps a bit too much liberté, égalité, fraternité, hein? ”

  Citizen Pouzin lifted a bushy brow at that statement. A French officer was supposed to be no better than the commonest man beneath him, due no more dignity. There was supposed to be brotherhood among them, a true comradeship in the service of The Cause.

  “Time enough for that when the voyage is over, when you had completed your mission,” Le Hideux added in a softer voice. Pouzin was in charge of intelligence, and had as many connections in Paris as did Le Hideux; as many ears into which he could pour poison against him. “Then, and only then,” he continued, glaring at Pouzin to show how heartfelt were his sentiments—and how innocent—“May you let your guard down. Had you lost your ship in battle, I’d be kissing you on both cheeks, Becquet. Had you hurt the ‘Bloodies,’ gotten the cargo ashore, it would have been bad luck, bad timing, their arrival, but . . .”

  “But it seems such a total lack of diligence, and caution, we might be able to think of it as treachery,” Pouzin challenged in his gruff, maddeningly calm voice. “How else may we explain the suddenly foolish actions of a man so well regarded, just weeks ago. With such a diligent, able, and unblemished record in the Republican Navy?”

  “M’sieur, oh God, I . . . !”

  “Citizen,” Pouzin corrected, with a warning hiss.

  “Now your Savoian hands have run away, and will never come back, hein? ” Le Hideux summed up, goading Becquet with a cruel leer. “The Savoians delayed training and arms. When they seemed so eager to join us. A brave French garrison turned to blood soup, a valuable company of experienced, battle-hardened officers and men who would have trained them, lost. How much enthusiasm for military service do you think the Savoians have now, hein? There is no doubt word has spread deep into the mountains. Of how inept French warships, of how ludicrous the French Army, look. And, it’s all . . . your . . . fault! ”

  “Dear God, sir . . . !” Becquet whimpered, almost pissing himself.

  “But you will atone for this, mon pauvre petit Gun Captain,” Le Hideux promised in a caressing whisper, that whisper more threatening than his loudest rants. “Oh, indeed you will. On your head be it.”

  “Sir . . . !”

  “By the authority given me by the Committee of Public Safety,” Le Hideux intoned, stumping away to lean on his desk to rest his leg. “I order you be held in irons until the time of your trial by court-martial, where you will answer charges of grave dereliction of duty . . . cowardice in the face of the enemy . . . the loss of your command without a shot being fired . . . the loss of your convoy and their cargo . . .”

  “And treason against the Republic,” Pouzin tacked on, heaving a huge shrug. “Trafficking with the enemy and conspiring to . . .”

  There was a thud as Becquet’s wits left him, and he swooned to the deck, a spreading wet stain on his trousers.

  “At five, this afternoon,” Le Hideux grunted. “Guards! Take this cowardly scum away!”

  • • •

  “A foregone conclusion.” Pouzin sighed, heading for the cabinet to pour them both glasses of wine. “A court packed with officers, and men . . . of sound Republican, Revolutionary spirit . . .”

  “Of a certainty,” Le Hideux agreed, wincing as he sat down, to rest that continual dull ache that had been his burden the past nine years. The bastard who’d cut him with his sword, laying his face open, had also slashed his left calf, after he was down and disarmed, writhing and howling with agony . . . ! “ Pour encourager les autres, Citizen. The grand revolutionary, Thomas Jefferson . . . he said that the Tree of Liberty must be watered with the blood of patriots. I water it with the blood of fools and cowards. Of shop clerks! So the others might become true patriots. Even if they come to their patriotism from fear. You see what I contend with, hein, Citizen Pouzin? The idleness, the thoughtlessness I endure? I am surrounded by incompetence, and lackluster pinheads. What I would give for just a few more Bretons here, a few more w
ith the hardy, seafaring courage of the ancient Celts . . .”

  Pouzin rolled his eyes, bored that Le Hideux was harping upon his favorite theory. He’d heard quite enough of it in the full year they’d cooperated together. Most warily cooperated, that is. Neither was superior to the other, running their separate operations in parallel; sometimes at cross-purposes, sometimes hand in glove. And writing to Paris, to their own superiors, and patrons, of a certainty, reporting on each other. They were both in the same business, really, this horrid little deformed ogre Le Hideux, and Pouzin the spy (if Pouzin was indeed his right name), that of seeking out defectors, traitors, failures, and fools, such as Becquet. Of inspiring the others to keep the ardent flame of passion for the Revolution alive in every breast. To weed the unworthy, the lazy, the smugly satisfied, so that France, so threatened from without (and quite possibly within, such as in the Vendee where resistance still sputtered), might survive, then march to the ends of the earth to spread her glorious doctrines. If that took a thousand bad bargains and traitors to the guillotine . . . et alors? . . . Pouzin thought philosophically.

  “And the brutal logic, the innate sense of the Breton peasant.” Le Hideux sighed in longing. “Not these shortsighted, city-bred . . .” He took a sip of wine to cool his melancholia. “I envy you, Pouzin. The zeal and dedication of the people who work for you. Do you ever face . . . ?”

  “A different sort of worry, Capitaine. ” Pouzin chuckled. “I worry about who is loyal, who is lying to me. Of which reports can I trust, and which are made up to please me, to earn my gold. Who works for the other side, or both. But, thankfully no, no lack of zeal. It is far too profitable to them. And, for the good ones, too much fun. A good spy thoroughly enjoys his work. Now then . . . the rest of the bad news. This ship that raided Bordighera . . . your Hainaut tells us, quite innocently in his letter to the parole commission, that she was named Jester. Even worse, she took one of the ships we . . . arranged . . . off San Remo. Aboard were two of my best agents, returning from Leghorn. One is dead, the other a captive.”

  “That’s bad,” Le Hideux commiserated. “But, far west of where we expected this embargo to reach, in a backwater. Had your people in Genoa told us this, I would definitely have provided escort within fifty sea miles of the coast. Though my few poor ships are stretched so thin,” he added, to excuse himself. Pouzin could smell a brave but exculpatory report to Paris; his and Le Hideux’s.

  “I grant you,” Pouzin allowed. “And I sympathize with your lack of suitable warships. Yet . . .” he posed, with another Gallic shrug.

  “Two ships lost,” Le Hideux rasped, running a hand over a rough and patchy beard and short mustache he’d grown to help disguise his injuries. “Another taken off Finale? Again, where my vessels dare not go, except in squadron strength.”

  “Our principals in Genoa, and Leghorn, are upset, that our mutual arrangement unravels so quickly,” Pouzin gloomed. “There are so many other ships naturally. But the captains and crews must take even more risk now. And one of our Tuscan principals was temporarily detained. He is not a man of stout courage. It will take more gold, he writes.”

  “He is robbing us, and he knows it,” Le Hideux spat. “A chance encounter off San Remo. An idiot who should have put back into Finale, under the protection of the castle’s guns, as soon as he saw a ‘Bloody’ frigate. Two out of dozens? The vagaries of war. Which they agreed to happily. The bulk of the goods, messages, and money get through.”

  “Certainement, Capitaine,” Pouzin quickly agreed. Certainly, Le Hideux was ruthless, a monster in human guise . . . but he’d been successful enough to keep his command—and his head—this long. Grain from North Africa, coastal convoys that lost ships, also of a certainty, but mostly delivered the goods to support the advance of the Army. And allow Pouzin to maintain his far-flung spider-web. “But with the British squadron in Vado Bay, and our army threatened by de Vins . . . a greater effort is called for. No matter the cost.”

  “Get me Hainaut back,” Le Hideux said, of a sudden. “He’s not a Breton, but he’s of the ancient blood, of the Belgae. In his head he has information we need, Pouzin. He’s been in Vado Bay, aboard this . . . Jester. He may be only a midshipman . . . now. But, he’s paissan connard, a wily one. A cunning one. He has a great future. He’s counted their guns, can tell us of their ships, their schedules . . .”

  “But we know them,” Pouzin countered. He could not relate what his latest secret letter from Genoa hinted, from one of their principals aboard Il Briosco; that Hainaut had been taken so easily, so clumsily, that the “Bloody” sailors laughed at him. A cunning peasant, yes, he was, Pouzin was sure; cunning enough to have a very strong streak for self-preservation. “A sixty-four-gun ship of the line, three frigates, a pair of what we would call corvettes, a pair of brigs of war, a brig-sloop of fourteen guns, and a cutter.”

  “We know the ships, yes, Pouzin, but not the men who command,” Le Hideux demanded. “Hainaut will know to listen and learn, to probe and discover their faults. You will get him back quickly.”

  “I will get him paroled,” Pouzin promised; it was easier than saying no, though how long it might take . . . “There are midshipmen of equal value from the Berwick Admiral Comte Martin took in his initial try against them. But . . .”

  “Now there’s a head that should tumble into the basket, Pouzin,” Le Hideux sneered, tossing back his wine and reaching for another. “A coward and a fool, who abandoned Ça Ira and Censeur. Another Becquet. Another time-server. Another shop clerk! Hainaut is ten times that Martin’s worth. At least he is dedicated, and zealous. You don’t see, do you? Have I not told you of the ancient Chinois general, Sun T’zu? The man who knows his enemy, as well as he knows himself, will never be defeated. Especially if he knows himself, best of all. What are their faults, their strengths? Their vices, their weaknesses . . . what have we learned about them, so far, I ask you?”

  That was an indictment of Pouzin’s intelligence-gathering, and could not go unanswered.

  “A fair amount, Capitaine, ” Pouzin retorted, baring his teeth. “We know that this Nelson took both Ça Ira and Censeur. Traded fire with Alcide before she blew up. He was a favorite of Hood. Led the battle line both times Martin fought Hotham. A very aggressive man. Our principal met him, when he represented Hood in Genoa, last year, and was highly impressed. A little fellow, a bit frail . . .”

  “Watch out for the little ones, Pouzin, the minnikins have more ambition than most,” Le Hideux cackled. “He will be vaunting, brave. Perhaps too ambitious and eager for glory. Ah ha!”

  “The frigate Inconstant, ” Pouzin went on, proving his worth to Le Hideux, and hating every minute of justifying himself to such a hideous fellow. “Her Captain Fremantle . . . dull, dogged, quiet. Capable, but inarticulate.”

  “A follower,” Le Hideux dismissed. “A gundog. The others?” “The one off Finale, Meleager. Her Captain Cockburn is a young man, a minor ‘aristo’ from lower Scotland. Very prim and proper, but . . .”

  “His family rich?”

  “I don’t know,” Pouzin intoned, the phrase he hated most of all!

  “A rich ‘aristo’ will be smug, easily satisfied. A poor one will be all ambition and nose-high airs, too proud to listen to anyone. He’s lucky once, but again? Go on. Tell me of this Jester ’s captain.”

  “A commander, in his early thirties. She has eighteen cannon on her main deck . . . nine-pounders. Carronades, of course. They all seem to have them, almost doubling their armament. She was a French corvette, once . . . Sans Culottes . . . taken off Toulon after the ‘Bloodies’ . . .”

  “But you don’t know his identity,” Le Hideux purred.

  “Not yet. He has not set foot in Genoa, so no one . . . but your Midshipman Hainaut, has seen him, so far.” Pouzin sighed in surrender. It appeared that he would have to get Hainaut exchanged, and as quickly as possible, after all. “We know little more about her. An agent from Calvi—when we still had communications with him—reported Jes
ter ’s arrival at San Fiorenzo. Last June, or July, as I recall. I don’t have my records with me. I doubt that agent is willing to make inquiries now, since Corsica is occupied. Getting a letter to him is almost imp . . .”

  “Try Genoa, first. I know the ‘Bloodies.’ There’s nothing they like more than a stroll ashore, an invitation to a supper, or a ball. A coupling with a whore? You can arrange that, Pouzin?”

  “Of course, Capitaine, ” Pouzin agreed with a tiny smile. “Poxed, or otherwise?”

  “Oh, the ‘Bloodies,’ so many of them are already poxed. Look at how little effect it had, after their long stay at Leghorn.” Le Hideux chuckled. “I want to know who he is, what he’s like . . . so I can lay the trap that kills him, Pouzin. He’s dangerous, this one, whoever he may be. He’s hurt our Cause, made us look like fools, le salaud intrigant! ”

  Made you look the fool, Pouzin thought, his face a stony mask. “I will move the squadron east, Pouzin,” Le Hideux announced suddenly. “I must. Our presence at sea must be seen, by the Savoians, and our unwitting . . . traders, hein? ”

  “Escorted convoys?” Pouzin hoped aloud.

  “We must,” Le Hideux growled. “Else we risk losing more ships, more supplies, which the Army needs so badly. And soon, before de Vins masses his Austrians. Or the Genoese at last find a scrap of courage. We must both use our influence . . . or our threats . . . against Toulon, to force Martin to give me the strength I need. He hoards corvettes and frigates, refuses me any of the trained men or experienced officers I need. Yet expects me to work miracles with my castoffs and converted merchantmen. Here, here, is where the Navy should be, Pouzin! Facing the ‘Bloodies’ with a large squadron, under my command. Four of our little armed tartane expedients could never outgun or outfight one British frigate. Yet, how dare they sneer when we fail! If we wish to defeat the Austrians, and guard our borders, they must release to me the proper ships, at last. I cannot face this embargo, otherwise.”