A King's Commander (25 page)

“God, no, sir!” Spendlove countered. “That was good old English cheek. The sort allowed midshipmen. A different matter entirely, sir!”

“I stand corrected about your antecedence, young sir,” he said with a mock bow. As Lewrie turned away, he missed the wink exchanged between Hyde and Spendlove, the smiles of relief among the crew. The captain had cracked a jest, and a smile, after weeks without. Perhaps the bad times were over. For him, and for them all.

So long, Corsica, Lewrie thought, peering sou'west, though that isle was far under the horizon, a hundred mile or more. So long, my shore house.
And
my damn' rent money! And Phoebe, and my . . . well.

Free of Hotham, free of the fleet, under an energetic commander such as Horatio Nelson, Lewrie was sure there'd be action galore, and the reek of fired guns. Bags of other things to deal with, to think about; so much that he would no longer have a chance to remain venal or weak. A chance for redemption, perhaps?

Daft as a March hare . . . reedy as a willow wand, was Nelson, but Lewrie was coming to like his direct, and enthusiastic aggressiveness. And who'd o' thought it, the first time he'd met him.
Or
the second.

And this time, please God . . . he prayed silently. I promise to keep me member buttoned snug in me breeches; swear on a stack o' Bibles, if you like. Just steer us to action, so I can stay out o' trouble.

Mostly, he amended quickly.

And, he could not help smiling ruefully; there was a phrase he had heard, mostly on the lower deck, the wry wisdom of a frazzled sailor who had bitten off more than he could chew. And, it even rhymed!

When in trouble, when in doubt . . .
hoist th' main,
and fuck-off out!

“Ahum.” He coughed into his fist. “Steady as she goes, Mister Brauer. East-sou'east. Thus.”

P
ipes
squealing, Marine muskets and deck-officers' swords presented in salute, as Commander Lewrie attained the entry port of
Agamemnon,
just after Captain Cockburn. The dance of gigs roundabout to line up in order of seniority had almost seemed laughable; had it not been deadly serious to some of the participants.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” an
Agamemnon
Lieutenant greeted Lewrie's safe arrival on the starboard gangways. “Might you join the rest, on the quarterdeck yonder, for just a moment, sir, till . . .”

“Certainly, sir.” Alan smiled, looking forward to an opportunity to speak to Fremantle again, that tall, laconic stalwart; and, to become acquainted with the rest of the captains of their squadron, who had so far been faceless names aboard distant ships.

“Captain Fremantle, good morning to you, sir.”

“Lewrie . . . hey,” Thomas Fremantle replied, never known for the use of five words, when one or two would do. “Keep well?”

“Indeed, sir. And free of our admiral, sure to keep better.”

An audible sniff to his right, which turned Lewrie's attention to a very young post-captain, a prim, upright, almost delicately handsome sprog with an eager and earnest expression on his “phyz.” Though at first glance, a moment before, that phyz had borne the not-quite-with-us-yet blandness and perpetual weak-mouthed pout of someone from the peerage, the sort who felt nigh-overwhelmed but was determined not to show it to lesser mortals. Now, a long vane of a nose, with a pug-tilted tip was lifted high in what appeared to be sudden revulsion.

“Allow me to name myself, sir. Alan Lewrie, the
Jester
sloop.” Lewrie beamed with malicious glee to so discomfit such a paragon. “And I believe you are Captain Cockburn, of the
Meleager
frigate?”

Of course, he'd known; all he'd had to do was see from where a captain's gig had come, and observe the rigid order of boarding.

“It's announced
Coe
-burn, sir,” the young sprog announced in a testy snap, looking Lewrie up and down like a disbelieving tailor.

“Your servant, Captain Coe-burn,” Lewrie offered. “And I stand corrected.” Beaming on, as if nothing could deter a sunny smile.

“Really, Commander Lewrie, our admiral . . .” Cockburn's petulant thin-lipped mouth grimaced in disapproval.

“Savior of Corsica, sir,” Lewrie asserted quite cheerfully.

“Uhm, yess . . . though you sounded less than supportive of . . .” Cockburn frowned, as if disarmed; or at least confused.

“Spot o' bother at home, we heard, Lewrie?” Fremantle interjected quickly, to defuse the situation. “Better now?”

“Quite, Captain Fremantle,” Alan said, allowing his intercessor to lead him away, quite thankfully. “Winter agues. 'Twas a near thing but my wife and children have recovered, sir, and thankee for askin'.”

He caught a testy sniff from Cockburn, to his rear. Was he one of those hidebound in the Navy who had no use for a married officer, suspecting them of a lack of zeal and attention to duties?

Damn him, then, Lewrie thought quickly; senior to me or no, he's barely a jot over twenty-one. Already made “post” when most his age are lucky to be commissioned, at all? As much the “boy-captain” as Nelson looked at Turk's Island, I swear. Touch of the brogue or burr to him, no matter how “plumby” he speaks, too. Irish or Scottish? Lewrie wondered to himself. No, definitely a burr—maybe Lowland variety. Fair complected like a Scot. Your daddy a trewed Lowland Scot laird, young Captain Coe-burn? No knees for the proper kilt?

As he and Fremantle conversed, he turned a corner of his eye to measure Cockburn; just an inch or so taller than his own five-feet-nine, perhaps no heavier than his own twelve stone. Courtier-slim, elegant in his carriage . . . aware of himself, too.

Lieutenant George Andrews,
Agamemnon
's
first officer, joined them, and Fremantle drifted away. “Bit of a rigid stick, hmm?

Cockburn?” Alan inquired softly. “Know much about him, do you, sir?”

“Oh, him sir?” Lieutenant Andrews shrugged. “The usual story, Commander Lewrie. A long schooling, like most of us, carried on ship's books without actually serving, till he was fourteen or so.” Andrews smiled. “Went into his first ship in eighty-six . . . passed his board, first try, in ninety-two, I believe. Was aboard
Brittania,
with Hotham, when the war began . . .”

“No wonder he didn't like my scurrilous comments.” Lewrie almost winced, beginning to wonder if he'd tromped through the manure again, in his best boots.

“A scurrilous comment 'bout our admiral, sir?” Andrews recoiled in mock horror. “Probably not a jot on what I've already heard, but . . . then into
Victory
under Hood as tenth lieutenant. Then into
Speedy
after a few months. You know the benefits of the flagship's wardroom, and may we all thank God for it, I say. Had
Speedy
for just a little over four months, and did incredibly good service in her, too. Then was jumped to ‘post' into
Inconstant
when Captain Montgomerie had to ask for relief.”

“Mercurial.” Lewrie sighed.

“A month in her, then into
Meleager,
Commander Lewrie.” Andrews chuckled. “No, I should think mercurial can't
quite
convey how quickly he's rising! A good enough sort, I've gathered. Captain Nelson thinks the world of him. Sober, high-minded, a taut hand . . . though a bit of a stickler. Stiff and stuffy, but . . .” Andrews shrugged again. “Why?”

“Just want to know with whom I'm dealing, Lieutenant Andrews,” Lewrie discounted. “After all, we'll be depending on each other . . .”

“Oh, I get your meaning, sir.” Andrews brightened. “Haven't a worry in the world with him at your back, sir. When it comes to combat, Captain Cockburn's a perfect Tartar. Doesn't
look
the sort, does he? But then, neither does Captain Nelson, were one to judge solely 'pon a fellow's appearance, Commander Lewrie. Though I must say,
you
appear as . . . dare I say, sir? . . . as dashing as your past exploits repute you to be?” Andrews drew a finger down his own cheek, as if to scribe the cutlass scar on Lewrie's. “God help the French, Commander Lewrie, our captain remarked when he learned
Jester,
and ‘Ram-Cat' Lewrie were to be part of our squadron.”

It was quite refreshing for Lewrie, now that he was somewhat a “senior” officer, to be toadied to, gushed at, to have a subordinate “piss down his back” as he had over the years to senior officers. All he could do was blush in surprise, scuff his shoes, and make a stab at “shy” noises.

“Ah?” Lieutenant Andrews chirped, when a midshipman came to his side. “Very well, Mister Nisbet. Gentlemen, sirs? Captain Nelson is now able to receive you, and allow me to express his apologies for keeping you waiting. If you will follow me, sirs . . . ?”

Nelson's stepson, Josiah Nisbet, Lewrie gathered, looking that somewhat portly, smug young man over; God help Nelson, he thought; as bad as old Forrester, back in
Desperate.
And thinking about old times in the American Revolution, he could not help wondering . . . one of his old captains, aboard
Desperate—
Tobias Treghues—one of God's Own Cuckoos, he. Offend him once, and you were in his bad books forever. And I think I just offended another of his tribe, Cockburn. Well then, God help
me . . .
again!

Stewards circulated, trotting out glasses and wine as senior men took seats near Nelson's desk, and the rest stood as close as they were able. It was a Tuscan red, a tad dry and puckery, but it was as close as Nelson might come to a proper “Welcome Aboard” claret, after a year or more in the Mediterranean.

“Gentlemen, good day to you all,” Nelson began once they were supplied. “I should like to start by proposing a toast. To our squadron. To us.”

“To us!” they chorused, tipping back their glasses.

“It is a fragile, and may soon seem like an arduous and frustrating, task upon which we have been embarked,” Nelson continued. “One, I trust . . . given your zeal for its performance . . . which shall 
not
prove to be unrewarding, or absolutely vital to our cause. But one that may seem to pose you on tenterhooks, should this duty be pursued properly. Top-up for you? And then I will reveal it to you.”

The stewards came around again, and Lewrie found a place to slouch against a carline post with his second glass in his hand.

“We are, as you may know, under orders to liaise with the Austrian Army, and their allies the Piedmontese, commanded by General de Vins. To be his left flank, as it were, and act as a wing of his cavalry might, at sea, to scout out and discover, then harass and destroy, any attempt by the French to advance eastward along the coast. General de Vins aims to advance west, clearing the French from those ports and fortified towns of the Genoese Riviera, containing French expansion, then driving them back behind their own borders. Eventually, it is hoped,” Nelson said forcefully, “he will bring them to battle and destroy them, clearing the way for a second invasion of the French portion of the Riviera and Provence. That task is made daunting by the nature of the country. Inland, there are steep mountain roads, little better than Corsican goat paths, these narrow passes that are easily defended. Supplying his army inland will be most difficult. And equally difficult for the French, do you see,” he said, sweeping a hand over a large map on his desk, at which they all craned their necks to peruse.

“The French aim is to spread eastward, seizing the Genoese Republic, Piedmont . . . then all of the Italian peninsula. We've checked them at sea, so far, so the army France assembled to retake Corsica has been diverted . . . to here, east of Toulon. They come forward slowly, depending on coastal merchant ships for supply. Hence the necessity for our squadron in these waters, to harass their trade . . . and to protect ours. We are, gentlemen, much like a cavalry vedette or piquet-post, a force flung forward-most, at the very lance-tip of contact with our foe. We may help delay, therefore assuring the defeat of, their plans. Or, we may most surely lose this campaign entire. For the time,” Nelson told them proudly, “we are the most vital naval squadron in the Mediterranean. Perhaps in all of European waters. Things . . .” Nelson was forced to admit, sobering, “have not gone entirely in our favor . . .”

He outlined the reverses the Coalition had suffered. The Austrian army under General Coburg had been defeated, and run out of Belgium. An Austro-Prussian force across the Rhine had been run back to the east side, which forced the Prussians to split off from the Austrians, and sign the Treaty of Basle with France. Holland had been overrun, its ice-bound navy captured—by French cavalry charging over the ice!—and was now a mostly enthusiastic French Republican possession called the Batavian Republic. And the unfortunate Duke of York's army, mostly Hessian and Hanoverian mercenaries, had been run from Dunkirk into Flanders, then into Holland as it was being conquered, and finally into Germany, where the Royal Navy had fetched off the officers, their baggage, and a large part of the supply train . . . but the men had mostly been abandoned, and lost. Spain, never much of an ally, anyway, had just signed a treaty with France, and had quit the Coalition!

Closer to home, Austria and Sardinia were still officially in . . . but Genoa and Tuscany were wavering, and what the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies in Naples might do from one moment to the next was . . . iffy. With Tuscany now neutral, Leghorn and Porto Especia could no longer be considered allied, Royal Navy, bases, though they could refit and victual individually during a limited stay . . . as could
every
belligerent's warships! Genoa, directly in the path of both armies, maintained her shaky, but still friendly, neutrality; quite unable, or unwilling to defend her own territories. Or too frightened of the consequences!

“The trade with the French is bolstered by many Danish, Dutch, Tuscan of a certainty, vessels. Perhaps we shall see Spanish vessels seeking to profit, presenting the most plausible, but colorable, papers. Even Genoese ships are suspect. And must be stopped.”

Hullo, Alan gawped, slouching a bit less;
hell
of a way to deal with a neutral . . . almost an ally!

“This coast now occupied by the French, properly of the Genoese Republic, along here west of Vado Bay . . .” Nelson said with a sweep of his hand over the map, which encompassed Porto Mauritio in the far west, the harbors of Oneglia, Diano and Alassio, Luano and Finale, as well as a host of lesser ports, fishing villages tucked into almost every sheltered inlet on that steep-to, rocky coast, all the way to the wide sweep of Porto Vado and Vado Bay. Even further west, along the coast of formerly Sardinian Savoia—from Cape Antibes, Nice, and San Remo—the Riviera presented a hundred places where shoal-draught coastal trading ships could shelter, almost take to the shingly, stony beaches overnight, like ancient Greek or Roman galleys. It had more hidey-holes than a well-wormed cheese!