A King's Commander (32 page)

“About a ton of tanned leather, sir, suitable for harnesses or belts and pouches,” Lewrie was happy to supply. “Cast-off military accoutrements, sail cloth suitable for tents, blankets . . . and quite a lot of naval stores. Salt meats, sausages and salami, cheese, and all the rough wine in the world.”

“Which will fetch a pretty penny at Mister Drake's sales.” Nelson beamed, rising to dismiss them. “And deny the French any joy of it. I think that will be all, until we know more. Gentlemen, thank you both for coming aboard, and sharing your information with me. And with each other, hmm? So you may cooperate in future, more attuned?”

That wasn't a hope; that was an order, Lewrie almost winced. “Stay a moment, Commander Lewrie, there is one other matter,” Nelson directed before they said their good-byes.

“Aye, sir?” he prompted, once Cockburn had gone.

“The matter of your tender, sir,” Nelson said, squinting over his report, impatiently turning for the best light in the great-cabins for his one good eye. “This little
Bombolo.
Quite a good idea. Most ingenious of you. Though you were
damned
fortunate, against such odds.”

“Thank you, sir.” Lewrie smiled, glad it wasn't to be a tongue-lashing for being at odds with Cockburn.

“I fear you'll have to keep her,” Nelson said soberly. “This
La Follette.
Better-armed, I grant you, and a valuable seizure. But she is a French ship of war, little or no, and must be properly condemned, then bought into the Royal Navy before I could possibly condone her addition to our squadron.”

“I see, sir.” Lewrie sighed.

“There are certain customs and usages of the fleet that even I cannot ignore, no matter the situation, do you see, Lewrie.” Captain Nelson laughed softly. “Only
so
many orders I may flaunt, or act contrary to. No, I am sorry, but she must go to San Fiorenzo. Our admiral may wish to inspect her unique carronade armament. That she is armed with carronades, at all, in
the first instance. And the novel training platform beneath them, in the second. And, after all . . . I doubt if you would wish to give up your First Officer, Mister Knolles,”

“Sir?”

“You would, you know, were she taken in or sent off. She's a lieutenant's command, not merely a tender to another ship,” Nelson told him. “
Could
I condemn her myself, and buy her in, well . . . I fear there are other lieutenants senior to Mister Knolles more deserving of command. And, were she a part of this squadron this instant, I would assign her to work inshore with
Meleager, Inconstant,
or
Southampton,
allowing one of the deep-draught frigates a shallow-draught companion. I fear you must recover your swivels and two-pounders from
La Follette,
and rearm
Bombolo.
You can tow her astern, ready for another bold raid on the French. But you can't come nigh to hoisting your own broad pendant as an
ex-officio
squadron commander with her your consort.”

“Oh well, sir . . .” Lewrie shrugged sheepishly, putting a good face on it.

“I trust, though, that the prize money from her capture mollifies you, Lewrie,” Nelson offered by way of condolence.

“Should the Court ever see their way clear to paying it, sir,” Lewrie reminded him, “then, aye, I s'pose it must.”

“Aye, those . . . !” Nelson seethed for a moment. “I tell you, sir, I am
determined
to become an admiral! To have say in matters, redress so many shortcomings. Prize-Court doings, not the least of them, but . . .” he said coming around his desk to steer Lewrie to the door of his day-cabin. “Until then, there is the satisfaction that you did your duty, as best you saw it, with aggressiveness, pluck and daring. And, more than your own portion of good fortune. Confounded French recruiting, perhaps; certainly destroyed a battery, a garrison, and took those coasting bottoms they'll sorely miss. And captured a French national ship into the bargain. This fellow who runs their convoys must, this very instant, be tearing out his hair in frustration.”

“Confusion to the French, sir,” Lewrie boasted.

“Amen to that, sir,” Nelson exclaimed, as a send-off. “Amen to that. Now, off with you, Lewrie. Recover your tender and we'll be off about the King's Business. Perhaps not quite so far as Cape Antibes . . . hmm? A little closer to home. A daily cruise west, returning to read my signals. Mister Drake suggests a large convoy, soon, a rich one . . .”

“Aye aye, sir!” Lewrie heartily agreed.

“Scour the coast for me, Lewrie. And good hunting.”

Y
ou
. . . !” the scarred man sneered, his permanently scrub-pink complexion mottling with an anger so fatal it could have killed, just by itself, straight across the desk in the great-cabins of the French National corvette
La Vengeance.

Vengeance
was at anchor in the port of Nice, but a southerly, a sirocco, blew into the harbor, making the agile three hundred-fifty-ton corvette do an edgy dance. Which didn't do Lieutenant Henri Becquet's attempts at composure any good, either, as he suffered the well-deserved tirade. As Lieutenant Henri Becquet attempted to find a way to wriggle free of responsibility—and the threat of court-martial and the guillotine. France did not suffer its fools gladly, had no use for failure, or excuses for it.

“You . . . !” the scarred Capitaine de Vaisseau hissed again. He partially hid his brutally scarred face with a black silk mask, an eye patch that extended upward to cover a broken-lined brow, downward to hide a cheek that had been slashed to the bone. There was no disguising, though, the tyrannical mouth, the upper lip and part of a nostril that had been savaged and crudely sewn, making him an offset harelip. “You stupid . . . goddamned . . .
fool!
”
he thundered. “Idiot!”

“M'sieur . . .” Lieutenant Becquet shivered so violently that his teeth chattered. His very life depended on the next few moments, suspended in midair at the end of a figurative single skein of light thread . . . and Le Hideux the one with the razor blade! Perversely, Becquet cast a glance to the civilian aft near the transom windows, who was a dark, brooding shadow against the midday glare. Le Hideux was showing off, performing for the civilian, Becquet suspected. Covering his own failures with a spectacular rant, if the civilian was down from Paris, to inquire why the convoys failed so often, so much was lost . . . ?

“What can you do?” the senior captain asked the ether, with a soft toss of his hands, and a look toward the deck head. He rose and paced slowly, his weakened left calf supported by a stiff knee boot reinforced with an iron brace. Clump, shuffle . . . clump, shuffle, and Lieutenant Becquet began to sweat an icy flood as Le Hideux approached him. “Here is the very sort of laziness I continually fight against, Citizen,” he said to the civilian. For his benefit . . . and his own. “Idiots, fools, shit for brains. Oh, they spout all the right slogans, cheer when you tell them, Citizen Pouzin. As if halfhearted
enthusiasm
for the Revolution was enough,
n'est-ce pas?
But, deep in their souls, they stay shop clerks! Open on time,
pretend
to work, then run for the cafés or the brothels, as soon as the door is shut for the evening. Without a thought of working! Without a care for anything but their comforts!”

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 with 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 . . . ?”