A King's Commander (48 page)

“His ship against mine again, then.” Lewrie frowned, hesitant to cross swords with Choundas, especially after the last drubbing. “My sloop of war 'gainst his twenty-two-gunned corvette . . .”

“No, sir!” Peel exclaimed, with a small sign of glee. “Not his flagship . . .
La Vengeance,
we think she's named. Maybe she was used for taking the merchantman with the gold, but he came to Genoa 'board a privateer, what they call a xebec
.
Fast as the wind, I heard . . .”

“Aye, they are.” Lewrie nodded, feeling a little surge of hope. “Three-masted, lateen-rigged, much like a pirate's galley. Long, lean, and very fast. Fairly low freeboard and bulwarks, though . . . tell me, Mister Peel. Have you seen her?”

“Well, yessir,” Peel allowed cautiously. “Though I know nought of boats and such, I was told what Choundas now looks like. Mister Twigg had me boat past his ship, to confirm he was there. And he is, Captain Lewrie. Seemed to know who I was, too, damn his eyes . . . eye, rather.” Peel snorted with faint amusement. “Christ what an ugly bugger. Carve damn' well, you do, sir, I must say! How he knew to go after the right ship, we
still
can't understand, when the bait was so temptin' . . . ignore what the
signorina
gathered for him . . . ?”

“
Too
tempting, perhaps,” Lewrie sniffed. “Once bitten, and all that. A mite too convenient, and overly clever a ruse.”

“We're supposing Choundas was forced to depend on Mister Twigg's opposite number, a civilian spy-master,” Peel admitted softly. “And they do not get along, we've heard. Suspect each other . . .”

“No matter, now,” Lewrie snapped, opening his desk to fetch out a chart-pencil and a blank quarto sheet of paper. “Since you've seen her close-aboard, could you sketch her? Recall how many guns she carried . . . and an idea as to their caliber?”

“S'pose so, sir.” Peel shrugged again, bending over the desk to begin drawing. “'Bout as long as your ship, I think. Not as tall . . . I think I saw only five or six openings along the one side for guns. One was open . . . fairly good-sized stuff at either end, though. Big as some siege artillery I once saw at Woolwich. Hellish good weekend, that . . .”

“Short barrels, like mortars?”

“No, I don't think so, Captain Lewrie.” Peel frowned, cocking his head as he bent over his sketch. “Looked average-long barrels, to me.”

Lewrie went to the wine cabinet to refill his glass, riding the easy motion of his warship as she tore through the sea, sails set “all to the royals” in her haste. For once, there was enough wind aloft in the fickle Ligurian Sea to make speed, when speed was vital. He could be off Genoa Mole by sundown.

A xebec
,
he pondered; about
Jester
's
length. Shoal-draught, she could stand much closer inshore of
Jester,
should they discover her, to escape. Draw about three feet less, perhaps? Long and lean, built low to the sea, and very wet along her gunwales and gangways. Sail-tending was done amidships, fore-and-aft, on a central walk-way, and some xebecs
were oar-driven, still . . . Spanish, Venetian, Genoese, Barbary Pirates . . . they still depended on them as armed, oared galleys. With guns mounted on their forecastles and stern platforms, primarily. Nothing more than twelve-pounders, he thought, anything else'd be too much end weight.

Why had Choundas come himself? he fretted. Let's say he already knew that de Vins would take action, that the French Army was ready for a battle, too, and that stealing the gold would precipitate it. Wasn't his prime responsibility with his squadron? Wouldn't that be where any diligent senior officer would be, if things were indeed coming to a head?

“Rub our noses in it,” he muttered. What had Peel said? It was as if Choundas had known who he was already. Might even have known that Twigg was in the area! And no
wonder
he'd failed to take the best bait! But why do the dirty work, himself? Alan still puzzled. When that would isolate him from his squadron, get him penned in at Genoa for days, even weeks? And not bring his own ship? Rely on a privateersman, not under naval discipline, unreliable, untrustworthy, sure to pocket . . . !

“Here you go, Captain Lewrie,” Peel interrupted, rising to go for the wine cabinet himself. “Dusty work, sketchin' from memory, do ye mind? I can't get it out o' my head, though, that those guns along the side, well . . . looked no bigger than galloper guns. Four, perhaps six-pounders. 'Bout like horse artillery.”

“Not carronades? Not squat and stubby pestles?” Lewrie pressed as he regarded Peel's handiwork. “Like those on my quarterdeck?”

“Nossir,” Peel rejoined, certain. “Definitely long barrels.”

“Too few French copies of carronades to go around, yet,” Lewrie said, feeling even more hope. “Nothing they'd sell or share with the war-for-profit mob.” Peel had produced a fairly good drawing, complete with arrowed notes regarding the xebec's
paint scheme. Dark green hull, with red gunwales and upper works. “She'll be fast, but
Jester
's quick-work is clean and new-coppered. With a good slant, should she sail, we stand a good chance of bringing her to battle. If I stand off Genoa to the sou'west, about five or six miles inshore. He has to sail soon, to the west, if he wishes to rejoin his squadron. He
can't
be absent when the big battle's about to come off. Can't count on his army taking the city right off, either. One warship could bottle him up for a month!”

“Unless he does something else clever, sir,” Peel griped mood-ily. “I'm coming to fear just how clever he really is. Abandon the privateer and go overland in civilian dress, perhaps? Senator di Silvano's farm carts and estate agents could smuggle him out, Then should this ship . . .”

“Aye, should we close her and take her, he'd be ashore, laughing his bloody head off,” Lewrie sourly agreed. “I assume Mister Twigg has already made arrangements against that?”

“He has, sir,” Peel assured him—sort of. “Though we're thin on the ground when it comes to people we can trust, besides the pair of us, Mister Drake, and a few of his hired agents. The Austrians . . .”

“I'm sure their army has spies in plenty,” Lewrie gloomed. “In business with Italians all this time, some bad habits must have rubbed off by now, surely!”

“Unless the rumor of a large French invasion convoy was another sham, Captain Lewrie,” Peel pointed out. “It was a good-enough rumor to draw most of your Nelson's ships off to the west, to counter it. If the French are just as ready for a decisive battle as the Austrians, it may be possible that Choundas doesn't expect to have to go very far, to rejoin. Or wait a week till Genoa is theirs. He knows
something,
that much is certain, this Choundas. Something we don't, yet.”

“Large crew, this privateer of his?” Lewrie asked.

“About a hundred or so, that I saw, sir,” Peel told him.

“Had to have promised half the booty to them, else they'd never have taken the job on.” Lewrie sighed. “Why should they risk all that, to sail out at once?
They
could wait for Genoa to fall. Doesn't mean Choundas would. Fearsome as he is, he couldn't count on a crew of mercenaries to protect him. And she's not a proper warship, disciplined . . . did you see any uniformed men aboard? Any soldiers, their versions of Marines? Any naval officers, besides him?”

“Nossir,” Peel replied. “Though what might have been hidden . . .”

“Not much depth of hold in which to hide anything, aboard shallow-draught vessels such as xebecs,”
Lewrie interrupted impatiently. “No . . . I expect what you saw was all they had. Hired 
for the one job, perhaps . . . but only to
transport
the gold, not take it, d'ye see, Peel?” Lewrie enthused. “Choundas couldn't use his flagship to fetch it to Genoa. I
hate
the man . . . but I understand him, a little, I think. He's a sailor!
La Vengeance,
d'ye say? Wager he named her, himself. Chose her paint scheme, so she'd look just like his old'un, the one he lost in the Far East, in eighty-five. Lost her, and two others, too! The greatest shame any captain can stomach. No, he'd never risk
her.
Never take the chance of losing another command, especially to me . . . or your Mister Twigg. This privateer's expendable, now she's done his chore for him. She's civilian, not Navy. Does she sail, and we take her, I'll sport you any odds you like, he'll
not
be aboard. She'll swan off sou'east,
paid
to lure us on a false scent. While he takes passage west, close inshore. On one of Senator di Silvano's fishing boats or coasters, more like.”

“Well, I'm damned, sir!” Peel breathed out, the victim of twice the surprise; that Choundas could be that clever. Or that Lewrie, for all the deprecating things his employer had said about him, was showing signs of being just as discerning and quick-witted. “O' course, it makes
eminent
sense. Once he gets to Genoa, he knows he's a quick way out . . .
that's
what he had up his sleeve that we couldn't hope to know!”

“He's a sailor,” Lewrie reiterated. “Wasn't born to Frog nobility, Mister Peel. Brought up in the coastal fisheries. Not many good horse-men spring from that lot. He won't go overland, 'less forced to.”

“And you knackered his leg, sir, long ago. Make a ride that far all but impossible for him. Though a cart, or coach . . .”

“A
sailor,
Mister Peel!” Lewrie laughed. “He'd feel lost on the land, no matter how he goes. But he knows the sea. With a small crew of experienced Genoese, supplied by Signore
di Silvano . . . seamen just as dedicated to the conspiracy as their master is . . . he's still in his proper element.”

“A fish
in
the water, so to speak, Captain Lewrie.” Peel japed. “Exactly.”

“Though . . .” Peel sobered. “That would mean we're only one ship. And we'd have to stop and search every bloody rowboat 'tween Genoa and Vado.
And
intercept the privateer if she comes out.”

“That, too, exactly, Mister Peel,” Lewrie snapped, losing every hope he'd conjured up. “Needle in a bloody hayrick. Damn!”

A
gamemnon
was already at sea, lurking a few miles south of the harbor approaches to Genoa. Like a reunion with a parent after years apart, Lewrie was shocked at how she'd aged in the months that
Jester
had been away. Paint faded and streaked, her gunwales gone filthy and her sails turned weary brown, and much patched. Worst of all, thigh-thick anchor cables had been bound about her hull to keep her together.

A quick, shouted conference with Nelson, across the fifty yards that separated them after
Jester
came under her lee, both captains too impatient to waste time transferring from ship to ship, so they could lay their plans in the idle comfort of the flagship's great-cabins.

Nelson had to admit that
Agamemnon
was too weeded to catch the privateer, should she come out. He would take her to Vado Bay at once, send
Tartar
out to watch the coast closer inshore east of Vado, rearm little
Bombolo,
which had been swinging idle since
Meleager
had abandoned her so she could go off to Leghorn for her refit, put a crew in her, and reinforce
Tartar.
The privateer would be Lewrie's “pigeon,” when or if she left port.

To aid his own search, Nelson gave Lewrie the use of his barge, a thirty-two-foot ten-oared boat, which could be rigged with two masts and carry a two-pounder boat gun and a pair of swivels. With an admonition not to scratch her paint,
Agamemnon
departed, leaving
Jester
to stand guard at Genoa by herself, until
Tartar
and
Bombolo
could join her. A day and a night, perhaps, before she was reinforced.
Speedy
would have encountered at least one or two of the frigates by then, and summoned them back from their wild-goose chase to the west. With all the luck in the world, they'd then sew a net so snug about Genoa and its approaches that Choundas would never get out.

The first use Lewrie made of the barge was to man her, and send

Midshipman Hyde inshore with her, to carry a message to Twigg or Drake to keep an eye on the privateer, hire a swift local boat, and send out an alert if Choundas transferred to another vessel, and its description and course.

Then, five miles sou'west of the Mole, he could do nothing more.

Except fret, of course.

As
Jester
continued her pacing, standing off and on that coast as the evening gathered, Lewrie paced his quarterdeck on the wind-ward side. Back and forth, from the hammock nettings overlooking the waist to the corner of the taffrail by the night lanthorn. Fretting a safe and swift return of the barge, Mister Hyde and its crew; though he doubted the Genoese government would be silly enough to delay her or seize her. They were in enough bad odor, already; had practically thrown in with the French! Fretting the delay of fresh information from Twigg, which Hyde would surely have for him. That Choundas would confound them one more time, and stay snug and safe aboard the privateer, after all. Or take the overland route, disguised as a misshapen Gypsy, or something.

But mostly, fretting that Choundas would realize that
Agamemnon
had departed, and make his move before any reinforcement arrived. Had Choundas planned to sneak out aboard a nondescript fishing boat, rush back to his beloved corvette, and his neglected duties, flush with new triumph, he'd have to do it soon. Surely, he'd feel the noose drawing tighter, the bastard had the survival instincts of a bread-room rat . . . and was just about as hard to kill for certain.

Depart just after twilight, Lewrie pondered, hands in the small of his back, glaring down at the toes of his fashionable boots, pacing almost hunchbacked with impatient gloom. Show no lights, maybe a wee lanthorn . . . one fishing boat 'mongst a fleet of 'em?

Speed, though . . . has to get back, soon. Dash along the coast to be west of Vado Bay before tomorrow's dawn? French lines begin where? Can't count on anything tubby as
Bombolo—
she's typical of boats hereabouts—to get him through the area where he'd be most vulnerable. A larger vessel, then. Longer waterline, schooner-rigged. A tartane
or pencil-thin . . . he
might
try with the privateer. She's armed,
and
fast enough. Does that damned senator have himself a yacht? He looked like the sort to afford one . . . ruddy-faced. Hunting, I thought. Owns ships and such, so he
must
do some sailing, maybe it comes from . . .
damn!

He stopped to scrub his face with dry hands and peer shore-ward.
Jester
was on the easternmost leg of her patrol line, barely two miles off the harbor entrance. There were few signs of activity. Some small fishing boats about
Bombolo
's
size working their way back into harbor. Few sail visible at all, save for them, and some even smaller with one lugsail or lateen, little bigger than
Jester
's
jolly boat or gig. All heading in as sunset approached, or idling bare-poled close inshore for a final cast of the nets. And a two-master heading out! He crossed to the binnacle cabinet by the wheel to snatch his telescope and inspect it.

The elegant barge, at last! Within half an hour, she'd be alongside with news. Then he could arm her before full dark, put more hands into her, and double his patrol.

“Helm up a point, Quartermaster!” he snapped. “That'll be our Mister Hyde returning. We'll stand down to her.”

“Aye aye, zir,” Brauer crisply agreed, feeding spokes a-weather.

“A note from Mister Drake, sir,” Hyde offered, once he was back on deck. “His compliments to you, Captain, and said for me to inform you that he already had the privateer under close scrutiny. Of yet, there's been no sign that anyone has left her. Though he also bade me tell you that they'd hoisted an ‘Easy' pendant this morning, and allowed traders' bumboats to come alongside. Rather a lot of 'em, sir,” Hyde contributed. “Saw 'em myself. So many it's hard to keep track, that Mister Drake also said to say, sir.”

“Do you carry any message for me, sir?” Mister Peel asked from the side.

“Aye, sir, I do.” Hyde nodded, reaching into another pocket for a wax-sealed note. “Mister Drake gave it me, from some
banker
fellow?”

Kept in the dark so far, Hyde could only raise his brows and wonder why a commercial letter was just as important as one from the Consul representing HM Government at Genoa. Having this stranger Peel aboard, with the right of the quarterdeck, and put aboard so urgently, had Hyde and the rest totally mystified.

“Any vessels follow you to sea, sir?” Lewrie asked quickly. “A vessel of
any
kind that looked in the way of readying for departure?”

“None that I took note of, sir.” Hyde frowned. 

“Very well, Mister Hyde.” Lewrie sighed, deflated. “Mister Buchanon, sir? We'll arm the barge before dark. I wish you to take charge of her. Mister Crewe? A two-pounder with round-shot and canister in the barge, with two swivels and ammunition. Four extra hands besides boat crew, Mister Cony. The sharp-eyed, and some decent gunners. I'll want a pistol, musket, and cutlass for every man, as well. Mister Peel, with me for a moment, if you please, sir. Let us compare . . . notes.”

They stepped aft to the taffrails for privacy. Peel had already perused his, and crumpled it up to toss overboard, astern.

“My employer has contacted the Austrian headquarters. They're to keep a close watch on all roads, looking for a scarred man with a limp. They're to particularly inspect any wagon or cart going to one of our Senator di Silvano's estates. Mister Silberberg has also placed a watch upon the senator's mansion, should Choundas be spirited there. But we don't have the willing agents to follow every coach coming or going to his house. The rest of the conspirators' houses aren't covered. Even with things coming to a head, Mister Silberberg doubts di Silvano will tip his hand that directly, I'm sorry to say, Captain Lewrie. I doubt we'd be able to watch close enough should this be happening in London.”

“Mister Drake says there've been so many bumboats alongside the privateer, coming and going, that it's impossible to say if Choundas was in one of them, disguised, either.” Lewrie groaned. “She's her sails harbor-gasketed, and her crew ranti-poling with the local whores, as drunk as lords. She's not coming out tonight, at any rate. Or in the morning, either, the way he says they're celebrating their new fortune.”

He crumpled up his own note and tossed it over.

“Their heads'll be too thick.” Lewrie chuckled without amusement. “The senator does have a yacht. But then, so do almost all of the other conspirators. It's a local sport, yachting.”

“Those we know about, sir,” Peel cautioned in a covert mutter. “And them we still can't link to the plot, direct. A fishing boat, or a yacht. By dawn, there could be hundreds of 'em out here.”

“Does Choundas come out tonight, Mister Peel,” Lewrie schemed, trying to put himself in the wily Frenchman's head, “it'll most like be around nine or so, after full dark. Combined with us being close off the approaches, I should think. We'll be turning away, to stand west on our leg. He could idle just off the mole . . . no lights showing, and
follow
us, damn his eyes! Close inshore, with a local pilot who can
smell
a shoal or rock. Not much moon to speak of . . . him black against a dark coastline. Trail us as far as Voltri. That'd take a couple of hours, then we'd have to turn back east, and he could scoot along the twenty or twenty-five miles to Vado Bay and be just a few miles west of there by false dawn tomorrow morning. A fishing boat, 'bout the same size as yon barge, would be too slow for him. He
must
know that Vado Bay'd be well-patrolled. There's a decent wind tonight, and night winds are fairly steady in strength and direction. From the nor'east, for once. A perfect wind to ghost out on, and broad-reach west on. He'll want a longer, faster boat for that. I would. If he doesn't make it to Vado, he can't expect to lay up for the day along this coast, not with Austrian troops about. Where are the French, last report? How far east?”

“East of the inland road that comes down to Finale, sir.” Peel shrugged. “How far East, I . . . of late, I have no way of knowing.” He gave Lewrie a quick grimace before turning bland again. Hating to say “I don't know” as bad as any secret agent. “Along the coast road, we must assume they've advanced closer to Vado.”

“Other side of the headland?” Lewrie grumbled in surprise when Peel told him that. “That'd be only ten miles west of our anchorage!”

“It's possible, sir. Sorry I can't enlighten you further.”

“Forty miles, at most then,” Lewrie puzzled. “Genoa to Finale or thereabouts. Seven hours to safety, at six or seven knots.
Damme
if I'll play his game!”

But not knowing how he was going to accomplish that, yet. That barge could never catch up a larger, faster vessel, once she got to sea, with a bone in her teeth. He'd have to place
Jester
more to the west, if he hoped to get a decent slant at interception. With his ship tied too close to the harbor entrance, though, Choundas might gain a precious lead that he could never make up, once Choundas slipped past them close inshore. Yet, to remain far enough west to counter that,
Jester
couldn't guard the entrance, could not spot any vessel leaving in time to overhaul her and inspect her.

Or could he?

“Mister Buchanon, 'vast your packing, sir,” Lewrie called out. “I apologize, but I'll need you aboard, after all. Mister Hyde, you're still in charge of the barge.”

“Aye, sir!” Hyde grinned, proud to have a temporary “command.”

“Pass the word for Mister Crewe to come to . . .”

“'Ere, sir!” Crewe replied from the gangway above the tethered barge, which was still being loaded and armed.

“Mister Crewe, you're familiar with fire-arrows?
Darde-au-feu?
” “Well, aye, Cap'um . . .” the gunner replied, creasing his brow. “Don't 'ave no spring-iron t'make th' arms t'catch in sails, though.”

“Forget the spring-arms, Mister Crewe,” Lewrie countered, with a leer on his face. “Just make me up a half dozen that can be shot up high in the air, that we can see for, oh . . . six miles, at night? Shot at extreme elevation from a swivel gun. Like a signal-fuzee that Mister Hyde can light off like a fireworks.”

“Oh, like a Roman candle, sir!” Crewe beamed. “I can do that, sir. Half dozen, no work a'tall, Cap'um.”

“Pass the word for Mister Giles. My compliments, and he is to supply the barge with two days' dry rations and water, biscuit, cheese, and small-beer. And enough wine for two days' ‘Clear Decks and Up Spirits.' You'll not be splicing the main brace, Mister Hyde, till I tell you. You're to loaf about just off the entrance, showing no lights of any sort. Stay furtive as mice, till any vessel leaves larger than a rowboat. You're to fire off one of Mister Crewe's fuzees from a swivel, soon as one does. Almost straight up, but in the general direction of her course. Anything heading west is what we're interested in,”