A King's Commander (33 page)

“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
Jester
'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.”

“Well, there is a way, perhaps, to weaken it,” Pouzin hinted coyly. “While you prevail upon Toulon to send more warships.
Jester
fired a shot over the heads of those looters who were desecrating our brave soldiers. But, can we not allege that the damage to their buildings came from an indiscriminate broadside . . . against Bordigheran civilians? That this British ship fired on innocent, helpless villagers,
hein?
We both know the ‘Bloodies' have no real love for Savoians, or the Genoese. They mean to exploit them, use them in the most cynical manner, to uphold rich ‘aristos' and landowners, at the poor people's expense. A broadside of our own . . . a
paper
broadside,
hein? . . .
might make infuriating reading in Genoa. A slaughter on the docks, too, when the poor people came down to save their town from being burned to the ground?”

“I see.” Le Hideux nodded, his eyes widening with the possibilities. “But,” he countered with a petulant air, “they might send this
Jester
away from the coast, put her at patrol duties far out to sea . . . where I cannot reach her with the force I now have. A Jester took my Little Fool at Bordighera. But I will not be this man's fool, Pouzin.
I
will not laugh at his jests. He must pay.
Oui,
we must weaken the embargo, and embarrass the ‘Bloodies.' If it takes your lies to do it,
et alors.
But it is bloodless. The Italian states must see British blood for French blood. We must have victories to boast of, so they come to fear us. Or admire us. We
must
be seen able to punish this
Jester,
don't you
see?
”
Le Hideux insisted, his eyes bulging, and a livid purple-red cast coming to his scars, in a flushed ginger face. “And you
will
aid me in arranging it,” Le Hideux concluded, with the sureness of the delusional demented.

“A hid . . .” Pouzin began to say, but checked himself. “A titanic task,” he amended. Too late. Le Hideux's good eye had slitted in black fury. No one but Hainaut had ever been able to mention his maiming, without suffering for it. Die Narbe, he named him in admiration and a
respectful
jest. Something Pouzin was not allowed, would never be allowed. Too many slips of the tongue like that, and Pouzin would pay, with his head on the block beneath the blade, one day!

Pouzin flinched a trifle, though he meant to stare calmly, turn bland and innocuous. Since his first sight of Le Hideux, Brutto Faccia, Die Narbe . . . however men called him . . . he'd felt ice water trickle down his spine in dread of him, had felt his “coulles” shrivel up inside his groin. And had felt his stomach turn in utter loathing of the outward appearance, as well as the soul within.

“I will compose the rumor at once,
Capitaine,
” Pouzin swore. “And get it off east. And arrange for
Jester'
s
captain to be studied. Hainaut to be paroled and exchanged for someone off
Berwick.
And you still plan the convoy to Alassio? I must make arrangements for them to meet it,” Pouzin ticked off, trying not to sound rushed, though he felt a tremendous urge to be away from the poisonous little monster. “You will extend your escorts east, to protect this convoy, and offer battle to the ‘Bloodies,'
hein?
”

“Oui,”
Le Hideux confirmed, his remaining eye hooded with venom.

“
Au revoir,
then,
Capitaine.
”