A King's Commander (42 page)

“Due east?” Lewrie asked him.

“
Mebbe,
sir!” Spenser allowed, chomping on his tobacco quid in a frenzy. “Nor'east, at best, I think, Cap'um. We're so slow.”

“Good enough, then. Ready, Mister Crewe? We're coming about to weather some more for you!”

“We'll be ready, sir!” Crewe stolidly assured him.

“Give him a broadside, while he's tacking, then. Then load and run out, quick as you can. Soon as he's in arcs.”

Choundas was standing away southerly, already on the eyes of the wind, sails rustling and luffing, and jibs just beginning to fill, and draw. His ship would heel over as she felt the force of the wind upon her braced-around square sails, delaying that raking broadside a little. Until she was more in control, her decks more level. And then . . .

“
Meleager,
sir!” Hyde crowed. “Signal, sir! ‘Do You Require Assistance!' ”

“Hoist ‘Affirmative,' Mister Hyde!” Lewrie yelped in relief. “You're goddamned right we do!”

And there she was, about a mile off and coming hard, beating to windward with a bone in her teeth, guns run out and ready! She'd clear that western headland by miles, pass ahead of
Jester
's bows even if she managed to attain nor'east. And chase this foe away!

Lewrie went to the starboard side of his quarterdeck, wincing in agony with each step, left hand still clamped atop his skull. Choundas was there, he was certain. Even at two hundred yards, he thought there was a man on that opposing quarterdeck, a slight man with pale skin and dull reddish hair. A man who wore a large black patch. A man who was shaking his fists at him, his mouth open to howl curses at him.

“Got jibs, sir, at last!” Buchanon told him. “Come a'weather?” “Close as she'll lay, aye, Mister Buchanon,” Alan replied, with the shuddery sort of giggle a condemned felon might essay right after a hanging rope snapped and dumped him alive in the mud under the gallows.

Jester
came up toward the wind, struggling to lay nor'east. As Choundas heeled over and stood out to sea, bearing sou'west. Men were aloft, letting the corvette's royals fall. Stern-to-stern, they were separating, no guns able to bear. Choundas had been driven away, not able to deal with a frigate's fire.
Jester
had been saved, would go on living. It was over.

For the moment, Lewrie thought wearily. There'd be a next time. Twigg would see to that, damn his blood! Pray God Cockburn catches him up and shoots him to toothpicks! Spares me the . . .
spares
me!

“We continue on this course, sir, we'll block
Meleager
's
course,” Buchanon cautioned, close by his side. Buchanon put a steadying arm to Lewrie, as he swayed and sagged, utterly spent.

“Aye, come about, again, Mister Buchanon. Due north, steer for the western headland, so Cockburn gets a clear passage to seaward close-hauled. Unless he wishes to come inshore of us, cut the corner . . . ?”

Too tired to think, as if he'd gone fifteen rounds with a bully-buck at a village fair; it always was this way after a hard fight with him. He leaned on the bulwarks, tried to sheath his sword.

“Mister Hyde, hoist ‘Submit,' followed by ‘Pursue the Enemy More Closely.' ‘Vast coming about,' Mister Buchanon. We'll stand on. Cockburn can gain on the bastard, if he cuts inshore of us. Stand on,” Lewrie decided. He'd wait until
Meleager
was abeam, then come about, into the shelter of Alassio Bay.
Jester
would need quick repairs, perhaps even a tow, to get back to safety at Vado. She'd never crawl there on her own.

“Porter?” he shouted, wincing again. “Pipe ‘Secure from Quarters,' then let's see what needs doing we can do for ourselves.”

“Er . . . aye aye, sir!” Will Cony shouted back. He shrugged and pointed to a broken figure being borne below by the surgeon's loblolly boys on a carrying board. Bosun Porter was groaning and writhing over several large, jagged splinters, his right arm ravaged and soaked with gore. “I'll tend t' h'it, sir,” Cony assured him, beginning to rouse stunned hands back to their posts.

“Fancy a sip o' somet'in', Cap'um?” Andrews tempted, offering a small pewter flask, on the sly. “Neat rum, sah. Put de fire back in yah belly.”

“Thankee, Andrews.” Lewrie sighed, taking a small sip.

And wondering what thanks he'd have to give Cockburn, for saving his bacon. He grimaced at the sharp bite of the rum; and how even more insufferable Captain Cockburn might be, in future. Or how low he'd be groveling in gratitude, pretending to like the taste of boot polish.

Grateful, aye . . . Alan realized with a small, mournful groan of relief. He takes him or kills him, 'stead of me, I'll buss his blind cheeks! I don't ever wish to cross that bastard's hawse again. Ever!

A
desperate action, sir,” Nelson told him in the privacy of
Agamemnon
's
great-cabins. “Gallantly carried,” he added. A bit more praise, very similar to their last meeting; though thrown out rather offhandedly, not quite so congratulatory, and bitten off, delivered in a moody, frownful snappishness. “Five dead, a dozen wounded? I am sorry for your losses. The only losses the squadron suffered in our cutting-out expedition. Not a single man even hurt aboard the rest. My condolences.”

“The rest of the squadron didn't have to contend with Choundas, sir,” Alan told him, a bit put off by Nelson's less than charitable air, wondering if the killed and wounded had ruined what might have been a fine report for Nelson to submit to Admiral Hotham.

“You're quite sure it was him, I take it?” Nelson demanded of him. “My opposite number, this will-o'-the-wisp, Choundas?”

“No error, sir. Saw him with my glass as he hauled his wind to break off the action, stern-to to us. A mite uglier than last I saw of him in the Far . . .”

“So this Mister . . . Silberberg wrote to me, Lewrie,” Captain Nelson grumbled, his long dainty fingers fretting papers on his desk, still standing and looking down distractedly. “I do not very much care for spy-craft, nor for those who engage in it. Valuable though their information may be at times . . . they . . . some of them, put far too little emphasis or value on the fighting man, take too much upon themselves, and too much of the credit . . .”

“It sounds as if Mister Silberberg is now attempting to dictate to you as well, sir?” Alan scoffed, offering a commiserating grin. And thinking Twigg had a challenge on his hands, for once.

“That is of no matter, sir,” Nelson grunted, vexing his mouth in annoyance, or a bad memory. He looked up at last, as if resolved to the solution of a matter that plagued him. “There are before me, Commander Lewrie, at least three grave items anent you and your ship. Items most vexing. I thought it best to discuss them with you here, in total privacy, before they become formal complaints, answerable to higher authorities. Perhaps a court.”

“What . . . a court?” Lewrie gawped. He creased his brow in utter puzzlement, which caused pain in his shaved and restitched scalp wound, and wriggled in his chair, recrossing his legs in defense.

“The first, sir,” Nelson bleakly intoned, perhaps even with some anger (which was something new about him for Alan to discover) “concerns your raid on Bordighera. There's a letter of complaint just given Mister Drake, from the Savoian government, that your ship, cited by name, fired upon the town center, their fishing fleet, and homes and shops along the eastern shore, resulting in damage and destruction, and in some civilian injuries and deaths. I am told that Mister Drake is on warning that their former masters, our Sardinian allies, also contemplate a formal diplomatic grievance. The Genoese have also formally demanded an explanation. As to whether the charges are true, and if so, is this the way we mean to enforce our embargo—by the indiscriminate slaughter of innocents, and the destruction of civilian property. Now, sir . . . for the record, did you engage in any indiscriminate firing?” he coldly demanded.

“What the . . . no, sir! By God I did
not,
sir!” Lewrie countered quickly, outraged. “You have my report. We fired shoreward just twice, once we'd silenced the battery and entered harbor. First, to eliminate the French troops, so my Lieutenant Knolles had a free hand. Our aim was those soldiers, with canister and grape, not solid-shot to level buildings. A bit of damage might have been done, I grant you, sir . . . windows smashed and such, but . . . ! We never fired on the town proper, never fired upon the beached fishing boats, since they were Bordighera's livelihood. Our second was a single round-shot over the heads of the looters to dissuade them pillaging the French dead and wounded, sir. Far over, sir. Fall-of-shot was beyond the town, in the eastern hills. We were about two cables off the beach, sir, and fired at maximum elevation, quoin out, so there's no
way
any civilians could have been harmed, sir!”

“A bit unfortunate, though. Perhaps unnecessary,” Nelson said gloomily. “The specific charges are replete with eyewitness testimony that you loosed a full broadside, not a single round, killing or wounding many of those who'd come out to
succor
the wounded.”

“Succor, mine arse, sir!” Alan spat. “That, sir, is a lying packet, concocted by the Frogs. They were looting, pure and simple. I put a stop to it. French soldiers or no, sir, they didn't deserve that pawing and stripping as they were dying. Besides, sir, the Savoian government's a pack of toadies and bootlickers to their new Frog masters.”

“One witness purports to be a French midshipman, Jules Hainaut,” Nelson informed him. “The prisoner you took, just exchanged?”

“How convenient, sir,” Alan griped. “A toady to Choundas, he is. Consider the source, sir. Do you ask Mister Silberberg . . .”

“I have, Lewrie. I know of your past association with this man, and the reasons Choundas might have to wish to see you ruined,” Nelson agreed, albeit reluctantly. “And the good use he made of returning this Hainaut to him. The problem, though . . .”

“Well, there you are, then, sir,” Alan grinned, relaxing.

“You will not interrupt, sir!” Nelson burst forth, mottling with sudden rage. “Clap your goddamned mouth shut and listen, sir!”

“Aye, sir!” Lewrie mumbled in astonishment to hear the minnikin,
ammiraglio piccolo
Nelson shouting—cursing!

“Of course it's a lie, Lewrie!” Nelson fumed, lowering his voice from a quarterdeck bellow. “A damnable lie, but one the Genoese, and everyone else, will believe! The city mob takes it as bloody gospel . . . and it doesn't help that their own government's letter in question has given it an official stamp! Whatever your reasons for firing that shot, you did it, and I can't deny it. Can't refute the whole damned thing, just quibble 'bout the particulars, and do you know how
lame
that makes us sound? God Almighty, Lewrie! This might undermine the embargo, tie my hands . . . result in correspondence back and forth with Admiral Hotham . . . perhaps even London! It might result in our sudden withdrawal, under a cloud! And make this squadron, the Royal Navy, and His Majesty's Government a foul and clumsy jape . . . a laughingstock!”

Alan opened his mouth to make a contradiction, just what he didn't know right off . . . but Nelson's steely glare shushed him anew.

“Making matters worse, sir,” Nelson hammered onward relentlessly, “there are flyers making the rounds in several Italian cities adverting this incident, as well as Captain Cockburn's seizure of
Il Furioso,
as a continuing compendium of British . . . atrocities!”

“But those were successfully answered, and settled, sir.”

“All a packet of lies, start to finish, I grant you. But what recognition Genoa made of their own breach of neutrality, and their acquiescence 'pon the matter, is
not
recorded. So it becomes another nail in our coffin. Another victory in a war of words and opinions, which we are losing!” Nelson almost snarled; half at Lewrie, half at a form of war conducted by cowardly, faceless innuendo and lying. “Also cited in these flyers, Lewrie . . . though of yet not mentioned anywhere official, is a further, even more serious charge 'gainst you and your ship, sir.”

Dear Christ, what else? Lewrie quavered.

“You told me last year 'bout being off Ushant, at the Glorious First of June battle, Lewrie.” Nelson posed, solemn again. “As another example of England's supposed perfidy . . . the flyers allege you and your ship . . . mentioned both by name . . . entered combat flying false colors, that you engaged a French frigate under their flag. May we, at least, be able to successfully refute
that,
sir? And in so doing, cast doubt 'pon the whole?”

“Uhm . . .” Lewrie squirmed, innards icing up in fear. “Well . . . not
exactly,
sir.”

“What?” Nelson bellowed. “Goddamn you for a cod's-head, sir!” Oh, Christ, I'm in the quag for certain, now, Alan thought!

“To my best recollection, sir,” he began to explain, again most carefully, “we hoisted French colors as we neared the lee side of the

French line of battle, so their seventy-four's at the hind-end, which we had to tack around, wouldn't riddle us, sir. I hoped it might fool the frigate that had been pursuing us since daybreak, but he wasn't taken in. He opened 'pon
us,
sir, first. We put the ship about to shave the end of their line, and had to return fire if we wished to escape. We
opened
fire under their tricolor, sir, which fact my first pointed out to me, at which time their flag was lowered, and the Red Ensign hoisted. We began under French colors, but concluded several broadsides properly declared. Just after tacking, sir, but not yet flaked down or belayed. And that quickly done, sir.”

And that's the truth . . . isn't it? he asked himself. Where had that come from, of a sudden? And, does he believe me?

Nelson glared at him, silent, his fine sense of honor outraged beyond all temperance, breathing high and shallow off the tops of his lungs, his lip beginning to curl in disdain.

“I wrote a report of it, sir.” Lewrie explained further. “Gave it to Admiral Howe's captain of the fleet to be sent to the Admiralty. I've received no reference to the event, since.”

That, he was certain was a true statement. But then, after such a glorious victory, who'd mar its odor with even a hint of a sanction, or sully the Navy's worldwide good opinion by even mentioning it?

Christ, one tiny slip, a quarter-minute's inattention, out of a fifteen-year career, and I'm to be ruined? he gasped to himself. Court-martialed and cashiered as dishonorable, in
shame?
A lucky ship, hey, a lucky captain, mine arse! And where's bloody Lir when you
need
that bastard? Mine arse on a bandbox!

“I promised all my captains I'd uphold them, Lewrie,” Captain Nelson muttered more softly, though aflame with righteous anger. “As long as they did their duty, as best they saw it. You, however, make that vow rather
more
than difficult to fulfill. Damn you, sir! Whether you were half sunk, on your beam-ends, in the middle of a hurricane or pissed as a newt,
honor
was
breached,
sir! No matter how briefly, no matter how momentary your hair-splitting explanation may excuse it. Of all the blockheaded, slipshod things you ever thought of doing! Accident or design, it doesn't signify. It casts the foulest aspersions on Navy, King, and Country. And, at a time when I, indeed England and what is left of the Coalition, can least afford it. Made our task here even harder. And at the worst possible time. Do you see that, Lewrie?”

“Aye, sir,” Alan groaned, sure he was a goner.

“Perhaps it's of no matter.” Nelson sighed heavily. “I cannot print flyers of mine own to counter any of these charges, without giving them greater circulation. To deign to notice them is to show fear, which gives them even further veracity. And, sir . . . I cannot stoop to rebut this compounded slur in good conscience. That would be creating lies, to counter lies. To then be
caught
lying, later . . .”

“That's what Mister Silberberg is paid to do, sir,” Alan said with a miserable shrug, but a touch of gallows humor in spite of all.

“The Admiralty took no notice of it?” Nelson inquired, with a very small sound of hopefulness.

“No, sir. Not a word.”

“Nor have the French complained,” Nelson glowered, sitting at his desk, at last. “Now it's public knowledge here, though, there is a chance Paris might find it useful against us, throughout Europe. As soon as this Choundas person, or his superiors, gloat over what they've gained by local exposure. Good God Almighty,” he brooded, lowering his head and massaging his injured brow. “Admiral Hotham must be told, do you see, Lewrie. Loath as I am to communicate it to him, this is a matter we cannot sweep under the rug. He may assemble a court at San Fiorenzo.”

“I see that, sir.” Lewrie sighed, just as morosely.

“Thought better of you, I did, sir,” Nelson declared softly. “Turk's Island, the way you spoke so movingly in your captain's behalf when he was wounded . . . way he spoke so well of you. Toulon. Taking
Jester
just after, saving all those refugees.
Knew
you were reputed to be a trifle rakehellish, one who'd tiptoe right to the edge. The Hamiltons in Naples spoke well of you, too. Lady Emma, especially. I have found her to be a shrewd judge of character, in the main.”

Lewrie bit on a knuckle, diplomatically, wondering what Nelson'd think, if he knew he'd got the leg over Lady Emma back in '93?

“Trouble is, though, Lewrie, you're slipshod, slapdash. More so than a proper captain ought be,” Nelson accused. “Given your previous good repute, though, I
am
given to believe your explanation. Your actions at Bordighera
were
honorable. Give me copies of all officers' journals, log entries, and such, concerning Ushant, so I may satisfy myself, one way or the other, before I communicate it to Admiral Hotham. There is always the possibility that he will deem it unworthy of note. Or, given the circumstances that obtain of late . . . he may consider it
inexpedient
to notice, do you follow, sir?”