A King`s Commander

forrud, not abeam, and to help them scramble over the side to the safety of a solid oak thwart.

' 'Bout given you up, sir!' Hyde yelped. 'Been up and down this coast for hours, looking for you, Captain! Mister Knolles told me to wait till dusk, if you didn't…'

'Thankee, Mister Hyde.' Lewrie sighed, glad for a sip of brackish ship's water, and a hard biscuit to rap, then gnaw dry. 'And for Mister Knolles s perseverance. Thank him in person, soon's I meet him, and be damned glad of the doing.'

'You get the bastard that stole the gold, sir?' Hyde asked, as the oarsmen strained to the helmsman's shouts of 'Give way, together!' and 'Put yer backs in it!' to keep the barge moving forward, up, over the dangerous breaking surf to calmer water beyond the breakers.

'Aye, we got him, Mister Hyde.' Lewrie sighed with relief, and weary satisfaction. 'We got the bastard. It's over. Now, take us to Jester, Mister Hyde. Take us home.'

Epilogue

There had been so few casualties, for which the good doctor on duty had thanked a merciful God, that he and his compatriots had spent mostly an idle day, celebrating an almost bloodless victory over those much-vaunted Austrians. The coast was theirs, now, the entire Genoese Riviera, as far as Voltri, the surgeon had heard boasted, within easy ride of Genoa itself. The Austrians and Piedmontese had fled like so many terrified children, far inland; maybe thirty miles, he'd heard a cavalry chef du brigade crow. Once spring came, once the weather was suitable, the Republican Armйe d'Italie would march, to complete their conquest of all of the northwest. Paris was sending a new general to put life into things, some newly risen pet of the Directory, with the improbable name of Napoleone Bonaparte. He was reputed to be impatient and aggressive; rare in an artillery officer, the surgeon thought. Till then, though, through the long Ligurian winter, there'd be peace and quiet, some skirmishing but nothing of consequence, nothing that tasked his skills to the utmost. He could drink his wine, smoke his pipe, and sleep peacefully, to ready himself for the horrors to come.

The surgeon made his last rounds among the pitiful, whimpering wounded who lay in the large tents that the Austrians had been so good as to abandon so hastily. French casualties under canvas, of course… and the few Piedmontese or Austrians under the stars or the trees. It was almost cozy in the cavernous pavillion tents, glowing like so many amber jewels, lit from within by a single lanthorn.

'This one, sir?' his assistant said with a sad moue. 'The poor fellow's left us, I'm afraid.'

'Both legs.' The surgeon shrugged philosophically. 'Too much stress, too quickly, for his humors to restore their balance. C'est dommage. And that one?'

'Feverish, but better, sir,' the assistant said, gesturing for orderlys to remove the dead infantry officer.

The surgeon took the lanthorn to peel back the blanket and look at his handiwork. A neat bit of sewing, he grunted with pleasure, as he puffed on his pipe.

'You are with us, sir?' the surgeon whispered as the man opened his eyes and groaned in pain. 'I do not recall treating anyone from our Navy before, sir. You came up to headquarters to see the battle, hein? And saw too much of it, quel dommage.'

'I… will I live?' the officer croaked, gritting his teeth to withstand his pain, now that he was awake to feel it roar and gibber.

'A fairly clean wound, sir,' the surgeon assured him, chuckling a little. 'Your coat and shirt easily extracted from it. Nothing left behind to cause sepsis. So few casualties, the water still very hot in the instrument pails… I have noted that there is less later infection when the water is bloodless, and the water is scalding hot. Why it is, I have no idea, but I think it may be worth a letter to Paris, hein?'

'Ahh…!' The naval officer grunted, screwing up his horribly disfigured face in torment for a second, then almost seemed to find it amusing. 'Ahh…' he sighed as that wave of agony subsided. 'I have cheated him again. I beat him, after all!'

'It does not pay to boast of beating the Angel of Death yet, I suggest, sir.' The surgeon laughed. 'A week or more, before we count you free of fever, and able to be moved to the rear, to complete your recovery in nicer surroundings, hein? For your stump to drain, to show a laudable, healing pus.'

'Stump?'

'Certainment, Capitaine, uhm…' The surgeon frowned, not sure if that was even the proper title of rank, and not knowing his patient's name, 'Your arm was so completely smashed, the bone in shatters…'

Guillaume Choundas tried to raise up, to raise his arm, against the surgeon's entreaties and pressing hands. It was gone! There was a thick wrapped bandage over absorbing batt, the whole once white but now pink or dull red, crusted with oozed blood. So short, almost all…!

'Nnnoooo!' Choundas screamed. 'NnnooooH! Lewrie! Lewrie! You… Lllewwrieeee!!! Lugh… Lugh's bird! The raven. That bass-tardd!'

* * *

'C'est dommage. ' The surgeon sighed minutes later, after giving the distraught fellow a cup of laudanum-laced wine. He took a seat on an upturned crate by the fire, under the flyleaf of his wagon, with the tailgate boards for a rough table. 'Bernard, pass the wine, hein? So good, this. Real Provence, not that Italian muck.'

'What was that all about, Jean-Claude mon ami?'

'Some poor fellow lost his arm.' The surgeon sighed, bourgeois happy in his bear-skin slippers, at last, instead of those ridiculous boots the army insisted he wear. The tailboard and the fire wasn't as comfortable as his old cafй back home, once the shops, and his offices, were closed for the night, but it could be rather pleasant, this life of an army surgeon, so far from home. 'You know how they can be, once they know it. A fellow scarred as he, you'd expect he's used to pain and loss, but he raved like a madman. Not many unman themselves so.'

'Loss of his looks, anyway,' Bernard snickered. 'Une hideux.'

'Kept ranting about Lugh, Lir, Lewrie, and ravens,' the surgeon muttered over his wine. 'Whatever those are. Ever heard the like?'

Surgeon Bernard had not, so he merely shrugged. 'Nonsense words, alliterative ravings. Was there a head wound? Hmm. Might keep an eye on the poor fellow, Jean-Claude. Recommend he's kept longer, once he's well enough to transfer. Then he's someone else's worry. Cards?'

Nightfall on the sea, aboard a sloop of war that surged surefooted and secure, serene for once, her young captain pacing the decks bone-weary but unable to contemplate sleep as she made her way among a gaggle of escapees from the anchorage at Vado Bay. A bath, a shave, a clean uniform, and a more than ample supper had gone a long way toward physical recovery, though he could not be sure what the next days might bring him, or his ship.

'Excuse me, sir,' Mountjoy said, interrupting his solitary musings with an apologetic prefatory cough. 'Could I speak with you?'

'Aye, Mister Mountjoy?' Lewrie replied pleasantly.

'I, uhm… I rather loathe to cause you or your affairs any disruption, or distress, but… well, Captain Lewrie,' Mountjoy said with a sheepish gulp, 'I'd like to resign my position as your clerk, sir.'

'I'll not put you in danger again, Mister Mountjoy, if that's…'

'No, sir! Quite the opposite, in fact!' Mountjoy gushed. 'Going ashore with you and Mister Peel was the most exciting thing I've ever done, sir! For the first time in my life, I felt active and alive, useful and… doing something other than scribbling. As if I'd discovered my true calling, do you see, sir. To shed another man's blood… strive to shed Choundas's, too, well… Mister Peel has suggested that his employer, and their, uhm… 'department,' would find my skills very useful. Forgive me, but I intend to hold him to it, and take service with that Mister Silberberg. As an assistant in training, as it were.'

'They'll bloody get you knackered,' Lewrie countered. 'Knife in the back some night. It'll be dry, Mountjoy.