A King`s Commander

'Aye aye, sir,' Knolles replied, happy to have something constructive to do. 'Mister Porter? Stations for Stays!'

'Onliest one, sir,' Buchanon continued, with a whimsical air.

'Hmm?' Lewrie grunted, still in pain, but curious about that tone in Buchanon's voice.

'Josephs, Cap'um. Onliest one e'en scratched!' Buchanon said more soberly, almost in a rueful awe. 'We got our comeuppance from th' oP mad buggers. An' 'ey took 'eir due from us. Th' gods o' th' sea, Cap'um. Th' ol' pagan gods o' winds an' seas, 'ey took 'im.'

'Surely, Mister Buchanon, in this modern age…' Lewrie began to scoff, a little angered by such a heretical suggestion. Or, maybe a little angered at what he did not yet know. At himself, perhaps, for having the boy 'started.' For making his last days fearful.

'Me da', he was Welsh, Cap'um,' Buchanon related. ' 'Twas oft he toi' me 'bout 'em. Him an' th' granthers, all, sir, on th' stormy nights, with th' rain an' winds a'howlin' 'gainst th' shutters, 'r th' public house. Onliest folk still take note o' 'em'z sailormen, sir. Priests an' Church, ey drove 'em out, into th' wide, trackless seas. But 'at don't mean 'ey passed away, Cap'um. Oh no, not at all!'

'Ready about, Captain,' Knolles intruded.

'Very well, Mister Knolles. Put the ship about,' Lewrie said in response, mesmerized, and only half paying attention to his first.

'Helm's alee Rise, foretack and sheets!'

'One 'ey named th' most, sir, 'at'd be Lir,' Buchanon went on, paying only half attention himself, as Jester began to come about to the eye of the wind. 'Don't know much 'bout th' ones crost th' seas, in th' heathen latitudes. Ones I read about in school, sir, 'em ol' Roman an' Greek sea gods, 'ey sounded like gennlemen ya could deal with, so long'z ya didn' cross 'em 'r 'eir boss Zeus. Sportin' sort o' gennlemen, who didn' mean much by it. But Lir, now, Cap'um. OP Irish an' Welsh sea god, one th' Scots dread, too, sir? Oh, he's a right bastard, sometimes. Jealous an' vengeful. Hard-hearted sort. A blood-drinker, some say. Nacky'un, too, Cap'um… smart'z paint. Th' sort who'll bide his time, 'til a body'd gone an' forgot what he done 'gainst 'im. But, he always takes his pound o' flesh, in th' end. He always gets his due, when ya least expect, an' hurts most.'

And a hellish gobble more'n a pound of flesh, he took, Lewrie thought, trying to stifle an involuntary shiver of awe, himself, as he recalled the sight of that pitiful remaining husk. He turned his attention to his ship, away from this spectral higgledy-piggledy that Buchanon spoke of, this ancient superstitious folderol that he sounded as if he really believed!. Buchanon, a man who'd dragged himself out of the fisheries, gone to sea in the fleet, come up on science, for God's sake! Astronomy, mathematics, the art of navigation, study of weather, charts… the sailing of a ship, which was man's greatest, most complex engine!

'Now, mains'l haul!' Knolles was crying, as Jester finished most of her tack, passing the eye of the wind, as braces dragged the sails aloft to the starboard side where they began to fill and draw.

'Um, this Lir…' Lewrie asked of Buchanon in a conspiratorial voice, eerily fascinated in spite of himself. 'Sea god of the British Isles, in other words.'

'Maybe all of 'em have 'eir own domain, Cap'um,' Buchanon said softly. 'Poseidon around th' Greek Isles an' Aegean… oP Neptune, he has th' rest o' th' Mediterranean. Wherever Roman sailors went, sir? Lir, now… I'd expect he's got th' Channel, North Sea, all 'round th' British Isles, an' far down inta Biscay. Celts were 'ere, too, long ago. Down south o' Cape Finisterre we'll leave him, Cap'um. Now he has his revenge.'

Lewrie shivered for real, in spite of his best intentions, as a cool zephyr of clearer air not shot to stillness crossed the deck. Almost an icy-cool zephyr, that raised his hackles and his nape-hairs as it passed. The sort of eldritch feeling Caroline sometimes called 'having a rabbit run 'cross your grave,' that unbidden spook-terror of the unknown, that harbinger of dire tidings.

'That far,' Lewrie said, after clearing his throat.

'We should be fine, though, sir. His price'z paid, now. Lir's took th' mocker. Long'z 'ere isn't another, we can go in peace.'

'Ahum,' Lewrie commented, sealing his lips in a thin and wary line. 'Ahum.'

CHAPTER 6

'Toss yah oars,' Andrews ordered as his captain's gaily painted gig came alongside Queen Charlotte, a venerable old three-decker; and the flagship of Admiral Earl Howe, better known as 'Black Dick.'

'Hook onta th' chains… boat yah oars!' Andrews snapped.

It was a hellish-long climb, up past an ornate lower gun-deck entry port as solid as an Inigo Jones house-front, to an upper gun-deck entry port, thence to the uppermost, on the gangways, Larboard side, though, Lewrie griped to himself; not the side of honor where subordinate commanders were usually received. Jester's position up to windward saw to that. And the proper side was probably shot half through, after a full morning of battle, he decided.

'Welcome aboard, sir,' a lieutenant greeted him, with a minimum of fuss. 'And you are, sir…?'

'Alan Lewrie, of the Jester sloop,' he replied. Short as the time had been between attaining safety behind that wooden wall of warships, and receiving a flag hoist for 'Captain Repair on Board,' with his number, he'd had a quick shave, and thrown on his dress coat and hat. Admiral Howe was a stickler for details. And he hadn't earned that sobriquet, 'Black Dick,' simply because he didn't often crack a smile, either! 'Come aboard, as ordered, sir.'

Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered, this once, since the strange lieutenant's white-lapeled coat, waistcoat, and breeches were stained gray with powder, and Queen Charlotte looked as if she'd been rather badly knocked about.

'Allow me to name myself, sir… Lieutenant Edward Codrington.

Welcome aboard, sir. If you'd come this way?' the young man said as he gestured aft toward the poop. Lewrie followed him along the larboard gangway to the quarterdeck. A rather tall and slim, and rather handsome post- captain looked up as they passed. He wore a short tie-wig, no hat, and was holding a white cloth against his head. Looking rather befuddled and forlorn, too, Lewrie noted, hoping his battle had gone well for him, and that he wasn't looking so sunk in the 'Blue-Devils,' sitting on an arms chest like a felon, for good reason.

'You are feeling better, I trust, Captain?' Codrington took the time to inquire.

'Some better, aye, thankee, Mister Codrington,' the man said, though looking as pale as a cross-eyed corpse. 'And you, sir?'

Codrington did the introductions, naming him to Capt. Sir Edward Snape Douglas, Queen Charlotte's commanding officer. Then, they were off for the great-cabins under the poop deck, the admiral's quarters. That grand space was being put back in order again, guns bowsed taut against the bulwarks, furniture and partitions being restored by a procession of seamen. 'Took something on the noggin, d'ye see.'

'Ahem…' Codrington said, clearing his throat. 'Sir, I have the captain of that sloop of war for you.'

'Ah, good, good,' a heavier-set post-captain said, leaving the desk where he'd been rummaging through a stack of hastily ordered papers. 'Lewrie, hey?' He sniffed, after the introductions were once more done. 'Can't say as I've heard of you, sir. Well… no matter.'

Sir Roger Curtis was Admiral Howe's captain of the fleet, suave and slightly flesh-faced. Lewrie took an instant dislike to him, if for no other than that very reason.

'And what fetched you to our little dance this morning, sir?' Curtis asked. 'Some dispatches from London for us, hey?'

'Dispatches for the Mediterranean, sir,' Lewrie began to tell him, but was interrupted by Admiral Howe's arrival from farther aft, beyond some re-erected wood partitions.

Good Christ, Lewrie gasped, though in silence! 'Black Dick'-with a smile on his phyz? That's a new world's seventh wonder!