A King`s Commander

'It's working,' Lieutenant Knolles exclaimed, with the sound of true wonder in his voice. 'It is actually working.'

'Well, o' course, it is, sir,' Mister Buchanon chided his earlier skepticism. 'Th' cap'um knows a thing'r two.'

Lee guns run out in-battery, though aimed at nothing; weather artillery run into loading position, and Jester forced to sail over on her shoulder, canting her deck as if she were beating close- hauled instead of sailing with the scant wind large on her larboard quarters.

It was a thing old Lieutenant Lilycrop of the Shrike brig had taught his first lieutenant during the tail end of the American War, and it might not avail aboard a larger ship of the line-to heel a shallow draughted brig-sloop or ship-sloop in very light airs, reducing drag created by her hull, by reducing the total area of her quick-work, which was immersed.

And it was working, for Jester was slowly forging ahead of the main line of battle, on the lee side where frigates and lighter ships belonged of course, to catch up with Agamemnon and Cumberland, which were almost up to gun range of the fleeing French. Four-and-a-half knots, at best; but that was at least a knot-and-a-half quicker than anyone else at the moment, as the fickle weather of the Ligurian Sea in midsummer played its usual coy games.

'Deck, there!' came flushing's call from the foremast. ' Cape Sepet, two points off th' weather bows!'

'Never catch 'em up,' Lewrie glumly predicted. 'God, what an opportunity wasted. Again!'

'Cape Garonne, two points off th' lee bows!' Rushing further informed them. 'Signals Cross is a'workin' on Sepet!'

'Four bloody days, all the way to Toulon, and… damn 'em!'

The van squadron of the French Mediterranean fleet, now a much reinforced assemblage after ships from the Biscay ports had slipped in past the weak guard at Gibraltar as soon as milder spring weather had freed them, would be almost abeam of the Croix de Signeaux atop Cape Sepet. The wind-what wind there was-was coming more southerly, directly into the Bay of Toulon, Before noon, the main body, perhaps the lead ships of the rear squadron, would be inside the two horns of the bay's wide entrance, able to shelter under the heavy artillery of Toulon 's many formidable fortresses.

'Signal from Brittania, sir!' Midshipman Hyde shouted. 'And, from the repeating frigates. 'Discontinue the Action,' sir!'

Lewrie turned aft to watch every ship of the line hoist replies, to watch every frigate on the disengaged lee side hoist the blue-and-yellow checker. 'Mister Hyde, hoist the repeat,' Lewrie ordered with a sour grimace. 'So everyone knows we're useless. Damn him!'

On Agamemnon, of course, there flew the 'Query.' Trust Nelson to dare to challenge Vice Admiral Hotham's decision. No 'Respectfully Submit…,' this time, as there had been after the last fiasco. Then, Nelson had gone aboard Brittania to plead that the two French 74's he had taken- Зa Ira and Censeur-be left astern under guard of some frigates, and the pursuit continued. Admiral Comte Martin didn't have the stomach for a real fight; he'd continue to run in rough disorder, and his trailing ships could be overhauled and battered into surrender in penny packets. But no, Hotham had demurred. And even days after, Nelson had been pinch-mouthed and pale with anger when he'd repeated Hotham's words to Lewrie. 'No, we've taken two. We've really done very well, Nelson. We must be content.'

Those two taken, but Illustrious had been mauled after she had come up to aid Agamemnon and the lead frigates. She'd been taken in tow by the Meleager frigate, but blown onto a rocky shoal off Avenca on the Genoese coast, and lost. HMS Berwick captured alone, too. Tit for tat.

And today… one French ship of the line shot to rags, set on fire, and her colors struck to Agamemnon and her tiny squadron. But she'd blown up before she could be taken as prize. And Admiral Hotham was most like content… again!.. with the results! One for nought. Tit for tat. What a bargain, Alan thought; why, by the turn of the century, we'll surely've whittled 'em down to a manageable number!

'He's a glass on me, sir,' Hyde carped, referring to the signals midshipman aboard Agamemnon, not half a nautical mile ahead, and to their right. 'Surely, he sees our repeat signal.'

'I'd imagine his captain is trying to digest it first, Mister Hyde,' Lewrie snarled. 'Farts! A brace of farts, the pair of them! Their Martin and our Hotham. Goddamned rabbit-hearted… dismal, cowering farts stagg'rin' about in a bloody… fucking… trance!'

There, at last; Agamemnon hauled down her 'Query,' and hoisted the proper repeater reply. Cumberland answered a moment later, along with Fremantle's Inconstant, Captain Cockburn's Meleager, and the rest of Captain Nelson's small detached squadron, which had ended up far in the lead of the battle line, as usual.

'Mister Knolles, secure the hands from quarters,' Lewrie said. 'Run out the larboard battery and bowse up to the bulwarks. Same with the starboard battery. Get her flat on her keel again, and ready to comply with any alteration of course Agamemnon directs.'

'Aye, sir,' Knolles grunted in disappointment. 'Uhm, I s'pose sir…'

'Aye, Mister Knolles?' Lewrie snapped.

'Well, sir. At least we chased 'em back to their kennel. That must be worth something. Kept 'em from escorting a grain convoy from North Africa.' Knolles posed with a wistful hopefulness.

To which his captain replied with a dismissive, 'Shit!'

'Well, sir…' Knolles shrugged.

'Martin came straight for us, chased us a day and a night from nigh to Genoa back to San Fiorenzo, Mister Knolles,' Lewrie commented. 'As close to looking for an engagement as that mouse will ever get… while the grain convoy most like went sou'west, near the Balearics so we'd be feinted away from any hope of intercepting it. Four damn' days we've been playing tail chase, far off to the north and east. I'll lay you any odds you like they're loaded by now, and heading home. And I'll lay you even better odds our Admiral Hotham will trundle back to Corsica, as pleased as a pig in shit, and never think to detach scouting frigates to look for 'em, till they're back in Marseilles. We've been buggered, in short. Again. Now, attend to my orders, sir. I've no time… nor any reason… to discuss tactics or strategy. Not when our commanding admiral is so bereft of understanding either.'

'Aye aye, sir,' Knolles almost wilted under the unaccustomed heat of Lewrie's bile. He was not usually the target for his captain's wrath.

Philosophically, he realized though, that anyone would suffice for the moment, and that it wasn't in any way personal. Or permanent.

'He's having one of his days,' Knolles said to Bosun's Mate Cony a few minutes later, once the guns had been secured; powder bags and shot drawn, flint-lock strikers removed, touch-holes and vents covered, and tampions inserted in the barrels. 'Poor bugger.'

'Ya might say that, Mister Knolles, sir,' Cony allowed, looking aft at the moody, impatiently pacing captain, all hunched over like some plow-ox brooding on remembered goads. 'But, he's had a power o' worry t'fret on, 'side's how we look t'be losin' this 'ere war, so far, sir. But th' latest news from home'z better. An', he's the sunny sort. I 'spect he's weathered th' worst Sing small f r a few more days, Mister Knolles. Till we're t'Genoa proper, an' he'll be himself, again. But right now, he don't need no more frustin.'

'Point taken, Mister Cony,' Knolles grinned shyly. 'No more of our petty, uuhm… frustrations?' he suggested diplomatically.

'Now 'at's th' very word I wuz lookin' for, sir. Th' very word.'

Got to stop taking things out on the people, Lewrie chided himself, massaging his temples, and the bridge of his nose, as if trying to scrub himself into a better humor.

But it had been a horrible winter, a miserable spring, and looked to be a dismal and frustrating summer, this fine new year of 1795. Both professionally-saddled with an inept, sluggard of a shit-brain fool as commander of the fleet-and lately, personally, as well. In fact, for a time it had been a terrifying time; though that was somewhat eased by his brother-in-law's last letters.