A King`s Commander

plight, they couldn't commiserate until he allowed it, till he even mentioned his family. He was approached like a new widower who was barely launched into his period of mourning; cosseted gently, without actually broaching the subject of what he needed cosseting for!

Hellish challenge, Lewrie thought; to be captain of a ship, and thought lucky. Sure, they're wond'rin'… if I'm not blessed, if I can have a near-fatal sickness back home, am I suddenly just a run-of-the-mill captain? Jester still a lucky ship, or…

To their north, the French fleet was entering harbor, just as he had predicted, without even trying to turn and show their fangs. Their van was already inside the bay, only their topmasts showing above the rugged heights of Cape Sepet, and the main body around their flagship brailing up square sails to slow as they entered the Bay of Toulon.

' 'Ere's a sloop o' war, fetched to, sir,' Mister Buchanon pointed out to their left. 'Just below th' batt'ries at Cape Sepet. One o' 'eir corvettes, like us. 'Bout our size, sir. Twenty-twenty-two guns, I make her.'

A most sleek and jaunty corvette she was, too, presenting her larboard profile to them, about two miles off and about an equal distance from the sheltering guns. New, Lewrie thought, noting her yellow pale up-perworks, still pristine and virginal under a fresh-from-the-yards first coat of linseed oils. A black lower chain wale that set off her saucily curved sheer line, and a broad white gunwale. Though her sails belied that newness; they were of a more- worn dun than most French ships sported, from spending more time at sea since her launching.

'Signal, from Agamemnon, sir!' Hyde interrupted at last. 'The squadron…' he read off slowly, 'Wear… to starboard tack. Course easterly. And, make all sail conformable with the weather, sir.'

'For Genoa.' Lewrie nodded, suddenly feeling a weight depart his weary shoulders. Dither enough, and someone else'll make your decision for you; and have sense enough to be damn' grateful when they do, Alan almost snickered in relief. 'With the Frogs run back to their pond, I trust we'll have a much quieter passage, this time, hey, Mister Knolles?'

'Indeed, sir,' Knolles replied, chuckling.

'Very well, Mister Hyde. Hoist the Affirmative. Mister Knolles, pipe Hands to Stations to Wear Ship.'

A glance astern to Agamemnon, then past her to Hotham's line of battle, which had already begun to turn east in rigid line-ahead order; the lead ship hardening up across what little wind there was, and the one next astern of her sheeting home and bracing in to turn in her wake, once the lead ship's stern galleries were midships abeam. Going back to San Fiorenzo Bay, he supposed, their dubiously performed duties done, for the time being. And another fine chance for a victory lost.

'Signal's down, sir!' Hyde shouted.

'Wear-ho, Mister Knolles,' Lewrie directed moodily. 'Put the ship about to the starboard tack.'

There was a thin warlike sound down to leeward that turned his attention north once more, a flat, slamming thud of a gun. That French corvette had just shot off a lee gun, the traditional challenge to combat! The misty single bloom of gun smoke rose over her decks, obscured by her hull and sails.

Would they…? But Agamemnon showed no sign that Nelson had even taken notice; no directions to Jester, or another of the powerful frigates in the squadron to go teach that Frenchman some manners.

'What a lot of gall, I must say, sir!' Knolles all but yelped in spite of himself, once the ship had her head around.

'That's the French for you, Mister Knolles.' Lewrie felt like japing. 'Just like women. Always have to have the last bloody word, d'ye see… in everything. And… full to their hairlines with ' Gaul,' don't ye know.' He simpered.

'Oh, merciful God, sir,' Midshipman Spendlove groaned at just how bad a jape it was. 'Ow!'

'You wouldn't be just the slightest bit French, yourself, would you, Mister Spendlove?' Lewrie snickered, feeling his mood brightening at last, now that Jesters bowsprit pointed to someplace more promising. 'Do I detect a touch of ' Gaul ' in you, as well, sir?'

'God, no, sir!' Spendlove countered. 'That was good old English cheek. The sort allowed midshipmen. A different matter entirely, sir!'

'I stand corrected about your antecedence, young sir,' he said with a mock bow. As Lewrie turned away, he missed the wink exchanged between Hyde and Spendlove, the smiles of relief among the crew. The captain had cracked a jest, and a smile, after weeks without. Perhaps the bad times were over. For him, and for them all.

So long, Corsica, Lewrie thought, peering sou'west, though that isle was far under the horizon, a hundred mile or more. So long, my shore house. And my damn' rent money! And Phoebe, and my… well.

Free of Hotham, free of the fleet, under an energetic commander such as Horatio Nelson, Lewrie was sure there'd be action galore, and the reek of fired guns. Bags of other things to deal with, to think about; so much that he would no longer have a chance to remain venal or weak. A chance for redemption, perhaps?

Daft as a March hare… reedy as a willow wand, was Nelson, but Lewrie was coming to like his direct, and enthusiastic aggressiveness. And who'd o' thought it, the first time he'd met him. Or the second.

And this time, please God… he prayed silently. I promise to keep me member buttoned snug in me breeches; swear on a stack o' Bibles, if you like. Just steer us to action, so I can stay out o' trouble.

Mostly, he amended quickly.

And, he could not help smiling ruefully; there was a phrase he had heard, mostly on the lower deck, the wry wisdom of a frazzled sailor who had bitten off more than he could chew. And, it even rhymed!

When in trouble, when in doubt…

hoist th' main,

and fuck-off out!

'Ahum.' He coughed into his fist. 'Steady as she goes, Mister Brauer. East-sou'east. Thus.'

CHAPTER 2

Pipes squealing, Marine muskets and deck-officers' swords presented in salute, as Commander Lewrie attained the entry port of Agamemnon, just after Captain Cockburn. The dance of gigs roundabout to line up in order of seniority had almost seemed laughable; had it not been deadly serious to some of the participants.

'Welcome aboard, sir,' an Agamemnon Lieutenant greeted Lewrie's safe arrival on the starboard gangways. 'Might you join the rest, on the quarterdeck yonder, for just a moment, sir, till…'

'Certainly, sir.' Alan smiled, looking forward to an opportunity to speak to Fremantle again, that tall, laconic stalwart; and, to become acquainted with the rest of the captains of their squadron, who had so far been faceless names aboard distant ships.

'Captain Fremantle, good morning to you, sir.'

'Lewrie… hey,' Thomas Fremantle replied, never known for the use of five words, when one or two would do. 'Keep well?'

'Indeed, sir. And free of our admiral, sure to keep better.'

An audible sniff to his right, which turned Lewrie's attention to a very young post-captain, a prim, upright, almost delicately handsome sprog with an eager and earnest expression on his 'phyz.' Though at first glance, a moment before, that 'phyz' had borne the not-quite-with-us-yet blandness and perpetual weak-mouthed pout of someone from the peerage, the sort who felt nigh-overwhelmed but was determined not to show it to lesser mortals. Now, a long vane of a nose, with a pug-tilted tip was lifted high in what appeared to be sudden revulsion.

'Allow me to name myself, sir. Alan Lewrie, the Jester sloop.' Lewrie beamed with malicious glee to so discomfit such a paragon. 'And I believe you are Captain Cockburn, of the Meleager frigate?'