A King`s Commander

offshore, creating a rising gout of smoke, and the hint of flames at its base.

'Near midchannel. Ease her, Quartermaster. We'll enter harbor in midchannel. Mister Buchanon, hands to the braces,' Lewrie called. 'Wind's from the sou'east. Wear us for a run, with the wind large on the starboard quarter.'

Around the point and under the bluff, the land fell away toward the town on the right-hand side, the shoreline of the harbor almost a full circle, as if cut from the rocky coast with the rim of a cup, with high hills all about behind the bluffs short peninsula. He could see that Bordighera held slim pickings. There were three shabby locally built tartanes tied up to a stone quay near the center of town, a narrow and rocky beach to the right, and a much wider, softer beach to the left of the inlet, where at least two-dozen small fishing boats no bigger than the ship's jolly boat rested with their bows on the shingle and gravel.

Bombуlo was coasting toward the quay, prompting the crews of the tartanes to flee ashore, into the streets leading uphill. But down from the battery, at least a hundred French infantry-two companies? Alan thought-that had formed a line midway between the fort and the town, were jogging townward to intercede. The mounted officer appeared again, this time at the infantrymen's backs, his sword drawn, to spur them on.

'Mister Bittfield, that lot!' Lewrie shouted. 'Load with grape and canister. Quartermaster, put your helm alee two points, to lay us closer inshore o' those buggers.'

Pistols were popping on the quay. With his telescope, Alan saw a few men in French naval uniforms, falling back from their vessels to the buildings as Knolles's raiding party came alongside the largest of the tartanes. No more than half-a-dozen, against Knolles's fifteen, he thought, abandoned by the rest but still game. A swivel gun banged and a uniformed Frenchman went down. A two-pounder boat gun went off aboard Bombуlo, spraying canister into the front of an impressive shorefront commercial building, and dropped another. The rest at last fled, far outnumbered and outgunned.

'Loaded an' run out, sir,' Bittfield reported. 'Range 'bout two cables. Too far forrud o' th' carriage-gun ports, but we're sailin' faster'n they can trot, sir!'

'Steady, Quartermaster. We'll stand on a little closer. Do you be ready, Mister Bittfield.'

'Ready!' Bittfield yelled to his gun captains. Tacklemen and loaders, rammermen and powder monkeys stepped clear of recoil, of the rope tackle that could ensnare a foot and have it off. Lanyards were pulled taut to the flint-lock strikers. Quarter-gunner Rahl, more used to the employment of artillery against troops in the field, scampered onto the forecastle, after directing the train of the forward-most gun.

The French soldiers were intent on getting to the quay, to stop Knolles from taking those small coasters, of getting into the town and the main square just above the quay, to volley or snipe from cover. A moment more, Lewrie thought, wondering if those local charts were right, and he had depth enough along that shore. But for the creak and groan of the hull, the swash of water, and the rustle of the wind and sails, it was, for a moment, peacefully silent. He could distinctly hear the rattle and thud of boots on the roadway, of musket butts clapping upon bayonet scabbards and sheathed short swords, canteens and metal plates and cups hung from knapsacks tinkering one another, as they jogged at the double-quick.

'Helm up to windward, Quartermaster. Lay us parallel to them,' Lewrie said at last.

'Wait for it!' Bittfield soothed as Jester swung her bows about, and the shoreline road and its panting target appeared in the gun ports. 'Wait for itttl' He squatted to point over the number one nine-pounder.

'Nein, Herr Bittfield!' Rahl countered from the foc's'le. 'Der mute, kanonl Middle, zir!' He fanned his hands to mime the spread of shot of a full-dozen barrels; carronades and long guns. 'Verbreitung… der spread!'

Bittfield swore under his breath, but trotted aft to the waist.

Wiser than the small French garrison, the Savoians of Bordighera had gone to earth, or run for the hills above their hard-scrabble little town. The dusty harbor street down which the infantry pounded, among the first shanrylike outlying homes and tiny shops, was shuttered and closed, not even a dog or curious cat in sight.

'Proceed, Mister Bittfield.'

'On the uproll…!' Bittfield screeched, drawing breath for his final shout.

The mounted officer reined in his horse savagely, making it rear once more, as if suddenly realizing he'd bitten off more than he or his men could chew. The rear-rank men at the tail of the column, the file closest to the low stone boundary markers of the shoreline road, suddenly shrank in on themselves, looking over their shoulders, hunched as pensioners.

'Firel'

It was not over 300 yards from ship to shore when that broadside erupted. Canister, so Army artillery texts stated, was most effective out to nearly 500 yards. And, in Army usage, Jester carried the equivalent of three four-gun batteries a battalion of guns!

The ship shuddered and complained with wooden groans as gun smoke blotted out the view. Ashore, it was an avalanche that swept everything away in a twinkling. Dust flew, low shrubbery wavered and frothed, and the stucco fronts of low houses and shops were dimpled and crazed to the brick beneath, and roof tiles were flung into the air, some in shards, or whole. Precious glass windows shattered, wood shutters and awnings disappeared, all those screechings and crashings lost in the terror-stricken wails-the death screams-of the infantrymen, who were scythed away. Plebeian dun stucco was splattered or sheeted with gore. The officer's horse was flung over a waist-high fence of a pigsty, its rider-minus an arm and a leg-flung the opposite direction, and his gleaming sword did a silvery pirouette, twirling over and over.

When the smoke cleared, there weren't a dozen Frenchmen who still stood, to stagger blindly away. For another long moment, all was quiet. Then the moaning began, the panicky yelps and whimpers of the dying, as they felt themselves over to discover their mortal hurts.

'Reload,' Lewrie barked, though his knees juddered as he beheld the enormity, and the suddenness, of that slaughter. 'Round-shot this time, Mister Bittfield.'

'Aye aye, sir,' the master gunner muttered, in awe himself.

'Mister Buchanon, hands to the braces. Ready to wear about, to the larboard tack. We'll circle the harbor, until Mister Knolles has way on the prizes. Mister Porter? Clew up courses and topsls. Keep way on her with t'gallants, jibs, and spanker.'

'Fire on the town, sir?' Bittfield inquired from the gun deck. 'Those fishin' boats?'

'No, Mister Bittfield.' Lewrie grimaced. 'No call to ruin the civilians' lives. Unless we're fired upon, that is. Andrews?'

'Heah, sah,' his cox'n replied, leaving his quarterdeck carronade.

'Three prizes, and Bombуlo to manage. Take my gig, with a full boat crew, and row over to join Mister Knolles's party. My compliments to him on his quick seizure, and he is to get them underway as soon as possible. He is to…' Lewrie ordered, then paused, looking astern. 'He is to lay off the entrance, until I join him. I'll be tending to that damn' battery.'

'Aye aye, sah.' Andrews nodded, dashing off to gather the men who usually made up the captain's boat crew.

'Sergeant Bootheby?' Lewrie called. 'Mister Porter? Join me on the quarterdeck, if you please.'

'Sah!' Jester's most-senior Marine barked, in his best parade-ground fashion. The Admiralty put little faith in the abilities of a lowly second lieutenant to lead a shipboard detachment. Post-ships got a Marine captain, with at least one lieutenant as his assistant, while vessels below the rate such as Jester rated only a senior, but experienced, noncommissioned officer.

'Mister Porter, lead the cutter and jolly boat around from the stern,' Lewrie instructed. 'Full crews for both boats. Sergeant, I would like you to take your men ashore, and spike those guns. Better yet, tumble them down the bluff, into the sea. Take powder and oil… so you may set their carriages alight, too. I'll send Mister Meggs the armorer, and Mister Crewe the gunner's mate, to assist you. We've shot most of the garrison to rags, I expect, so there should be little opposition.'

'Aye aye, sah!' Sergeant Bootheby bellowed fiercely, pleased to get a chance to shine at something more useful than polishing brass.

'Well debark your party as we sail back out toward the bluff. Five minutes, I make it, before we let you slip. Hurry.'