A King`s Commander

very loud,' he said, handing him a brass speaking trumpet. 'Imagine you've not had a spot of joy your last ten years, entire, sir. Or the gout. Whichever you think makes you the gloomiest. Begin in French. Should they wish to, switch over to Italian. I'll be right by your elbow, prompting you to the proper commands in English, so you can shout orders to the crew in Frog. I'll pass them, in English, through Mister Rydell to Mister Porter and the master gunner, soft enough so they won't hear me. I must say, though, Mister Mountjoy,' Lewrie was forced to snicker, 'but you do cut a most dashing, and nautical picture.'

'Uhm, sir.' Mountjoy sighed, feeling put upon, in spite of the necessity for him to be tricked out in Lewrie's best coat and hat, and wearing a spare sword borrowed from the gunroom. 'But wouldn't it be best, sir, to pose as your first officer, while…?'

'No, sir,' Lewrie countered. 'That might have been the way in the Royal French Navy, beneath the dignity of a titled captain. But a captain

come up through the hawsehole'U shout his own questions. Be ready, she's within half a league of us. Practice bein' a Tartar. A loud Tartar, mind. Scoggins? Hoist the French colors.'

'Aye aye, sir!' the signalman-striker shouted back, hauling at a flag halliard on the mizzenmast.

With the most powerful glass aboard, Lewrie could almost recognize the shivers of relief that went through the people on the strange brig's quarterdeck. Instead of edging astern, as she had been to shy away, she now resumed her old course, straight for them.

'Mister Knolles's hoisted his own false colors, sir,' Buchanon said, almost in a conspiratorial whisper at Lewrie's side.

'Very well, Mister Buchanon, thankee.' Lewrie nodded emphatically, edgy and fidgety with worry of all that might still go awry. It was many a slip, 'twixt the crouch and the leap, as Caroline ever said.

'Her own colors,' Mountjoy drawled out in a regular voice, an arm extended to point. 'Mean t'say… there's her own damn' flag, at last!' he amended, suddenly gruff, and rather loud, too, in what Alan feared was a fairly accurate impersonation of his own style.

Damme, do I sound that fearsome? he asked himself.

'Tuscan, sir,' Buchanon identified first. 'And a house flag I don't know.'

'Let's pray it's a house flag,' Lewrie said, 'and not a secret recognition signal.' They'd tried, in the hour that HMS Jester and the strange brig had taken to close each other, to interrogate the French midshipman, but he'd gone even surlier, and more mute, once the subject had been broached. Surely there were signals, Lewrie thought; must be, if they're to approach French forts that could blow 'em to flinders! A godsend for the entire squadron would be the discovery aboard the brig of her codebook, which would let them raid any harbor they wished for a time, before the French changed the signals.

'Wearin', sir,' Buchanon grunted. 'Two cable up t'windward.'

'Helm alee, Mister Spenser. Two points to weather. Close her. On tippy toes,' Lewrie told the helmsmen. 'Nothing too sudden.'

'Two points t'weather, sir. 'Andsomely,' Spenser replied, chuckling.

'Can they hear us yet, do you think, sir?' Mountjoy asked.

'Not upwind of us,' Lewrie scoffed. 'Nor in the middle of a jibe. Mister Porter? Brail up, and reduce sail,' he shouted.

The rather pretty brig wore her stern across the wind, and took in sail herself, slowing and sloughing atop her bow wave, and falling leeward at a slight angle. Warily keeping the wind gauge oн Jester but approaching to as close as half a cable, possibly less.

'She'll be fine catch, sir,' Buchanon murmured, rubbing fingers as if shining a guinea between them. 'A damn' handsome thing.'

Dark green gunwale over well-oiled oak, with only a miser's pale yellow gloss paint in lieu of a braggart's gilt, was the brig. Rigging was well set up, the wood of her yards and lower masts freshly painted in white, and her running rigging was almost golden-hemp new. Lewrie eyed her with his glass, estimating her length at around eighty-five or ninety feet, just a little larger than their brig-sloop Speedy. And there was gilt on her, he noted; a figurehead lady was gilded, as were the upper beak-head rails, and the trim around her quarter galleries.

A pretty thing, he thought; and a richly done'un!

A shout from her quarterdeck, as she fell down alee, within two hundred yards. In French! 'Qui va la?'

'Answer them, Mister Mountjoy,' Lewrie prompted.

'Uhm…' Mountjoy quivered nervously, coughing and practicing a false basso, sounding like a mastiff with a chest cold.

'La corvette Emeraude, Marine de guerre Franзais!' Mountjoy said through the speaking trumpet, sounding a bit shriller than Lewrie might have liked, a touch too quavery. 'Ici capitaine de frйgate … Hainaut! Et vous? Qui vive?'

'Il Briosco]' came the wail of a shouted reply. 'En partance pour San Remo! Parlez-vous Italien, rnsieur, s'il vous plais?'

'Got you, you bastard!' Lewrie hissed with fierce glee.

'Should I repeat that to him, sir?' Mountjoy whispered from a corner of his mouth, with an expression on his phyz that questioned his captain's sanity.

'Mine arse on a bandbox, sir, o' course not! Just palaver with 'em in Dago, till she drifts a little closer!' Lewrie spluttered. And wondered about Mountjoy's sanity. 'Be ready, Mister Bittfield.'

'He asks about any British ships in the area,' Mountjoy went on.

'Tell him no, not this far west,' Lewrie prompted.

Damme, how'd he know of our ships even beginning patrols so quick, Lewrie frowned in puzzlement. 'Home port,' he demanded, jogging Mountjoy in the small of his back.

' Leghorn, sir,' Mountjoy muttered, turning his head a trifle to speak from the side of his mouth again, after posing the question.

'That's at least a two-day passage, and we only arrived four days ago, so…' Lewrie frowned again. 'Damme. Close enough, sir.'

The brig had made a little leeway, sailing alongside Jester, while Spenser and Brauer had been edging the helm over, spoke at a time, to go up to her. There weren't a hundred yards between the two hulls, wakes creaming slowly, their outer wave fronts beginning to mingle astern.

'Gun ports open, and run out!' Lewrie screeched suddenly. 'True colors aloft! Marines, up!'

Up, the port lids flew, and truck carriages squealed and roared as wood wheels rumbled over oak decks. Down came the French Tricolor, to be replaced with the White Ensign with the Union Jack in the canton. Up, the Marines bounded, from kneeling behind the bulwarks of the starboard gangway, half turned, muskets at half cock and ready to aim.

'Heave-to or I will open upon you!' Lewrie snarled to Mountjoy. 'Resist, and I will blow you to hell, tell him! Mister Porter, cutter to the starboard main chains! Muster the boarding party!'

Andrews, a boat crew, four spare sailors, and six Marines under Corporal Summerall trotted to the entry port, as the cutter was led out from being towed astern.

'Mister Buchanon, you have the deck, until my return, sir,' Alan instructed. 'Mister Mountjoy… you have my coat and hat! I'll thank you for 'em back.'

'Yes, sir, uhm… could I go with you, sir?' Mountjoy pleaded as he stripped to shirt and waistcoat. 'They speak either French or Italian, sir. And their papers will be in Italian, most likely. I'd do best at translating for you, or searching. Speed us along, sir?'

'Right, then. Come on.' Lewrie nodded, retrieving his uniform. 'Keep that sword on you. But try not to cut yourself.'

'Thank you, sir!' Mountjoy gushed, breathless with excitement.

Down they went into the cutter, without ceremony, clambering on the boarding battens to the chain platform