A King`s Commander

low on the chain wale, then timing leaps into the gently bobbing cutter.

'Ship starboahd oars!' Andrews snapped. 'Toss larboahd. Shove off, bow man, and fend off forrud. Back- watuh, starboahd! Fend off, larboahd aft… easy all! Now, ship oars, larboahd. And give us way, togethah!'

The brig had let fly all, clewing up her courses and tops'ls, her jibs and spanker flogging. It was a short row to her, and within a minute they were hooked on and boarding; Lewrie first with a pistol in his waistband and his sword dangling from his right wrist from a leather lanyard. Four cutlass and pistol-armed sailors next preceded the Marines.

A damn' well-kept little brig, Lewrie thought happily as he saw how clean, how 'Navy Fashion' her decks had been holystoned or swept. He waited for his sailors to join him, glaring at the crew that gathered near the main cargo hatch and the entry port in her waist. They didn't appear much concerned of their capture. Nor cowed, either, he thought. Defiant, smug; and only a trifle hangdog. As if they knew Nelson's orders that they'd soon be released?

Aft was a bit of the same story, as he paced along the gangway to the brig's quarterdeck. Helmsman, after- guard, a couple of men in plain blue coats and cocked hats who were probably the mates, and one dapper little fellow with gray hair and a close-trimmed gray beard in a fancier coat and hat he took for the captain. Two further civilians in the latest fashion, one drab in snuff-brown and boots, and the last a silken peacock, clad in an almost metallic-gleaming electric blue and silver-trimmed coat with dark-blue velvet cuffs. Clerk and owner, Alan speculated?

'Signores,' Lewrie stated. 'Commander Lewrie, the Jester sloop. Reg- gia Marina Britannico.' He knew that much Italian, anyway. 'With me yet, Mister Mountjoy?'

'Here, sir,' Mountjoy replied from his right rear.

'Tell these gentlemen that…'

There was a hefty splash from starboard and astern.

'Papers, sir!' Mountjoy wailed.

'Corp'rl Summerall, the great-cabins!' Lewrie barked. 'Move!'

A sneer on the peacock's face, crude grins on the mates'. And from her captain, an attempt to remain bland, but a daunting smug look of satisfaction in spite of his best efforts. Only his lively wee eyes laughed.

'Damn them!' Lewrie spat. 'They think this is some bloody game?'

'Perhaps, sir,' Mountjoy confessed softly.

'Introduce me, tell 'em they're prisoners, and that we're taking this brig into Vado Bay.' Lewrie sighed bitterly, working up the enthusiasm for an air of false bravado, and success, in spite of them. And in spite of his dashed hopes that he'd discover just how they knew to fear a British squadron along the Genoese Riviera so quickly.

'Then, sir?' Mountjoy asked, once he'd delivered that news.

'Tell 'em no harm will come to them, but they're to be searched for weapons, then confined until we drop anchor. Officers, passengers, and crew. We'll search their personal belongings and cabins…'

A muffled bang from below! Followed by several louder reports!

'What the Devil…?' Lewrie shouted, wheeling toward a ladder to the waist. 'Watch 'em, Andrews.'

'Aye, sah,' Andrews drawled, drawing his pistol and pulling it back to full cock. He might not have been tall enough, or beef to the heel enough to seem menacing; but his feral grin, and the unspoken and exotic danger of a dark-skinned man with a gun did the trick for him.

'What happened, Corporal Summerall?' Lewrie demanded once he'd gained the great-cabins.

'Civilian, sir,' Summerall reported from rigid attention, eyes fixed over Lewrie's shoulder on a cabin door. 'Caught 'im pilin' up a mess o' papers an' such, sir! Drew a pistol, sir! Fired at us. Returned fire, sir. No 'elpin' it, Cap'um, sir!'

He might have been a servant, a valet to one of the gentlemen on deck. A wiry-haired fellow approaching middle years, his hair gray and neatly dressed. An aging clerk's soft hands and cherubic face. But he now lay sprawled between two open chests or traveling trunks, amid the blizzard of loose and bound correspondence he'd tried to jettison. His clothes were quite good. Much better than a servant usually received as part of his wages. Castoffs, Lewrie thought, kneeling down? No, they were too new, of good fabric, and elegant cut. Drab gray trousers, not breeches, but of excellent wool. A black waistcoat, now torn and gory. A fine cambric linen shirt with lots of lace, slowly turning rusty red.

'You're a damn' fool, sir,' Lewrie told him, as his eyes opened and his breath, which had seemed stopped, heaved his chest.

'Aaahh…' He whimpered. A trickle of blood appeared along his mouth. Lung shot, or gut shot, and goin' fast, Lewrie grimaced.

'Who are you, sir? Anyone we should write?' Lewrie offered as he knelt down beside him. 'Tell your family? Familial Famille?'

'In…' The little fellow almost chuckled, though he was choking on his filling lungs. 'Inconnu . ..' And with a rictus of a grin, he closed his eyes. A racking cough, the gout of blood that drowned him, flooded his mouth.

'Dammit!' Lewrie groused, sliding back on his knees to escape the last coughed blood. 'Inconnu?'

'In French, sir, that is to say…'

'I know what it means, Mountjoy! 'Unknown,' was what the damn' fool said,' Lewrie fumed, getting to his feet. 'Having his last wee jest. See his eyes twinkle for a second there? Means whatever there was worth finding went overboard. And he died 'fore we could interrogate him. Might've planned it that way. Couldn't find the 'nutmegs' to put a pistol to his own skull, but he could make us do it for him.'

'French agent, without a doubt, sir,' Mountjoy flatly stated. 'No one sane would kill himself for loss of profit.' Mountjoy looked a little queasy, as if he were suffering seasickness again. So far, there hadn't been much dying aboard Jester for him to witness, for the young gentleman to wade through. 'Hellish business, sir. Still… I say, Corporal Summerall? Was he still trying to gather bundles of his papers, as if there was something left to toss into the sea?'

'Aye, Mister Mountjoy, sir. Saw us, dropped 'em, then snatched up 'at pistol, sir,' Summerall reported, turned to face them but still speaking to windowsills and the like.

'There is a remote possibility, sir,' Mountjoy posed.

'Have at it, then, sir,' Lewrie agreed with a weary air.

'And, sir?'

'Aye?'

'That fellow in the snuff-brown, sir, did you notice?'

'Notice what, Mister Mountjoy?'

'Well, sir, he was the only one of the principals aboard this ship who didn't look pleased when they heard that splash, sir,' Thomas Mountjoy pointed out. 'Didn't look… anything. Stone-faced as a good gambler, sir. Pinched his eyes at the shots. For an instant, I recall a trace of sadness. Then, back to his pose, sir. As if he knew this'n was going to die beforehand. Didn't flinch or jump, like the others, that's what made me remark him, sir.'

'Well, damme, Mister Mountjoy, that's…' Lewrie gawped, as if Toulon had begun forming words and speaking in English. 'That's sharp of you, I must say. However did you come by this… talent of yours?'

'A barrister I clerked for, sir, when I was reading the law, he discovered to me certain quirks people have when they give testimony in the dock. Had he feigned surprise, I might have dismissed my first impression of this fellow, but…' Mountjoy shyly confessed. 'Lead them on with innocuous prattle, sir. Then rock 'em back on their heels hard, with a question they don't expect. Then read their reactions.'

'And, since you speak Italian and French so well, in addition to this most welcome skill of yours, Mister Mountjoy,' Lewrie decided, 'I will put you in charge of not only perusing what remains, but of quizzing our prisoners, as well. Especially our snuff-brown friend.'

'Er… thankee, sir. I think,' Mountjoy all but preened. Just before he realized how much, and how arduous a labor that would be.

'Him, last, I should think,' Lewrie speculated. 'Let him stew over what the other missed.'

'An admirable idea, sir. I'll see to it.'