A King`s Commander - Dewey Lambdin

Keening and wailing over the broken dead, some of them. The wind brought thin screams, wails, and prayers to Jester, as civilians raised their hands in supplication, beat their breasts, and wrenched at their undone hair, throwing their heads back to howl like hounds in mourning.

' 'Ey've profesh'nal mourners back home beat all hollow, sir," Bucha-non grunted, as the civilians began to drag off the badly wounded, or prop up those lesser hurt and get them to their feet to stagger off, crying and weeping with agony.

"Might give these local lads a bellyful of war, Mister Buchanon," Lewrie spat. "Were they of a mind to volunteer before, well…"

"Mourners, my eyes, sir!" Buchanon said with an outraged snort. Looters, more like. Look yonder, sir."

Sure enough, once Lewrie raised his telescope again, he could see pockets being turned out, boots and stockings stripped off, the bloody knapsacks being rifled. Taking his first close-up look at his handiwork, Lewrie could view horribly wounded men being rolled over, so the looters could get at their valuables, flailing their hands weakly, or screaming in protest, shaking their heads to be left alone to die, in peace. Those hands being stripped of rings, bloody purses, or tobacco pouches torn away from punctured waistcoat pockets. Urchin children quarreling over corpses, and their pitiful wealth, like buzzards. A few of the younger women honestly grieved, and took no part in looting.

Simple little fishing-town girls, Lewrie thought, bedazzled by romantic young soldiers, so exotic, from so far away, bragging about booty and plunder and glory. When conquered, there were always those who'd snuggle up to the victors who could offer power, money, or food when everyone else went hungry. Or could offer novel adventure, love… yet even a few of those weeping young girls had the common sense to pick their dying lovers' pockets. For mementos. Or a token of security for their own precarious futures.

"Mister Bittfield!" Lewrie howled. "A round-shot over their heads! Well over, mind. But scare those harpies off!"

"Aye aye, sir!"

Boom! went a larboard nine-pounder, its ball a rising black dash-mark aimed with the quoin below the breech fully out. A redoubling of the wailing ashore, but for their own safety now as they scattered, running in all directions, skirts hiked up to their knees. The shot struck earth a full mile away, but they weren't to know that. Again, the road was as empty of life as it had been just after the broadside.

Another, larger boom atop the bluff, as the assembled powder charges and spare kegs exploded. Another Vesuvius-like eruption that flung charred gun tools and carriage timbers into the midmorning sky, and a patter of rock and gravel that rained down as far as the Marines re-embarking on the narrow beach.

The mob, which had been so intent upon re-entering their town, perhaps advancing toward the battery, had also scattered to the four winds. Bordighera was as devoid of people, of a sudden, as Stonehenge.

Five minutes more, Lewrie swore, pulling out his watch in spite of his best intentions to appear calm and unruffled. The boats would be back alongside, the people aboard, and he could quit this horrible place. And he didn't much care if those three tartanes were full of gold bullion. He didn't much care for the taste in his mouth.

"All well, Sergeant Bootheby?" he asked, as the last Marines and sailors gained the gangway, and the boats were led astern for towing once more.

"Not a scratch, sir!" Bootheby boasted, his grizzled bear-face glowing with pleasure in a soldier's proper job well done. "And thank you, Captain sir! From me and all the lads. That were a rare treat, sir. Anytime, sir. We're ready, anytime."

"Damn' well done, Sergeant, and aye, I'll keep that in mind," Lewrie promised, smiling now that they could depart. "Mister Buchanon? Hands to sheets and halliards. Hands to the braces. Get sail on her, and get us underway. Once around the point, and well offshore, set a course for Vado Bay."

"With pleasure, sir," Buchanon agreed, working his mouth as if he'd been chewing on something disagreeable, too.

CHAPTER

4

Once well out to sea and headed east, shepherding their prizes, Lewrie had hoisted "Captain Repair on Board" to summon Knolles, so he could write his report on the action. To their surprise, Knolles had fetched along a French prisoner of war, a surly, coldly sneering lout in a midshipman's uniform that was a very tight fit, so bad that he appeared as if he'd stripped a much shorter and slenderer lad for his clothes; all out at the elbows and wrists, breeches that buckled up above his knees-had they buckled at all. A tall and lanky thatch-hair, who wore it long and un-clubbed to either side of his face, like a parted curtain. Midshipman Jules Hainaut altogether resembled a very dim-witted peasant, just off the turnip wagon, who'd been clad in some cast-off theatrical costume as a jape.

"Speaks damn-all English, of course, sir," Lieutenant Knolles said with an apologetic shrug. "And only a word or two of Italian… those mostly food, drink, or something to do with whores… so Mister Mountjoy's skills as a linguist might not avail, either. He's French, I've determined… but from where, God only knows, sir. He's no French I ever learned. A Parisian would send him to the guillotine for bad pronunciation."

"However did you catch him, Mister Knolles?" Lewrie asked.

"He was aboard the largest tartane, sir… the armed one. Popped off with a brace of horse pistols, missed by a mile, and dropped to the deck when Cony shot back at him." Knolles laughed easily, savoring his small triumph at the quayside. "Rather clumsily, at that."

"So the Frog Committee for Public Safety, or Directory," Lewrie said, chuckling, "appears to have their own 'Bad Bargains,' as does our King?" "Aye, sir," Knolles agreed.

"Now, the prizes, Mister Knolles!" Lewrie urged, turning to more rewarding thoughts, and dismissing the French midshipman immediately.

"Lord, sir!" Knolles exclaimed. "Arms, uniforms, boots, packs… everything to equip and feed, and field two regiments. The smaller tartanes are Savoian, I've determined. The larger one is French. She carries some four-pounders, swivels, and a pair of twelve-pounder French-cast carronades, sir. Rather clever mounting, fore-and-aft, in the middle of the forecastle and at the taffrail. The slide-carriages are built atop a round wood platform, which can point in about three-quarters of a full circle. Quite ingenious, really. Pinned through the deck just like a sea-mortar platform. On a small vessel, without a lot of standing rigging to impede one's aim, sir, well…! She could employ them even closing or fleeing, on a bow-and-quarter line." "And her cargo?" Lewrie pressed.

"Powder, made cartouches, cartridge paper, tents and blankets, mostly, sir. She escorted the others to Bordighera. I got that much from our French mute. But her main load was a company of French infantry, to do the training, sir. Half of that lot you erased on the shore road. They were raising at least one Savoian regiment of volunteers, Captain. With hopes of another, do you see." Knolles crowed himself. "And we put paid to that scheme, sir!"

"But her crew?" Lewrie wondered aloud. "Where'd they gone when we closed them? They could have given you one hell of a scrap."

"Oh, them, sir." Knolles sneered. "Savoians, too, for the most part. Fisherman and such, 'pressed' into French service. They offered a joining bounty, some fraternity cant… and gaol as the other option, if they didn't, uhm… willingly volunteer, sir. Even our lout yonder thinks them scum. Scampered off, soon as we sailed in, leaving their Frog masters to do the honorable thing."

"Well, we've had ourselves quite a productive morning, Mister Knolles." Lewrie grinned. "And hurt the French cause, no end. Your part in it was gallantly carried, and I'll stress that in my report."

"Thankee kindly, sir." Knolles all but blushed, thinking it was necessary to appear modest and unassuming.

"Lord, don't scuff your shoes like a schoolboy, Mister Knolles," Lewrie genially chided him. "Save that for Captain Nelson, and your patrons. Just 'twixt you and me, it's quite all right to admit you're 'all the go.' "

"Aye, sir." Knolles grinned, lifting his eyes. "If you say so."

"Yon Frog tartane, Mister Knolles…" Lewrie pondered. "She's a bit stouter than our little Bombуlo? And a tad longer?"

"About sixty feet, altogether, sir," Knolles supplied. "Cleaner, certainly. And doesn't reek of fish."

"Condemned as a lawful prize, she'll swing idle for months, and then get disarmed and sold out," Lewrie griped. "How many four-pounders did you say?"

"Six, sir," Knolles informed him.

"Damme, let's keep her. And those novel swiveling carronades," Lewrie decided quickly. "Shift your crew over to her, and leave just a barebones crew aboard Bombуlo. You'd best shift our two-pounders aboard her, too. And the swivels. That'd be easier than stripping her, then rearming Bombуlo. What's her name, by the way?"

"La Follette, sir," Knolles said, snickering. "The Little Fool."

"Really!" Lewrie gaped with amazement, then began to laugh in hearty appreciation. "Most apt. The little fool, tender to a jester. Well, damme… it can't be coincidental, d'ye think?"

"God knows, sir." Knolles shrugged. "But it sounds… lucky."

There it was again, that thing of his, and Jesters luck. But perhaps it wasn't coincidental. Perhaps, with her capture, his luck, and his ship's, were turning for the better.

"Very well, Mister Knolles, carry on. Send me Andrews, soon as you can. Cony to serve as your acting bosun. Five hands for Bombуlo, same as the other two prize tartanes, and we may have enough men to go around, till we drop anchor at Vado Bay. It's only eighty sea miles or so. With this sou'east wind, we could be there by dusk, pray God."

"Aye aye, sir."

A late dinner, bites taken between writing. And fending off his young ram-cat, who was ever fascinated by the waving plume of his quill pen. "No, Toulon. Sweetlin'? Can't you go play with mousey?" Lewrie attempted to cajole. "Aspinall?"

"Sir?" his steward replied from the pantry. "Dangle something tempting, will you, for God's sake?" "Monkey-fist, Toulon," Aspinall offered. "See it swing, hey? Wanna fight yer monkey-fist, hey cat?"

Toulon would. With an excited trill, he jumped down to dash for the pantry door, where a newish toy of intricately plaited small-stuff swung and jerked alluringly. It was Aspinall's first successful stab at decorative knot-work, a skill he was picking up from Andrews. There were rather good place mats woven from sennet in the great-cabins now, a set of restraining ropes in the pantry where he labored, prettily served with turk's-heads, so he wouldn't go arse-over-tit in the next spell of nasty weather. But Andrews had done half of those himself as examples.

Crash! came the sound of a Marine guard's musket beyond the door. "Cap'um's dark, Mister Mountjoy… sah!"

"Enter." Lewrie sighed around a chunk of salami and goat cheese. "Excuse me, sir," Mountjoy said as he entered. "But I expect you're almost ready for me to make a fair copy of the report from your rough, sir?"