Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

• Название: A King`s Commander
• Автор: Dewey Lambdin
• Жанр: Морские приключения

Alan Lewrie is now commander of HMS Jester, an 18-gun sloop. Lewrie sails into Corsica only to receive astonishing orders: he must lure his archenemy, French commander Guillaume Choundas, into battle and personally strike the malevolent spymaster dead. With Horatio Nelson as his squadron commander on one hand and a luscious courtesan who spies for the French on the other, Lewrie must pull out all the stops if he's going to live up to his own reputation and bring glory to the British Royal Navy.

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"A fish in the water, so to speak, Captain Lewrie." Peel japed.

"Exactly."

"Though…" Peel sobered. "That would mean we're only one ship. And we'd have to stop and search every bloody rowboat 'tween Genoa and Vado. And intercept the privateer if she comes out."

"That, too, exactly, Mister Peel," Lewrie snapped, losing every hope he'd conjured up. "Needle in a bloody hayrick. Damn!"

CHAPTER 5

Agamemnon was already at sea, lurking a few miles south of the harbor approaches to Genoa. Like a reunion with a parent after years apart, Lewrie was shocked at how she'd aged in the months that jester had been away. Paint faded and streaked, her gunwales gone filthy and her sails turned weary brown, and much patched. Worst of all, thigh-thick anchor cables had been bound about her hull to keep her together.

A quick, shouted conference with Nelson, across the fifty yards that separated them after Jester came under her lee, both captains too impatient to waste time transferring from ship to ship, so they could lay their plans in the idle comfort of the flagship's great-cabins.

Nelson had to admit that Agamemnon was too weeded to catch the privateer, should she come out. He would take her to Vado Bay at once, send Tartar out to watch the coast closer inshore east of Vado, rearm little Bombуlo, which had been swinging idle since Meleager had abandoned her so she could go off to Leghorn for her refit, put a crew in her, and reinforce Tartar. The privateer would be Lewrie's "pigeon," when or if she left port.

To aid his own search, Nelson gave Lewrie the use of his barge, a thirty-two-foot ten-oared boat, which could be rigged with two masts and carry a two-pounder boat gun and a pair of swivels. With an admonition not to scratch her paint, Agamemnon departed, leaving Jester to stand guard at Genoa by herself, until Tartar and Bombуlo could join her. A day and a night, perhaps, before she was reinforced. Speedy would have encountered at least one or two of the frigates by then, and summoned them back from their wild-goose chase to the west. With all the luck in the world, they'd then sew a net so snug about Genoa and its approaches that Choundas would never get out.

The first use Lewrie made of the barge was to man her, and send Midshipman Hyde inshore with her, to cany a message to Twigg or Drake to keep an eye on the privateer, hire a swift local boat, and send out an alert if Choundas transferred to another vessel, and its description and course.

Then, five miles sou'west of the Mole, he could do nothing more.

Except fret, of course.

As Jester continued her pacing, standing off and on that coast as the evening gathered, Lewrie paced his quarterdeck on the windward side. Back and forth, from the hammock nettings overlooking the waist to the corner of the taffrail by the night lanthorn. Fretting a safe and swift return of the barge, Mister Hyde and its crew; though he doubted the Genoese government would be silly enough to delay her or seize her. They were in enough bad odor, already; had practically thrown in with the French! Fretting the delay of fresh information from Twigg, which Hyde would surely have for him. That Choundas would confound them one more time, and stay snug and safe aboard the privateer, after all. Or take the overland route, disguised as a misshapen Gypsy, or something.

But mostly, fretting that Choundas would realize that Agamemnon had departed, and make his move before any reinforcement arrived. Had Choundas planned to sneak out aboard a nondescript fishing boat, rush back to his beloved corvette, and his neglected duties, flush with new triumph, he'd have to do it soon. Surely, he'd feel the noose drawing tighter, the bastard had the survival instincts of a bread-room rat… and was just about as hard to kill for certain.

Depart just after twilight, Lewrie pondered, hands in the small of his back, glaring down at the toes of his fashionable boots, pacing almost hunchbacked with impatient gloom. Show no lights, maybe a wee lanthorn… one fishing boat 'mongst a fleet of 'em?

Speed, though… has to get back, soon. Dash along the coast to be west of Vado Bay before tomorrow's dawn? French lines begin where? Can't count on anything tubby as Bombуlo-she's typical of boats hereabouts-to get him through the area where he'd be most vulnerable. A larger vessel, then. Longer waterline, schooner-rigged. A tartane or pencil-thin… he might try with the privateer. She's armed, and fast enough. Does that damned senator have himself a yacht? He looked like the sort to afford one… ruddy-faced. Hunting, I thought. Owns ships and such, so he must do some sailing, maybe it comes from… damn!

He stopped to scrub his face with dry hands and peer shoreward. Jester was on the easternmost leg of her patrol line, barely two miles off the harbor entrance. There were few signs of activity. Some small fishing boats about Bombolo's size working their way back into harbor. Few sail visible at all, save for them, and some even smaller with one lugsail or lateen, little bigger than Jester's jolly boat or gig. All heading in as sunset approached, or idling bare-poled close inshore for a final cast of the nets. And a two-master heading out! He crossed to the binnacle cabinet by the wheel to snatch his telescope and inspect it.

The elegant barge, at last! Within half an hour, she'd be alongside with news. Then he could arm her before full dark, put more hands into her, and double his patrol.

"Helm up a point, Quartermaster!" he snapped. "That'll be our Mister Hyde returning. We'll stand down to her."

"Aye aye, zir," Brauer crisply agreed, feeding spokes a-weather.

"A note from Mister Drake, sir," Hyde offered, once he was back on deck. "His compliments to you, Captain, and said for me to inform you that he already had the privateer under close scrutiny. Of yet, there's been no sign that anyone has left her. Though he also bade me tell you that they'd hoisted an 'Easy' pendant this morning, and allowed traders' bumboats to come alongside. Rather a lot of'em, sir," Hyde contributed. "Saw 'em myself. So many it's hard to keep track, that Mister Drake also said to say, sir."

"Do you carry any message for me, sir?" Mister Peel asked from the side.

"Aye, sir, I do." Hyde nodded, reaching into another pocket for a wax-sealed note. "Mister Drake gave it me, from some banker fellow?"

Kept in the dark so far, Hyde could only raise his brows and wonder why a commercial letter was just as important as one from the Consul representing HM Government at Genoa. Having this stranger Peel aboard, with the right of the quarterdeck, and put aboard so urgently, had Hyde and the rest totally mystified.

"Any vessels follow you to sea, sir?" Lewrie asked quickly. "A vessel of any kind that looked in the way of readying for departure?"

"None that I took note of, sir." Hyde frowned.

"Very well, Mister Hyde." Lewrie sighed, deflated. "Mister Buchanon, sir? Well arm the barge before dark. I wish you to take charge of her. Mister Crewe? A two-pounder with round-shot and canister in the barge, with two swivels and ammunition. Four extra hands besides boat crew, Mister Cony. The sharp-eyed, and some decent gunners. I'll want a pistol, musket, and cutlass for every man, as well. Mister Peel, with me for a moment, if you please, sir. Let us compare… notes."

They stepped aft to the taffrails for privacy. Peel had already perused his, and crumpled it up to toss overboard, astern.

"My employer has contacted the Austrian headquarters. They're to keep a close watch on all roads, looking for a scarred man with a limp. They're to particularly inspect any wagon or cart going to one of our Senator di Silvano's estates. Mister Silberberg has also placed a watch upon the senator's mansion, should Choundas be spirited there. But we don't have the willing agents to follow every coach coming or going to his house. The rest of the conspirators' houses aren't covered. Even with things coming to a head, Mister Silberberg doubts di Silvano will tip his hand that directly, I'm sorry to say, Captain Lewrie. I doubt we'd be able to watch close enough should this be happening in London."

"Mister Drake says there've been so many bumboats alongside the privateer, coming and going, that it's impossible to say if Choundas was in one of them, disguised, either." Lewrie groaned. "She's her sails har-bor-gasketed, and her crew ranti-poling with the local whores, as drunk as lords. She's not coming out tonight, at any rate. Or in the morning, either, the way he says they're celebrating their new fortune."

He crumpled up his own note and tossed it over.

"Their heads'll be too thick." Lewrie chuckled without amusement. "The senator does have a yacht. But then, so do almost all of the other conspirators. It's a local sport, yachting."

"Those we know about, sir," Peel cautioned in a covert mutter. "And them we still can't link to the plot, direct. A fishing boat, or a yacht. By dawn, there could be hundreds of 'em out here."

"Does Choundas come out tonight, Mister Peel," Lewrie schemed, trying to put himself in the wily Frenchman's head, "it'll most like be around nine or so, after full dark. Combined with us being close off the approaches, I should think. We'll be turning away, to stand west on our leg. He could idle just off the mole… no lights showing, and follow us, damn his eyes! Close inshore, with a local pilot who can smell a shoal or rock. Not much moon to speak of… him black against a dark coastline. Trail us as far as Voltri. That'd take a couple of hours, then we'd have to turn back east, and he could scoot along the twenty or twenty-five miles to Vado Bay and be just a few miles west of there by false dawn tomorrow morning. A fishing boat, 'bout the same size as yon barge, would be too slow for him. He must know that Vado Bay'd be well-patrolled. There's a decent wind tonight, and night winds are fairly steady in strength and direction. From the nor'east, for once. A perfect wind to ghost out on, and broad-reach west on. He'll want a longer, faster boat for that. I would. If he doesn't make it to Vado, he can't expect to lay up for the day along this coast, not with Austrian troops about. Where are the French, last report? How far east?"

"East of the inland road that comes down to Finale, sir." Peel shrugged. "How far East, I… of late, I have no way of knowing." He gave Lewrie a quick grimace before turning bland again. Hating to say "I don't know" as bad as any secret agent. "Along the coast road, we must assume they've advanced closer to Vado."

"Other side of the headland?" Lewrie grumbled in surprise when Peel told him that. "That'd be only ten miles west of our anchorage!" "It's possible, sir. Sorry I can't enlighten you further." "Forty miles, at most then," Lewrie puzzled. "Genoa to Finale or thereabouts. Seven hours to safety, at six or seven knots. Damme if I'll play his game!"

But not knowing how he was going to accomplish that, yet. That barge could never catch up a larger, faster vessel, once she got to sea, with a bone in her teeth. He'd have to place Jester more to the west, if he hoped to get a decent slant at interception. With his ship tied too close to the harbor entrance, though, Choundas might gain a precious lead that he could never make up, once Choundas slipped past them close inshore. Yet, to remain far enough west to counter that, Jester couldn't guard the entrance, could not spot any vessel leaving in time to overhaul her and inspect her. Or could he?

"Mister Buchanon, 'vast your packing, sir," Lewrie called out. "I apologize, but I'll need you aboard, after all. Mister Hyde, you're still in charge of the barge."

"Aye, sir!" Hyde grinned, proud to have a temporary "command." "Pass the word for Mister Crewe to come to…" ' 'Ere, sir!" Crewe replied from the gangway above the tethered barge, which was still being loaded and armed.

"Mister Crewe, you're familiar with fire-arrows? Darde-au-feu?" "Well, aye, Cap'um…" the gunner replied, creasing his brow. "Don't 'ave no spring-iron t'make th' arms t'catch in sails, though."

"Forget the spring-arms, Mister Crewe," Lewrie countered, with a leer on his face. "Just make me up a half dozen that can be shot up high in the air, that we can see for, oh… six miles, at night? Shot at extreme elevation from a swivel gun. Like a signal-fuzee that Mister Hyde can light off like a fireworks."

"Oh, like a Roman candle, sir!" Crewe beamed. "I can do that, sir. Half dozen, no work a'tall, Cap'um."

"Pass the word for Mister Giles. My compliments, and he is to supply the barge with two days' dry rations and water, biscuit, cheese, and small-beer. And enough wine for two days' 'Clear Decks and Up Spirits.' You'll not be splicing the main brace, Mister Hyde, till I tell you. You're to loaf about just off the entrance, showing no lights of any sort. Stay furtive as mice, till any vessel leaves larger than a rowboat. You're to fire off one of Mister Crewe's fuzees from a swivel, soon as one does. Almost straight up, but in the general direction of her course. Anything heading west is what we're interested in."

"Aye aye, sir," Hyde agreed, though not sure what it was he was agreeing to.

"The captain of that corvette we fought, Mister Hyde, that's the bastard we want. He captured a commissary ship full of British gold… and he now thinks he'll slip away and go back home to crow about it," Lewrie told his senior midshipman first, before he explained things to the rest of his crew before dark. "I want him, Mister Hyde. And with your help, I mean to have him, this time."

CHAPTER 6

A hot supper, for which he had little appetite, almost uncivil a host to Mister Peel and Lieutenant Knolles who dined with him, talking "shop" for once. And so eager for news that most of what he heard wasn't an awkward conversation, but the loud ticking of his chronometer in the chart-space on the starboard side of the great-cabins.

Then back on deck, wondering if Choundas had made a total fool of him, of them all, no matter how cleverly they'd schemed. Alan had always come a cropper, whenever he'd thought himself especially sly-didn't matter at what, he'd always tripped over his own wits-hoping against hope that just this once, events would prove an exception. A gelatinous crawling of time, an age between the half-hour watch bells. Nine o'clock, then three bells at nine-thirty, four bells at ten…

"Signall" a lookout screamed, as a tiny phosphorescent spark leaped into the inky night sky, trailing an amber train of embers. At a fifty-degree angle, Lewrie estimated. Pointing toward Jester, four miles offshore and ten miles down the coast, near Voltri. Pointing to the West! "Got 'at bastid, sir! We'uns got 'im!" A cheer rose from the decks, the duty watch, and the gunners standing idle in the waist. Ferociously satisfied, their blood up for the hunt, a kill. Sure that Jester would avenge herself, prove herself a lucky ship once more.