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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Too bad I didn't have Hainaut with me, Choundas thought, leaning his hip against the long tiller bar; with four pistols, I'd have killed that idiot, and done this hours ago!

CHAPTER 8

"Helm a'weather, Mister Spenser," Lewrie was forced to say. "Ease us two points off the wind." The shore of the island was coming up fast, and he'd have to bear away to avoid its shoals. The tartane was only a half mile ahead of him now, but she was able to shave closer inshore… still hard on the wind, and brush Jester off, recapturing the windward advantage. He'd have to cede her the inshore route.

"Mister Rahl!" he shouted through cupped hands. "Grapeshot and scrap, to damage her rigging! Cripple her, sir!"

Rahl tried, firing at extreme elevation, but it was too far for grapeshot, and Jester had no star-shot, bar-shot, or chain-shot for the carronades that could whirl across the half-mile gap. Rahl could hit her, evident by the multiple froths of small hailstorms in the waters around her, but it was too light to do crippling damage. And she wasn't ducking high and low anymore, either, but was being unflinchingly steered as close to the wind's edge as she could be. And beyond the island, there was a narrow channel that led to a deep inlet, winding back west, the tall headland at the western edge of Vado Bay. There was a village at either place, a beach below the headland where fishing boats landed, where the pounding of surf had created a gravelly shingle. More rocky would be the narrow channel, with few places to land safely.

"Herr Kapitanl" Rahl announced in a parade-ground bark. "I go back to der solit-shot, ja, zir?"

"Aye, Mister Rahl!" Lewrie shouted back.

"We've almost got him," Mister Peel said. "If he's aboard, after all, that is, Captain Lewrie."

"Thankee, Mister Peel, for reminding me what fools we might yet be," Lewrie groaned, most happily unaware of Peel's existence for the last few hours.

"I borrowed Lieutenant Knolles's telescope, sir," Peel told him. "The last few minutes, there's been a fellow steering her who's wearing some sort of uniform. It could be that's part of a deliberate sham but I rather hope not."

"No more'n me, I assure you, Mister Peel." Lewrie yawned, badly in need of more coffee, though the galley fires had been extinguished, once they'd opened fire. "Oh, well shot, sir! Serve her another!"

Rahl's round-shot from the larboard carronade had slammed into the sea so close-aboard the tartane that she reeled leeward, her masts shaking and her deck heeled almost a full forty-five degrees for a moment!

But she came back upright, slowed by the drag of the knockdown but sailing doggedly on. Not turning for the narrow, rocky channel!

"Right, she's for the beach on the headland!" Lewrie exulted as the island came abeam, and he could see the wrinkly cat's paws stirring the waters beyond it, a fluke spiraling off the headland. "The town, Mister Peel. Know it? Who holds it now?"

"Genoese troops, I think, sir. Don't think the Frogs have come over the heights this near Vado yet." Peel perked up. "Inland might be a different story, but…"

"Deck, there! Chase is tacking!"

"Damn him, damn him!" Lewrie groaned. Jester had to sail more than half a mile farther before she had enough clearance from the coast to come about! The tartane was just a little east of the tip of the headland, and could come back to nor'west by north and run in.

"Wind's backin', sir!" Spenser exclaimed, feeding spokes alee to keep Jester on the wind's edge, as he'd been ordered.

"He's tacked right into a shift!" Knolles screeched. "Headed, again, by God, sir!"

"Stand on, and ready the larboard battery," Lewrie ordered.

The tartane had run into an invisible wall, almost coming to a full stop as she met the wind change head-on, forced to bear away more and more westerly to find the proper angle, fall away at a huge angle even beyond that to get some speed up before she could come back to a beat. The wind was now out of the nor'west, and Jester could turn up nor'east to run in much closer to the headland and the beach. And the struggling tartane.

Chases were like that sometimes, Lewrie realized; plod astern of a ship for hours, never fetching her a yard closer, but all along, gaining slowly. And suddenly, one's ship seemed to leap forward, and there she was, close enough for point-blank broadsides, as if someone had conjured the Chase to reappear within spitting distance. Within the blink of an eye, there she was, not a quarter-mile off, just back to speed but set too far west of the now-visible beach to ground upon it, and forced to tack again to the nor'east, slowing her even more!

"They've a boat alongside, sir!" Knolles shouted as he lowered his glass. "Starboard side!"

"It's him!" Peel cried. "Looks like Choundas, at any rate."

Lewrie raised his own glass. Yes, so close now, he could fetch that ant-figure on her quarterdeck to almost fill the ocular, head-to-toe, he could recognize his foe of old, in the red breeches and waistcoat, the gold-laced blue coat and boat cloak of a French Navy officer!

"Mister Crewe, run out the larboard battery, and open fire!"

It was rushed, too rushed, with the range closing so quickly it made accurate aim impossible, going from a quarter-mile to two hundred yards in a trice. Round-shot went whizzing far overhead, splashed too far short, and too steep to ricochet. Only a few ball struck the tartane. And missing the rowboat completely! Men were tumbling down into it, Choundas among them, just as it was cast off to wallow astern, the tartane bumping and grinding alongside as it fell away, with no one at the helm. Falling down toward Jester, and just big enough to present a danger of collision! And mask her fire!

"Shift fire to the rowboat, Mister Crewe!" Lewrie howled, hot for murder. "Cony, hands forrud to fend that damn' thing off! Mister Spenser, your eye, sir, to match course with her. Where's Andrews?"

"Heah, sah," his cox'n answered, leaving his lee side carronade.

"Go below and fetch me my Ferguson rifle, the one with the screw breech," Lewrie snapped. "There's a shot pouch, cartouche box, and a powder flask stowed in my smaller sea chest in the bed space. Before that bastard rows out of range, hurry!"

Crewe got off another ragged broadside, rushed again, but a lot more accurate. Feathers of spray flayed the sea around the rowing boat, short, wide, a little over, so close-aboard they skipped once, caromed over the oarsmen to Second Graze near the headland's shoals. But nary a bit of harm could they do!

"Luck of the Devil, that'un," Peel spat. "Uncanny, ain't it."

"Gotta fall off, sir!" Spenser announced, as the tartane came careening in toward their bows. Jester was doing about six knots and the tartane no more than four, her close-trimmed lateen yards strained and her sails flat-bellied the way her crew had left them, scudding to a beam-reach by then, heeled over by the unnatural press of wind.

"Cease fire, Mister Crewe!" Lewrie groaned in defeat. The guns were masked as Jester had to turn away from the coast, out of range of even his rifled Ferguson he'd kept since his escape from Yorktown. It came up from his cabins with Andrews, just a half minute too late!

Gun crews leapt from the waist to scramble up on the gangway as the tartane fell alongside. There was a shiver and scrape, a thud, as the hulls met. But Spenser and Brauer had judged it to a nicety, laid Jester parallel to the collision, and falling off the wind had slowed her to almost a match.

"He's going to get away," Lewrie griped. "Again!"

"Sir, you recall the orders you received," Peel snapped, stony and crisply military again, and fearfully impatient to complete Mister Twigg's bidding to him. "To render me every and all assistance to take or kill Captain Choundas."

"Christ, yes, Mister Peel, but…"

"Can't count on the Genoese holding him, sir," Peel rapped out. "Can't count on him runnin' into an Austrian cavalry patrol, and being took, sir. The village may have horses. He could ride west, till he's in the French lines. You must land me at once, sir. Me, and any men of your crew who're horsemen, to pursue him. This minute, sir!"

"Sailors who can ride, my God…" Lewrie sighed, looking about the deck. Knolles, being a country gentleman, had his hand up. So did his clerk, Mountjoy. Cony could, but he couldn't spare the bosun.

"This minute, sir!" Peel demanded. "There's not a jot o' time to waste!"

"Mister Knolles, you are in command, sir," Lewrie snapped, taking the Ferguson and its accoutrements from Andrews. "Mister Mountjoy, I hope you ride better than you scribble?"

"Country hunts and steeplechasing, sir." Mountjoy swore.

"Andrews, fetch my pistols. Both pair, for me and Mister Mountjoy," Lewrie decided. "My hanger, and the Frog smallsword. Bring 'em to the larboard gangway, midships. Cony, grapnels! Keep the tartane alongside for a minute! You have money to rent or buy mounts, Mister Peel?"

"Some, sir."

"Got me purse on me, sir," Buchanon offered. " 'Bout twenty or so pound, an' change."

"God bless you, Mister Buchanon." Lewrie smiled. "Mister Knolles, you will stand out to sea to clear the headland, then enter Vado Bay to report to Captain Nelson. Hyde should be along, sooner or later, you should recover him and his crew, and wait our return. Well, let's go, then. 'Board the tartane. She's trimmed for a beat, and that'll take us ashore."

"Spare hands, sir?" Knolles asked.

"Not for what I have to do, no, Mister Knolles." Lewrie smiled grimly, trotting to the gangway entry port to scramble down the battens to the main chains. "God speed, sir. And don't muck up my ship."

"God speed to you, too, sir," Knolles replied, suddenly feeling a lot older than his years.

CHAPTER

9

The tartane dribbled down Jester's side as she got a way on her, with Lewrie alone on the quarterdeck, shoving the helm hard over to the starboard corner, alee, to force her back onto the wind. Mountjoy and Peel sorted out weaponry below the ladders, amidships; a souvenir from Lewrie's Florida adventure in '83, a long-barreled.54 Cal. fusil musket, and a French cavalry musketoon, six brace of assorted dragoon, pocket or naval pistols, and their various reloads.

Finally, clear oн Jesters side, falling astern, and turning up to use the wind, instead of being wafted aimless by it. He eased the tiller sweep as Peel came to the quarterdeck, complete with a battered-looking saber and scabbard at his hip. They both gazed shoreward, as Choundas's rowing boat cocked and surged over the beginnings of feeble breakers within fifty yards of the beach, another quarter-mile inshore.

"Hell of a lead on us." Peel grimaced, baring his horsey teeth. "Village around the point, 'bout another quarter-mile, I recall. We'll sail around and put in there, I take it?"

"Thought we'd do things direct, Mister Peel," Lewrie said, with a humorless laugh. "He's lame. He can't scamper too far. Or quick."

Lewrie swung the tartanes bows a touch off the wind, her decks canting over a mite more, but making more speed, as if he was aiming to shave the point by the thinnest of hairs, east of where Choundas would ground.

"Ah, land us 'twixt him and town, so he can't get a horse," Mister Peel supposed aloud.

"Something like that," Lewrie agreed.

"But, uhm…" Peel demured, "we don't have a rowboat. They…"

"We have a boat, properly speaking, sir." Lewrie beamed, humming to himself. "Why I didn't want any extra hands along. Bit iffy, this. But you said 'this instant,' so, 'this instant' it'll be. Looks steep-to, around there, not so much sand in the shallows so we'd not reach the shore. Yon rocky notch? Maybe six feet of water within musket shot of the shingle. Remind Mountjoy to keep his powder dry, sir. When we hit, and when we go over the bow."

"Good God, you…!" Peel went quite pale. "I can't swim that…"

"Mister Peel, I can't swim at all!" Lewrie hooted, grinning at him maliciously, happy to be getting some of his own back. "Just lie back, grit your teeth… and think of England, hey?"

"You're daft, you're…!" Peel gasped.

Lewrie put the tiller hard-over for the shore. He looked about for the rowboat; it was already ashore, abandoned, bows grinding upon the strand. A flash of white shirt on a rocky path above the beach was the tail end of the escapees, scrambling around the point to the village where they could blend in with their fellow Genoese, perhaps prop their feet up in an osteria, sip some wine, and pretend to be simple fishermen. Choundas, though…! He hadn't a hope, except to find a way to hide or flee. And if there were troops in the village, as Peel seemed to recall, they might persuade them to remember their "neutrality" and hunt for the French officer who violated it.

"Dear Lord, sir!" Mountjoy screeched as he learned what Lewrie had in mind, as the tartane arrowed in toward the beach.

"Hang on!" Alan warned. They were back up to at least five knots. Rocks were visible underwater to windward as she went in at a sixty-degree angle. There was a shudder as she scraped over something, a slither of sand, then a thunderous roaring and groaning as her bow and forefoot planking tore away, as her keel shattered forrud, and stout ribs of her hull timbers almost exploded into kindling! Her bow pitched high, then came crashing down again, she canted to starboard amid the shrieking of her masts and yards, stays, taut halliards and sheets twanging and snapping loud as gunshots, as everything came down in ruin!

Her motion came to a stop in an eye-blink, throwing everyone off their feet. Lewrie fetched up at the forward edge of the quarterdeck, rolling over to get back upright, and regretting his precipitate action just a tad; after all, she'd been a pretty little thing, worth a pretty penny at the Prize Court. For all the good that would have done him if his previous experiences with those thieves was anything to go by.

The tartane was firmly aground, canted hard-over to starboard and wrecked beyond repair, her forward third splayed open and her back broken, with her long outthrust rectangular Dago-fashion bowsprit platform hanging over the top of the surf line and some shallow rock pools. When the wind did come from seaward later in the day, she'd grind and pound to death, until she resembled a dead whale, all spine and ribs.

"Well, let's go ashore!" Lewrie urged, trotting forward to find some loose bights of line to ease their scramble down the starboard end of the sprit platform to shin-deep water.

There were no troops in the village. Peel's and Mountjoy's fluent Italian gathered that much from the locals; they'd ridden off a day before. No, no smugglers had come ashore, signores, they were assured; only honest fishermen and herders, here. Though more than a few tarry sorts eyed the heavily armed trio nervously from the lone tavern's windows or doorway. A uniformed man, si si, signores, and very ugly, he'd come but he had gone quickly; hired a horse and ridden off, too. Their village didn't attract many visitors, and they rarely stayed for long in any event. Horses? Si, signores, there is a man who has horses to buy, they are "molto costoso" … very expensive, they were told, with many villagers rubbing their fingers together in a universally understood sign.