Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

With an almost regal air of true nobility, Phoebe smiled and inclined her head, responding to their greetings, before allowing a squad of unctuous waiters to seat her. And grinning, her eyes alight, gleeful as the cat that ate the canary, over her newfound adulation.

"Oh, there's some poor fellows can't get a table," Alan pointed out. "Damme, it's Nelson and Fremantle." Lewrie allowed himself a tiny smirk, to think he was being treated like a prince consort to a queen as Phoebe's companion, while those two distinguished senior officers were forced to idle in the entryway, pretending with the patience of Job that they weren't famished. Or humiliated. Or almost reduced to groveling or bribery to gain a table, and a meal.

Captain Nelson raised a hand to his right brow, of a sudden, and winced as if in mortal agony, pressing his palm to his eye like he was trapping a persistent Corsican fly. Capt. Thomas Fremantle left off scowling at one and all to turn to him, solicitously. And Alan could almost read their lips, as they debated whether to stay or to go.

"Zose officiers, Alain," Phoebe said as their first wine arrived, a fruity, sparkling blush-pink strawberry something. "Zay are you' compatriotes, oui? Ze poor man, 'e ees suffer ze mal de tкte, per'aps? We should let zem join us. Eef you are willing."

"Of course," Alan responded quickly. "This heat, and all. Why, he must be wilting. And, they'll starve to death, else."

Phoebe summoned a waiter who bowed to hear her whispered command, then quickly dashed off to invite the two officers to join them.

"Grateful," Fremantle explained as they shuffled their seats so Nelson didn't have to face the sunset glare off the bay. "Awf'lly. An hellish crowd, hey? Settle for a bread stick…"

"Captain Horatio Nelson, Captain Thomas Fremantle, allow me to name to you…" Alan began, grinning impishly as he continued in the spirit of the evening, and the sentiments of the town, "… la Contessa… Mademoiselle Phoebe Aretino? Contessa…" He gave her a quick conspiratorial wink, "Captain Horatio Nelson of the Agamemnon, and Captain Thomas Fremantle, of the Inconstant frigate."

"Messieurs, enchantй," Phoebe replied, with another slight incline of her head, as if speaking from a throne to acknowledge lesser barons. Where'd she learn all this, so damn' fast? Lewrie wondered to himself. "You appear-ed so, uhm… 'ow you say, indispose, Capitaine Nelson? Ooh la, I trus' you are well, m'sieur."

"My infinite gratitude for your most gracious invitation, mademoiselle," Nelson rejoined, trying to be sociable even as he seemed to suffer another tiny spasm. "A trifling wound I received the other day."

"Trifling," Fremantle countered with a snort. "Ha."

"Weeks ago," Nelson discounted with a dismissive wave as their waiters returned with more wine, and actual written menus. "Middle of July, actually. I must say… this, uhm, ristorante is so certain of their supplies they can print their fare, 'stead of chalking it up by the day? Incredible."

"Ah, oui, m'sieur Capitaine Nelson," Phoebe answered gaily, and, Lewrie suspected, one of those on the island who had a hand in assuring those regular supplies; what didn't she have her hand in by now! he wondered. "You will fin' ze fare ees limit… limit-ed? Local ordinaire, on'y, n'est-ce 'pas, mais … you will fin' eet consistent. An' all ver' tasty. Corsican cuisine."

Odd, Lewrie thought; I'd have thought Nelson was the sort to play up a tale of honorable wounds. Seen him posture and prose before, now, ain't I? To Alan's lights, though, Nelson didn't look particularly cut up. No limp, no bandages… a bruise or two, some scabbed-over cuts on his face. Must have been too trifling, he concluded; else we'd be sitting deathwatch by his bed, to watch the hero pass over.

"Pardon me for discussing 'shop in the mess,' as it were, sir," Lewrie said, "but I must own that my curiosity has the best of me… you both have been up at the siege-work. "Tis rumored the French are almost ready to give in. I was wondering if there was any truth to it."

"Pray God that will be so, Commander Lewrie," Nelson said, with some heat. And with what almost sounded like a croak of uncharacteristic gloom. "Aye, soon. They simply must, do you see! They're short of almost everything, by now. Save powder and shot. As I learned to my cost," he added, with a faint, deprecatory grin. "Our parallels have been advanced nigh to musket shot of their walls, and our batteries are dominant over their artillery, at last. General Stuart is confident of their surrender within the week. Failing that, an attempt against them might, well… a final assault might have to wait, for a time."

"Horrid sickness," Fremantle supplied as Nelson faltered, like a watch spring run down. "We've, what… barely two thousand men now? And half of them down, half the time. Bouillabaisse, hmm? Some sort o' fish chowder?" Fremantle wondered, after pondering the menu. "Oysters… they might be in it, d'ye think? Like an English meal, back home?"

"Aye, sir. More a brothy fish stew, but some oysters," Lewrie informed his superior, hiding his smirk at how provincial most English gentlemen were away from home, how wary they were of unfamiliar dishes. And how un-English he sometimes felt, to delight in the exotic and new.

"Might I offer a toast, sirs." Lewrie grinned, raising his wine. "To our foes, the French, sirs. May they be similarly afflicted. And confused."

"Confusion to our foes," Nelson and Fremantle rejoined, tossing back their sweet, sparkling wine, and echoing the ancient words of the mess or wardroom response to such a toast.

"Frightful campaign weather," Nelson admitted as the waiters topped them up. "Worse than any ever I did see, even in Nicaragua in the last war, for heat, and disease. Bad as the Indies, I must allow!"

"Een Corsica," Phoebe informed him, "we name zis season ze Lion Sun, Capitaine Nelson. 'Ow you say, uhm…"

"Dog days?" Fremantle offered.

"Oui, merci, Capitaine Fremantle. Dog Days… Lion Sun, aussi," Phoebe went on. "July to October. Ze 'eat, an ze damp! Zis time of year, mos' people stay indoor, an nap s'rough ze wors' of ze day. An' many sick. Many leave us, even so, quel dommage. I marvel, zat you' Eenglish soldier, you fight in zis weather. Non wait for cool time."

"As you pointed out, Mademoiselle Aretino," Nelson said, with unconscious pride. "We're English. English seamen!"

"Fight in any weather, hey?" Fremantle commented.

"Though 'tis true, mademoiselle," Nelson sobered. "Many leave us. Dear Lord, so many leave us. Why…!"

A spasm of grief perhaps, another tic of pain in his brows that quieted him for a moment, but Nelson's voice broke, and he was forced to massage his right temple and brow, as if to knead away whatever agony ailed him with those long, slim, delicate fingers that seemed so out of place on such a wee little fellow, so fond of hard-handed war.

"Oh, do forgive me for… for being a killjoy." Nelson frowned after he'd mastered himself. "For even broaching the subject, but… Fremantle and I just came from the local churchyard. A fellow officer, Commander Lewrie. You understand, I'm certain?"

"My condolences for your loss, sir," Lewrie gravely offered.

"A most gallant young man, sir," Nelson all but croaked. "One who'd have made a name for himself that would have been on everyone's lips, had he not… hmm. Lt. James Moutray, 'board Victory. A fine young fellow. Was to have been promoted, soon. His father, Captain Moutray and his mother… we were great friends, when I had Boreas at Antigua, 'tween the wars. He was Navy Commissioner at English Harbour, d'ye see. And I knew James, from a child. Just a wee lad, back then. It's as if I'd lost my own son, had I… as sorrowful a thing as if Fanny and I had lost our dear Josiah."

Fremantle made a tiny face, rolled his eyes in dubious humor, which expression of contempt Lewrie caught.

"Knew you were married, sir," Lewrie prompted, to pique his further curiosity. "But I didn't know you were a parent, as well. Might I offer you congratulations. Some cheer, that he's safe abed in England at this moment."

"Uhm…" Nelson was forced to confess, pulling at his long, thin nose. "Stepson, actually. My dearest Fanny and I met on Nevis, while I was in Boreas, as well. She'd been widowed, and… no, Josiah is with me, Lewrie. In Agamemnon. Brought him aboard as a midshipman. To keep a weather eye on his progress, hmm? To assure myself that there will be a successor in the Navy. Why, as I recall, Lewrie, you've sons of your own." Nelson brightened, of a sudden, as mercurial in his grief as he was in his enthusiasms. "Perhaps 'twas Lady Emma Hamilton, in Naples, who spoke of you, when I represented Admiral Lord Hood with King Ferdinand. I'm sure she was the one told me."

"Mmm, well, sir…" Lewrie almost winced. Phoebe turned a cool and amused gaze upon him. Though she already knew his marital status, and that he was a father, and didn't seem to mind… "My eldest, Sewallis, I rather doubt. Now, Hugh, the second son, o' course… had to fetch him down from the mizzen stays, just before we left Portsmouth."

"Ees devotion to ees family amaze me, Capitaine Nelson." Phoebe chuckled. The other shoe dropped, at last, and Nelson almost flushed as he realized their relationship. Phoebe also took pains to tap the side of her shoe against Lewrie's, under the table, and reward him in public with a cocked eyebrow and tiny smile, hiding her impish teasing for later, in private.

"Mmm, well…" Nelson summed up.

"At least the Moutrays may have some comfort, sir," Alan went on, trying to change the subject, and wiggle his way free. "That their son Lieutenant Moutray passed over in an honorable cause, fighting his King's foes."

"Ah, you see, though, Lewrie," Nelson said with a bitter sigh. "God knows why they allowed it, but… he was their only son and heir. And it wasn't honorable battle, no. 'Twas a fever, so please you! A bloody fever took him, just as… a horrid waste of talent, of promise."

Can I dig the grave any deeper, hey? Lewrie asked himself, feeling an urge to look heavenward, where, he was mortal-certain, God was having Himself a knee-slapping good time at Lewrie's expense.

" 'Absent Friends,' " Fremantle harrumphed, raising his glass in toast to bridge the embarrassment of the moment. Embarrassments, rather.

"Wrong day for it, but…" Fremantle shrugged. Absent Friends was the Sunday toast in the wardroom aboard a King's ship. Lewrie was of a mind, though, to believe that the morrow's-Thursday's-might be more apt; the one Lieutenant Moutray's fellows were probably most callously making at that very moment, now a rival for promotion or command had passed from their midst-A Bloody War, or a Sickly Season.

Thankfully, Alan was spared any further chances to embarrass himself by the arrival of their food. Bouillabaisse, aswim with clams and crabmeat, with mussels and a few puny oysters that might please Fremantle, and a host of tiny pink bits of cut-up shrimp peeking coyly from the rosy broth, "decks awash." A fresh wine course, the hard Mediterranean bread sticks, then an appetizer of golden-fried crab cakes, with a rйmoulade of horseradish, garlic, and a dash of olive oil. Lewrie tucked in, savoring every morsel, though Fremantle and Nelson seemed a bit put off. Nelson ate as if being merely polite. Fremantle muttered, scowled, and inspected every bite, as chary as a customer in some twopenny ordinary who knew a fellow who'd died after eating there. He almost sniffed each new arrival, casting his eyes about as if looking for a hound to try each dish out on first.