Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"And that is…?" Lewrie snorted, still dubious and edgy, no matter how pleasurable his duty might be, how he'd fantasized about Claudia Mastandrea. Twigg had dreamt it up, after all, so…!

"Choundas, of course," Twigg sniffed. "Him and the Austrians."

"The Austrians…" Lewrie drawled, now totally confused.

"Finest army in Europe, sir," Peel stated, most drolly. "And, the slowest."

"We pay them a hideous sum of money to stay in the Coalition," Twigg sighed wearily, "I do not know whether their emperor has ordered de Vins to delay his campaign another season, so they may touch another four million pounds sterling of ours… or whether General de Vins is a raging fool. All their damned generals! War is a German's trade, sir. That's when they earn their highest pay, and get the most adulation, so why wrap things up too early, then go back to barracks and be bored to death? Or perhaps General de Vins is much like our poor Hotham, too timorous and dithering to risk failure. Either way, the nub is that we owe the Austrians another installment in gold. No way to ship it downriver along the Rhine, with the Frogs at its mouth, nor through Hamburg overland. It has to come by sea, to Vado Bay, which is de Vins's only link to the sea. A substantial sum of money, Lewrie."

"And so…?" Lewrie asked, getting suspicious again.

"We have allowed certain information to be overheard by local informers that such a shipment was forthcoming," Twigg related, going weaselly and twisting in his chair, a sure sign of trouble. "That it was to come from London, to Gibraltar, then to Port Mahon at Minorca, then up to San Fiorenzo Bay, since it carried the coinage to pay Admiral Hotham's fleet. Then it would put into Vado Bay, to be delivered to the Austrians. Should it not arrive, Austria might withdraw troops from the Genoese Riviera. Should France get their hands on it, they'd be dancing in a positive shower of 'yellow-boys,' enough to purchase anything they need, and prop up their new currency at home. Restive… the Frogs at home, d'ye see. Subsequently, we've revealed the sum to be around Ј200,000, the name of the ship to carry it… and the name of the escort. HMS Jester."

"Now wait a bloody minute, you said it was… that we'd…!"

"Be easy, sir," Peel suggested quickly, "you'll burst a blood vessel, keel over in apoplexy, I swear! What better bait can there be for this fellow Choundas? He was a pirate before, the lure of gold is almost irresistible. Plus the hope that you are the escort. Two birds with one. Plus what a coup, with such far-reaching repercussions, were he to weaken the Coalition, or lay all northern Italy open to the French Army with a single deed. With his convoys so savaged recently, and his repute in Paris sinking, he must do something to recoup his own estate. There will be a ship at sea, a ship much like yours, painted in the same color scheme. The merchantman, though, will be a two-decker 4th Rate, of fifty guns… a naval vessel. Even does he fetch two corvettes to take her, he'll be confounded. Even does he escape a second time, his fame will be broken. And there are many French officers who'd love to see him come a cropper."

"It will be eminently plausible, Lewrie," Twigg explained with a sly look. "Nelson has lost the services of Resolution and Speedy for the moment, so he has nothing to spare. Hotham husbands every frigate or sloop of war at San Fiorenzo, and is already short himself. Jester is just refitted, though, currently unemployed. And, because of your supposed errors at Bordighera, and Ushant, you're not particularly welcome at either San Fiorenzo or Vado Bay. Yours is the only warship to be spared as escort, or dispatch vessel, for the nonce. "

"While the real shipment, I take it…"

"None of your concern, sir!" Twigg snapped. "The less you know, the less you might blab, by accident. Signorina Mastandrea has already reported to her masters, I know it for a fact. Know their orders to her verbatim. She's to come to Leghorn, which she has, confirm reports from local informers anent your ship's state of repair, what orders you might have… and when Jester may be expected to sail, and arrive at Vado Bay."

"Do they know the ports of call, when I could depart to meet the cargo ship at Gibraltar, and when I finish at Vado Bay," Lewrie surmised, "they'd have a rough idea of where we'd be, any given day, assuming seasonal winds and seas. Within fifty miles or so. Two ships patrolling…"

Lewrie rose and went to his chart-space, to fetch a large-scale sea chart. He brought it back to the desk and spread it out for Twigg and Peel to look at.

"I'd expect Choundas to be greedy," Lewrie pondered aloud, using a pair of brass dividers to march off legs of a course. "And clever. A little fillip, sirs… to not only rob the Austrians, but steal the Navy pay chests. Sailors might be used to being one or two years in arrears in their pay, but soldiers usually aren't. Does he take the ship before she reaches San Fiorenzo, both the Army and Navy are cheated. Debts to local chandlers and merchants go unpaid. Troops and ships' crews will be demoralized. Aye, Choundas would like that. And so would his superiors. Might even turn Corsican sentiment against us because of it."

"Very clever," Mister Peel muttered, though speaking more of this sailor's shrewd calculations than of their foe, and sharing a look with his employer, with one brow cocked in reappraisal of all that Twigg had told him of Lewrie's wits. "You would expect him where, sir?"

"West of Corsica, and due south of the Iles d'Hyиres," Lewrie replied slowly, stepping off distances. "Were I Choundas, I'd patrol, standing north-and-south along six degrees east, down to the latitude of the Straits of Bonifacio, around forty degrees north, perhaps as high as forty-three degrees," he told them, sketching out a rough box on the chart with a pencil stub. "A ship from Port Mahon in the Balearics on-passage for San Fiorenzo, or Vado Bay, must pass through this area."

He was unaware of Peel's newfound regard, nor of Twigg's grudging, hooded smile of pleasure; too lost in speculation. And in his own element.

"Two ships, you think, sir? Average-clear days, each could see twelve miles all about from their mast trucks. Ten miles separation… so they could read signals betwixt 'em, say… they could sweep a moving rectangle thirty to thirty-five miles long, north-to-south, and twenty-four miles wide. Even at a slow six knots, they'd scour the area twice over each day. It's too far west of Corsica to expect interference from Hotham's fleet… too far south of France for the escort to expect danger. That's more likely near Corsica's nor'west tip, around Calvi, before they get to San Fiorenzo, just as they enter the fringes of the Ligurian Sea. He may strike sooner, lurk off Minorca, but that's a long way away from his assigned region, sirs," Lewrie said, tossing down divider and rule, looking up at last. "Unless he's been reinforced lately, taking two corvettes, his best most like, will weaken his squadron, and hold up any planned convoys till they're back. He can't roam too far afield."

"Nor for very long, does he wish to keep his head," Twigg said with almost a purr of pleasure. "So Choundas may be best expected here in this rough area. Where, I trust, it will be he who is the biter bit. Where he will get the greatest surprise of his life. And his last."

"A good possibility, sir." Lewrie shrugged, hedging his bets.

"Now, all that's wanting is for the signorina to get in touch," Twigg beamed hungrily, rubbing his hands together, "so we may arrange your tryst with her. I've taken the liberty of engaging shore lodging, Lewrie. Somewhere quiet, refined… where Mister Peel and I may hide ourselves, stand guard. Observe and listen, so we're sure there's no interference. That the bait is properly taken, hmm?"

"Oh, you mean something like this, sir." Lewrie smirked, opening his desk drawer and dropping her note atop the chart.

"Why yess, Lewrie," Twigg drawled, most contented that his scheme was well afoot. "Something very much like that'd do nicely."

CHAPTER

3

It was raining that night in Leghorn, just enough to temper the day's balmy warmth, but not enough to cool the evening in the late October afterglow of the Lion Sun season. A sullen, persistent weak rain that made it feel almost as muggy as high summer; just enough rain to gurgle off the roof tiles, trickle down the tiled eaves into the gutters and sigh down the tile or lead downspouts, or plash on the balconies and window-sills. Which made it almost impossible for Twigg or Peel to hear much of what was said in the adjoining rooms, even with drinking glasses pressed to the thin lath-and-plaster dividing wall, ears against the bases. Twigg heaved another huge sigh of grumpy frustration; that a perfectly good gutta-percha stethoscopic tube had been overpowered by the sluicing of the rain and sough of the wind; that he was too old to be stooping against a wall in such a crabbed position; and that he was far too senior now to still be doing a younger legman agent's duties.

"Ah, something, sir," Peel began to say, perking up.

"Sssst!" Twigg hissed, straining to hear. "Damme, just…"

Even without their improvised devices, they could now hear what transpired in the apartment adjoining theirs. Not the whispery billing and cooing of muttered pillow talk, which might contain the questions a woman spy had been tasked to ask, nor the beginning of Lewrie's replies in which he'd been strictly coached, to be tossed off casually, feigning alcohol-and-lust-inspired carelessness, either.

"My God, man's a bloody stoat!" Peel whispered, rather in awe of the passionate noises coming through the wall. "Both of 'em. Thrice in the last hour, I make it." He sighed enviously as he went to the table to pour himself some wine, putting his listening device to a more prosaic use. Twigg remained, sitting lumpish, twiddling his long thumbs, with a scowl on his face as the carefully placed bedstead next door, up against the wall so they could hear better, began to cry out-slats, side rails, and ropes creaking. He grimaced as names were whined or mewed, between groans and muffled enthusiasms for impending bliss.

"Doesn't have to make a meal of it," Twigg carped. "Get on!"

"What man wouldn't, given the chance…" Peel chuckled to himself, wondering if there would ever come a time in his Duty to Twigg, King, and Country when he was the actor in such a delightful bit of spy-craft-instead of the listener, or the arranger.

"Damn this rain," Twigg muttered, sour. "Damn him …!"

"Following your last advice, he is, sir," Peel commented, a bit tongue-in-cheek, as he discovered a neglected roast-chicken thigh among the supper plates. "Lay back, grit your teeth… and think of England."

"Pahh!" Twigg spat, rueing that cynical parting shot of his.

A soft keening, a frantic yowl of abandon arose, as the headboard began to thump against the wall, in rhythm with audible bull-like pants, and quavery shouts of "God, Claudia darlin', you lovely…!" And those "… si, si, Alan, Dio miу, si!"

"Pahh!" Twigg reiterated, swiveling on a hard dining chair.