Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"Her last letter we intercepted gave no hint," Peel complained of the fickleness of women. "Why'd she sail from San Fiorenzo now, at the worst possible time! 'Less she's a French agent, too, sir? Half-French, and all? Working for Choundas, not Pouzin? Or someone else?"

"No no, Peel," Twigg pooh-poohed. "Sweet, amusing, but hardly bright enough for this. Just damn' bad luck and timing. Missing her pretty sailor too much, I suspect. Damn her eyes."

"So what do we do about Miss Aretino now, sir?" Peel queried, his brow still creased in concern. "He can't explain this away, without he tells her too much. And, can we trust the little mort to keep mum, after, sir?"

"Ah, hmm…" Twigg pondered heavily. There came another gust of shrill shouting, the vituperative accusations of a woman wronged-and the gay tinkling of something else going smash. "Does Miss Aretino love him half as much as it sounds, Mister Peel, there is the possibility that she'd believe us. And keep mum, for him. After all, a few weeks will expose di Silvano and Signorina Mastandrea. And net us Choundas. After that, well… it's up to them to reconcile. Or not."

"Make her… recruitable, sir?" Peel suggested with a leer.

"No, not her, Mister Peel." Twigg grunted. "Consider her former trade, and estate. Entering our trade, Mademoiselle Aretino would be right back where she began … on her back. She'd never do that, even at Lewrie's bidding. He'd have to be the one to 'run' her, and neither could abide the thought of 'sharing.' He'd warn her off, in any event. To spite me, d'ye see. To protect what she's attained. I gather that Lewrie really is fond of her, Mister Peel. In for the penny, in for the pound, is our Lewrie. He's never lukewarm when it comes to his doxies. Damn' fool. Now, on the other hand, there is Claudia Mastandrea…"

"Sir?" Peel frowned again in puzzlement.

"A picture to conjure with, Peel," Twigg simpered with amusement. "Nothing feigned, there. More attracted to the lout than ever we could wish. Him for her, so it wouldn't be exactly arm-twisting to get Lewrie to play-up, again. Do they have a rencontre, before she's forced to go back to France once she's exposed and di Silvano cuts his losses. The possibilities of a continuing connection, hmm? A chance for us to turn her, doubled-back 'gainst her masters, hmm?"

"Well, possibly, sir." Peel nodded in understanding, amazed all over again by Mister Twigg's ability to consider every possible advantage, every possible use of people's weaknesses; making notes for his career.

The sounds of tumult had died down next door. With his glass to the wall, Twigg could discern weeping noises, some muffled explainings. Then a response from Phoebe Aretino, a hiccupy, louder cursing wail.

"Poor bastard," Peel said softly.

"Yes, Mister Peel, poor bastard." Twigg sighed, though with a wee grin on his face. "It is possible that we have laid their affair, and their mutual happiness, 'pon our sacred altar of Secrecy. Oh, well."

"Well, uhm…" Peel shrugged. "Should we go rescue him then, sir? Let her in on our doings? And Lewrie off the hook?"

"Such a verisimilitude Miss Aretino's arrival gave this night's work, Mister Peel," Twigg chuckled. "Now Claudia Mastandrea knows what a total cully he is over women, she may even be considering what use she may make of him, in future. Rescue?" Twigg thought aloud, as he found a heel of bread and some sliced provolone to savor from their picked-over repast. "Yes, I believe we should, at that."

But sat down at the table and began to root about for something else to nibble on, making a second cold supper, and pouring himself more wine. Sometimes cocking an ear to the ebb and rise of the angry, heartbroken slanging match going on next door.

"Uhm…" Peel prompted, after several long minutes had passed. "Will we be rescuing him anytime soon, then, Mister Twigg?"

"Soon, Peel, soon," Twigg said airily. "No rush. After all my dealings with the brute, Peel, I must confess to enjoying the sound of it. Quite relishin', in fact. Music to my old ears, my lad. Music to my ears!"

CHAPTER

4

Reduced to t'gallants and jibs, Jester stood into Vado Bay at the tail end of November, after a pointless, but necessary, transit; rushed from Leghorn, south-about Sardinia to Port Mahon on Minorca, and then sent off to Gibraltar and back as an errand boy, bearing a heavy packet of dispatches, some pensioned-off soldiers and Marines, and the sea chests or campaign chests of officers who had perished, so they could be sent home to England.

There had been at least one tiny satisfaction; awaiting them at Gibraltar had been a set of orders left with the local Navy officials to allow Jester to make good her complement from the pick of hands newly arrived from England in the receiving hulks.

Twigg's way of making some small amends, Lewrie had discovered, though there was little joy of it. Little joy to be found in much of anything, at the rate things were going, he thought. Phoebe…

"An' I sink you are not like ozzer men," had been her parting, wailed, shot, no matter what Twigg and Peel had tried to say to her, no matter his own attempt, and pleadings. "I s'ink I trust you, Alain mon coeur, but… !"

Hoist by mine own bloody petard, he thought to himself, feeling a bit disconsolate, still. Oh, he'd always known their affair was just temporary, an amour eventually doomed by circumstances, but that didn't mean it hurt any less to have it over quite so soon. Or in such a messy way, so shamefacedly… or painfully, for the both of them. That long independent cruise had at least provided enough peace and quiet, and an isolated time to mend and ponder.

" 'Bout here, sir?" Knolles prompted.

"Aye, Mister Knolles." Lewrie nodded in agreement. "Round up to the eye of the wind, Quartermaster. Back the fore and main t'gallants… and make ready to slip the best bower, sir."

As Jester slowly came about, he had time to survey the harbor, and the wide roadstead of Vado Bay's anchorage. There were still some half-dozen prizes moored there, identifiable by being the only vessels stripped of all their canvas, so their crews couldn't make any escape attempts, nor could a French raid from seaward cut them out and sail them away. There were a pair of Austrian supply ships, another brace of British, though little sign that any cargoes were being moved. One small Austrian brig o' war was anchored, with her sails hung slack for airing- seemingly along with her crew, who had what looked to be an idle "Rope Yarn Sunday" going. Only one Royal Navy warship was in the roadstead close inshore, the Tartar brig. The rest were probably out at sea, farther west along the Genoese Riviera. Lewrie eyed the hills and pyramids of provisions and munitions for General de Vins's army, a sign his commissary troops and garrison had grown some since…

"Signal, sir!" Midshipman Hyde called out. " 'Board Tartar] I make it, 'Have Dispatches'… 'Urgent'… she shows 'Submit'… next is 'Close Me'… 'Send Boat,' no… that's 'I Am Sending a Boat,' sir."

"Does she, by God!" Lewrie growled, irked by the presumption of a junior lieutenant, or a commander farther down the Navy list than him, trying to order him about so.

Pretty much what got me in the mess I'm in, he found wryly amusing, after a moment, though; 'bout half a mile alee? Too far to row…

" 'Vast anchoring, Mister Knolles! Back jibs to larboard, brace the fore t'gallant to starboard tack. We'll anchor close to Tartar."

"Aye aye, sir."

Jester came around slowly, falling off the wind again, to ghost across the roadstead to within a cable of Tartar before turning up to fetch-to. But there would be no need to anchor, since one of Tartar's boats was already down, and stroking hard for her side. Lewrie opened his telescope to eye her. Bowman, eight oarsmen, midshipman in the stern sheets at the tiller, and… damn!

"Ah," he said, his face stony. "Hmm." He almost moaned as he slammed the tubes closed. And feeling an urge to spit, to cleanse his mouth of a sudden foul taste.

It was ex-Captain Peel in the boat, clinging to a tall hat, with a small clutch of traveling bags at his sides on the thwarts. Peel; no sign of his master, Twigg, but that wasn't cause for much joy. Peel at Vado Bay, as Twigg's urgent emissary, was bad news enough!

"Bosun, man the entry port," Lewrie directed. "We'll not drop anchor, after all, Mister Knolles, till we've sorted this out."

"Uhm… trouble, sir, do ye think?" Knolles simply had to ask.

"You might say that, Mister Knolles."

To Lewrie's great disappointment, Peel was an agile brute, just as spry as a seaman when it came to departing the boat and scaling the battens to the gangway. Alan had rather hoped he'd slip and break his devious neck-or at least get a good dunking, to wash the spy-stink off.

"Mister Peel, sir," Lewrie grumbled, doffing his hat as Peel doffed his in greeting. Feeling most uncivil, though.

"Commander Lewrie, sir," Peel rejoined, just as stonily. "I am required to give you this, at once… to be read at once, sir."

Peel produced a square of vellum, folded over from the corners and sealed with a large blob of candle wax. Lewrie took it and turned away, took a few paces to larboard for privacy, wondering what new vat of shit he'd tumbled into. He peeled it open.

"Well, damme…" He frowned in puzzlement.

It was from Captain Nelson, in his own hand, not his clerk's. Lewrie and jester were to consider themselves under his orders again. But the next paragraph instructed him to place himself and his ship at Mister Peel's service until further notice, and to render to him, and his superior Mister Twigg, any and every service and assistance they requested.

"Shit," he whispered, hoping he'd seen the back of them, that Twigg had told the truth for once that his duties ashore at Leghorn had been "quits." He'd lied, o' course. Again. And what else was new?

"Very well, Mister Peel, sir," Lewrie drawled, stalking back to the man. "What assistance do you require from us?"

"That I am only allowed to tell you in the strictest privacy, sir," the stolid ex-cavalry officer replied rather guardedly, muttering only as loudly as necessary; as if sharing even a cryptic conversation with Lewrie was too much to bruit about in public. "Might I be allowed to urge you to do whatever it is you do, to return to sea, though, sir?"

"Get underway?" Lewrie hinted, with a faint grin.

"If that's how sailors phrase it, sir, yes."

"To where, sir?" Lewrie inquired.

"Uhm…" Peel darkened, clamming up.

"Point, if you can't say it," Alan suggested resignedly. "East, is it? Very well, sir. That wasn't so difficult, now was it. Mister Knolles? Secure the anchor party, and make sail. We'll stand out to sea. Get way on her and ready to come about to larboard tack. Once we make an offing, come back to starboard tack, course due east."

"Aye aye, sir! Bosun? Hands to the braces! Topmen! Trice up and lay aloft! Make sail!" Knolles bellowed.