A King`s Commander

CHAPTER
1

"Dearest!" Lewrie whispered into her sweet-smelling hair.

"Oh, dearest God, Alan…!" Caroline responded in a like whisper. Though they could have shouted, for all the clamor of a sloop of war readying to set sail. "My only love."

A few more minutes, Lewrie squirmed in rising impatience; just a few minutes more, and I'm safe-I think. Mostly, anyway!

There were limits on how even the fondest captain and his wife could behave in public; quite unlike the open bawling of "wives"-the real helpmates, or the feigned for profit-had made when HMS Jester had at last lowered the "easy" pendant and put herself back into Discipline, and the men of the lower deck had bade farewell to their loved ones, perhaps forever. Squealing, mewling brats, snuffly seamen, and howling harridans, appearing far older and weathered than their years, cursed by Fate they'd wed with sailors. Saying their own good-byes-also perhaps forever; left with a new babe-to-be, a dubious pay certificate that would go for a quarter of its value with some agate-eyed jobber, a portion of their man's pay signed over with the Councillor of the Cheque, and always, and purposely, six months in arrears. A handful of solid coin, perhaps, since Jester had been formally commissioned in a home port. Paid just before sailing, so they'd not desert.

And, of course, the drunken shrieks of those harpies who'd come aboard as "wives," as they would every vessel Out of Discipline that they could reach, too drunk to know their tour of duty was over, and shoveled back into the bumboats, complaining loudly that they'd been shorted their due fee from their temporary "husbands."

Yesterday had been the hands' turn for partings; today it was the gunroom's. Unseemly weepings, wailings, and gnashing of teeth was not their way, not in public, at least.

" 'Tis been so good to have you home, even for a few scant…" Caroline shuddered. "I thought 'twould have been longer. I wished!"

"I know, dearest!" Alan sighed, shuddering himself as he used the wide brims of her stylish bonnet to screen them from the men in the waist-to kiss her soft, sweet lips just one more time, though they'd sworn to settle for last-minute affection in his great-cabins. "But things went so hellish good, so quickly, I…"

From the corner of his eye, Lewrie espied their new charge, young Sophie, Vicomtesse de Maubeuge, that unfortunate frail orphan of the Terror, and the evacuation of Toulon. Wan, pale… well not that wan any longer. In fact, she was eyeing him with a suspicious-yet sad-well, call it a leer, damme if he couldn't!

He gulped down his terror of her. Should she ever reveal to Caroline his carousing in the Mediterranean with Phoebe…! Quick turn, hugging Caroline harder, turning her so her back was to Sophie and her almost-mocking brow. And to escape that lifted brow as well!

A few more minutes, pray God! he thought fervently. Off and away, then! And if it comes out, I'm a thousand miles alee!

"I'd hoped to be in port longer, as well, love. Get back to Anglesgreen. Let you show me off, hmm?" Lewrie said, essaying his most fetching grin; to tease and dandle his way free. And leave his lovely wife laughing. "Get everything settled before… Damme, sir! Down! Get down, this instant! What the bloody hell you think you're playing at, young sir?"

"Mon Dieu, merde alorsV Sophie gasped.

"Hugh!" Caroline shrieked. "Baby, don't movel"

Lewrie's youngest son had gotten away from his watchers once more, and had scaled the starboard mizzenmast ratlines. Again! This time, he was halfway to the fighting top!

Alan sprang to the bulwarks, getting a foot up on a carronade slide-carriage, then the blunt iron barrel, to swing into the shrouds and go aloft. "Hang on, lad. Don't go an inch higher, hear me?"

Taut as the mizzen stays were set up, as tensioned as they were through the deadeye blocks, the shrouds thrummed and juddered as Alan fearfully climbed, ratlines quivering with each rushed step.

"But, Daddy …!" Hugh protested. Aye, he did have a good grip on stays and ratlines, leaning into them; his pudgy little fists were a pink pair of vises on the tarred ropes, yet…!

Lewrie reached him, came eye level with his son.

"I told you," he panted, fuming. "I told you, you will never do this. It's for seamen, grown men…"

"But, Daddy, t'other boys…!" Hugh whined, gesturing briefly to the clutch of snot-nosed ship's boys, the usual mob of Beau-Nasties carried on ship's books as servants; some of whom were only double the total of Hugh Lewrie's precocious, and terrifying, four years.

"Down, I say!" Lewrie barked. "Now! And, carefully!"

"Aww…" Hugh grumbled, casting one more wistful glance aloft to the topmast truck, which had been his intent. Well, at least the cross-trees, if truth be told.

On deck at last, smudged with tar and slushes, Caroline knelt at his side in a twinkling, to coo and fret, wondering whether Hugh needed cosseting, or another sound thrashing. For foolishness; and for smutting his best suit of clothing, if nothing else.

"M'sieur, pardon!" Sophie reddened. "Ah tak' ma eye off 'eem jus' une moment, et… forgeev, plais."

Hmm, I could use this, Lewrie thought, though wishing to tear a strip off her hide, as he would the merest menial. No, he decided; jape his way out. Tug at her heartstrings. And her remorse.

"A thousand pardons, Captain," Lt. Ralph Knolles said, doffing his hat in concern that he might be found remiss. "I should have assigned a hand to shepherd the lads. A topman, it appears."

"A topman, indeed, Mister Knolles." Lewrie grinned. "Damme… he's a little terror, isn't he? Now we know where the next sailor in the family's to come from, hey?"

"Indeed, sir." Knolles smiled in return, with infinite relief.

"Mademoiselle Sophie," Lewrie said, turning to the girl. "Of course, you're forgiven. Nothing to forgive, really. As you become more familiar with us, you'll learn that Hugh will ever be our mischievous little imp. And a prankster. You must watch out for that, so he doesn't use you ill, as boys are wont to do-with sisters. From Sewallis, well… he's the quiet sort. I'm hoping you'll be a civilizing influence upon Hugh. And an edifying one 'pon Sewallis. As one more beloved member of our house. Dear as an elder sister."

"Merci, m'sieur," Sophie replied meekly, all but chewing her lip in contriteness.

"Well, then…" Lewrie concluded heartily. "My dear, perhaps we should bundle everyone into the buoy-tender before Hugh discovers the powder room, and erects a sand castle out of cartridges."

It was the perfect note to strike, Lewrie thought; if he did say so himself. Dear as he loved his wife and children-and he did in spite of his dalliances-sweet as it had been to have them down from the country to Portsmouth while jester had recruited and manned, and as tender and passionate as Alan and Caroline's reunion had been-well, damme if I'm not glad to see the back of 'em, he thought, a touch rueful.

"Hugh!" he called, picking up the lad to bring him eye level again. "You be as good a boy as you can be… consid'rin'. And, I promise you, when you're older… next time I'm home, hey? There'll be all the climbing aloft you want. But not before I say, hear me?"

"I promise, Daddy," Hugh replied. And thank God he'd finally learned how to pronounce his R's. "An' then I'll be a sea officer, just like you\" the boy cried, wriggling with delight.

"That you will," he agreed, setting him down. God's teeth, what'd the boy expect, anyway? Second son, and all? It was naval or military service for him. "And Sewallis?"

"Yes, Father?" his eldest replied, ignored in all the confusion, and almost shrugging into himself as the hands of the after-guard trudged by to stations, as sailors and marines prepared to breast to the capstan bars to hoist anchor. Eyes darting constantly, not out of boyish curiosity, Lewrie was certain, but to see if he would be in the way! There'd been moments of folderol, of high cockalorum between them-but only a few-since he'd been "breeched."

Such a grave li'l man, Lewrie thought, with a trace of sadness, as he knelt by his side. "You make us proud at your school, now, hear me? Mind your mother…"

"I will, sir." Sewallis gulped, tearing up.

"Help make Sophie feel welcome and one of us."

"I will, sir."

"And keep an eye on Hugh. God knows, it takes more than one pair, now, don't it," Alan joshed.

"Good-bye, Father!" Sewallis suddenly wailed, tears flowing for real, and his solemn little face screwed up in pain. He flung himself at Lewrie, who hugged him close. "Wish you didn't have to go!"

"Growl you may, but go ye must, Sewallis," Lewrie told him as he patted his back. "Hush, now. Young gentlemen don't cry\ Not in public, at any rate. Talk to your puppies, mayhap, when things are dreadful. They'll always cock an ear to you. That's why I have that damned Toulon. He's a good listener, in the main."

Sewallis, perhaps with good reason, had an abiding fear of cats. Old William Pitt, sensing his shy nature, had taken a perverse delight in tormenting him before he'd passed over. Sewallis's happiest words, all during Lewrie's too-short spell in harbor, had been about dogs; specifically the litter of setter pups a stray bitch had whelped in their barn. Toulon, not to be outdone by his noble predecessor aft in the great-cabins, had spent half of Sewallis's times aboard playing panther-about-to-pounce from any convenient high place, or edging in close to stare at him when the family had dined aboard.

"Daddy…!" Sewallis shivered, trying to form a thought that simmered in his little head, some last meaningful declaration.

"There, there, little lad," Alan said without listening as he let him go and stood up. "Mind your way down the battens, into the tender. You're big enough, now, not to need a bosun's sling."

"I'll see to 'em, sir," Maggie Cony suggested, with a knowing wink. "Will an' me c'n cosset 'em inta th' boat."

"Aye, thankee kindly, Ma… Mistress Cony," Lewrie amended.

Her and Cony's own git birthed, and back on her pins nigh on a year, she was a handsome young wench; thatchy-haired like her new husband, blue-eyed, with a face never meant for true beauty, but a strong, open and honest, and pretty, face after all.

"And I'll keep a weather-eye on 'em, sir," Maggie promised. "As Will is wont t'say."

"And I on your man, mistress," Lewrie promised in turn. "Get him back to you, a warranted bosun someday, safe and sound."

That had been a proud and happy moment, to stand up for Cony in a dockside chapel as he took his bride, at last, four-square in his best rig as boatswain's mate, a petty officer, now. Though his swaddled son, born during their last cruise aboard Cockerel, had not taken well to the festivities, and had wailed through half of it.

"Adieu, m'sieur," Sophie said, wan and weepy once again, her green eyes brimming. "Bonne chance."

"Adieu, mademoiselle… adieu, Sophie," Alan replied, giving her a hug, too. "I trust you'll fall in love with little Anglesgreen. And find peace and contentment there. Fall in love with our family, too. As they already have with you," he stressed, hoping to get one last hint driven home.

"Bonne chance," she said again, stepping back and dropping him an aristocratic curtsy in congй. "An', merci beaucoup for aw' you do pour moi, m'sieur."

She rose, and fixed him with a curious, hard stare for a trice, her fine reddish-auburn hair flickering about her face and the shroud of her traveling cloak's hood, her green eyes intent in her slim and gamin face. "Poonish ze Rйpublicains zat tuer… zat keel ma Charles, m'sieur Lewrie. Ah pray fo' you' success."

"Merci." He nodded. "Merci, beaucoup. Caroline…?"

He gave her his arm to walk her to the starboard entry port, and a waiting bosun's chair slung from aloft on the main-course yard.

"Alan, should the wind not serve…" she hinted desperately.

"Beat down to Saint Helen's Road, my dear, a few miles, and lay-to, till one comes fair," he said, a touch of severity in his voice. "Admiral Howe was lucky he had a favorable slant, t'other day. And then, off for Gibraltar, quick as dammit."

Out of long habit, he cast his eyes aloft to the impossibly long and curling coach whip of a commissioning pendant atop the mainmast truck. Then aft, to the Red Ensign that flew over the taffrail on the flagstaff. Red, for an independent ship, one sailing free of fleet or squadron, under Admiralty Orders. A few days before, Portsmouth Harbor had teemed with warships; stately lst-Rate 100-gunners, 2nd Rates, 3rd-Rate 74's, and frigates, from the mouth of Southampton Water down into Spithead, west into the Solent as far as Buckler's Hard. Now, it yawned vast and empty. The French were out. And so was the Channel Fleet, under elderly Admiral Howe.

"But, if…"

"Admiralty Orders, dearest." He sighed. "With dispatches aboard. 'Make the best of my way, with all dispatch'… Should the wind come useful, we'd cut cables, instanter, and scud out under jibs and spanker, and no one'd mind us losing our anchors, 'long as the dispatches were on their way. I'm sorry. I truly am."

Didn't mean t'sound harsh, he told himself; mean ev'ry word of it, swear I do. But, there it is.

"I'm sorry, Alan," Caroline replied weakly, her lips atremble. " Tis just that I'm selfish for one more hour, half a day…"

' 'Tis just as hard for me, Caroline," he said with some heat. Meaning that, too. "God help women who marry sailors. Even in time o' peace, we're an undependable lot."

God help sailors six months from home, too, Lewrie told himself ruefully; them that can't keep their breeches' flap buttoned! Or their hearts content with what waits for 'em at home.

He'd played up bluff, hearty and cheerful, from his first sight of her, praying he wouldn't give the game away some night in his sleep. By muttering the wrong name in a moment of ecstasy, or those first few muzzy moments 'pon waking. Why, a man'd be a fool, who…!

Right, then, I'm a fool, he thought; always have been, probably always will be! A proper wife, the mother of three fine children (and thank God for small mercies that little Charlotte was left ashore today at their lodgings-the squally, squawly chub!).

He took Caroline's hands in his, looked deep into her beautiful hazel eyes; those merry loving eyes with the riant laugh-folds beneath which reflected her warmth, her caring, giving cheerfulness. In a face as slim and patrician as anyone at Court. For a year over the dreaded thirty, Caroline was as graceful, as lithe and lovely as a swan, sweet as swans-down to touch. No, this was no frumpy matron he'd married; not one to surrender easily to hearty country cooking and stoutness.

Caroline ran the farm better than most men, presented him with a clean, orderly, well-run household as gracious, as stylish, as any great-house in England. Though there had not been time to see it, she swore that the gardens, the new furnishings, the finally finished salon and bedchambers for guests, were marvels. Everything Caroline turned her hand to was marvelous; everyone said so! Since their first tumbledown gatehouse home on New Providence, she'd been a wonder when it came to housewifery, at hosting-a spectacular blend of practical frugality when called for, a commonsensical North Carolina plantation domesticity, allied with a rich planter's, a rich squire's, easy and noble airs.

A sensible woman, well-read and so easy to talk to, about silly things, about matters of import beyond the stillroom, nursery, and bloody fashion! Tongue-in-cheek waggish, she could be, too; a grown woman's wry and witty waggishness, not the prattlings of some girlish chit fresh in her first Season in Society, still redolent of milk-pap and primer-level humor.

Light brown, sandy-blond hair, still distressed into stylish witches' ringlets, for "а la victime" was still all the "go"; a style that bared a graceful but strong neck and shoulders.

And I've cheated on her? he wondered; to himself, of course! Why, a man'd be a total …!

"It's time, I fear, beloved." He sighed heavily. "Else we'd never, and…"

"I know," Caroline whispered, patting the broad dark blue lapels of his new uniform coat. One last stroke of her gloved hand on his cheek. One last proper, public, buss… soft and fleeting on the lips, at a proper distance at the entry-port gate. An incline of her head for a departing bow. A doff of his new gold-laced hat with the wide gold tape about the brim so new it hadn't gone verdigris in salt air yet.

She accepted his help into the bosun's chair. One last squeeze of adoring fingers, as they had together once before, so long ago, at Charleston, after he'd evacuated her family from the impending Rebel takeover of Wilmington… twelve bloody years ago, and a bit, Alan marveled in reverie! Winter o' '81, and Fated t'be husband an' wife e'en then? Damned if we didn't both know it, too! Straightaway!

Then, up and away, to a falsetto squeal of the stay-tackle's blocks, the creak of the main-course yard as it swung her outboard oн Jester s hull to dangle over the buoy-tender that was below the mainmast chain platform.

Down there, Hugh was squirming against Mrs. Cony to crane and see everything about a ship getting underway. Sewallis…

Poor, sad Sewallis, Lewrie thought, still doffing his hat to them all, finding something new to be rueful about as he attempted to recall how much attention he'd really given the lad.

Prim as a parson, face reddened by wind and emotion, and about as screwed up as a hanged spaniel's-looking just about that happy, too! Slim little scholar's hands clasped tight below his waistcoat as if in supplication.

Sophie de Maubeuge, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, too tearful (thank bloody Christ!) to recall her earthly savior's-ahem-Fall from Grace! And pray God it don't suddenly come to her, either, Lewrie asked his Maker most earnestly! Poor chit; not a relative left alive, either guillotined-or killed in that last sea battle that got me this ship as prize. Fate's been slamming her doors on Sophie's fingers everywhere she turns. Titled aristocrat-slam. Marryin' Charles de Crillart? Slam, he was killed when we took Jester. Now she's off the ship for a strange house in a strange new country. Catholic convent girl. Slam, slam, slam. Have to pretend to be-or learn to pretend to be-the same as any country-raised English girl. Go for Church of England in a year'r two… if she has any sense at all.

God save her; in my house? Part o' my family? He shuddered suddenly. Poor little mort! Nigh a daughter, to the likes o' me?

"Good-bye!" he called down, once Caroline was safely settled on a thwart amidships of the sturdy buoy-tender. "Write often, as will I! All of you! You mind what I say, Sewallis?" he cried, meaning to offer the lad a crumb at the last, to atone. "I wish to hear all about your progress. And your puppies! They should be good hunters, by the time I'm back, hey?"

"Uhm, excuse me, sir, but…" Lieutenant Knolles interrupted with a sorrowful cough into his fist. "There's a veer to the wind, and…"

"I saw, Mister Knolles," Lewrie replied from the corner of his mouth, still posed at the bulwarks with a gay grin plastered on his "phyz" for his family. "Hands to stations, then. Heave us in to short stays."

A Marine drummer began a roll. A fiddle screeched as one of the idlers tried his tuning and sought the proper key. Spithead nightingales began to peep, as newly warranted Boatswain Porter and his Bosun's Mate Will Cony, both off that ill-starred Cockerel frigate, piped the commands for stations for leaving harbor, and up-anchor.

A precious, breathless moment more, as the buoy-tender's oarsmen stroked the boat away, clear of Jester's side. "Give way, together!" her midshipman called from the stern sheets and tiller-bar. One moment more to lift his cocked hat in salute to kith and kin, then put it firmly back upon his head and turn, dismissing them, as he must, and stride purposefully to the center of the quarterdeck.

His quarterdeck!

He let out a heavy, lip-puffing sigh that bespoke both his impatience, and his relief. Swung his arms and clapped his hands before him unconsciously, to release a scintilla of how tautly he'd forced himself to pose, this last day in harbor.

Relief, that he'd not blown the gaff. Relief, that, no matter how dear he cherished them all, he was off to sea, and they were no longer the center of his universe. Not when a greater, wider world awaited.

Impatience, of a certainty, to be off and doing in that greater world, which was now filled with strife and the stink of gunpowder; in a proper ship, well-armed and able. A ship he'd already proved on the passage home, which could take the worst of the Bay of Biscay gales and swim as proud as any 5th-Rate frigate. Fast, sleek, with a clean entry and forefoot; not so fine as to bury under opposing waves, but cleave them and ride up and over. Deep enough in draught to grip the seas, resist slippage to leeward; long enough on her waterline to tear across the seas like a racehorse. Wide enough in beam to carry her artillery and stores safely, to be sea-kindly as well as fast…

And for himself-for the first time in his career, he would command a real warship, not a gun ketch converted from a bomb vessel, nor a hostilities-only, hired armed brig or dispatch schooner. This marvelous Sloop of War was 380 tons, eighteen-gunned, a French corvette-a swanlike and lovely three-masted miniature frigate!

And, he was a step closer to post-captain's rank, when he could be eligible for command of a true frigate, a rated ship. Crews called the commander appointed over them in any warship their captain. Now, as an Admiralty-confirmed commander, he was uniformed almost like a true post-captain, and was a post-captain in all but name.

White breeches and hose, white waistcoat and shirt, legs now encased from the knees down in a spanking-new pair of Hessian boots. He could not resist the temptation of having the London shop sew on tiny gold-fringed tassels. A dark blue coat, with a dark-blue stand-up collar and broad blue lapels, instead of a lieutenant's white ones. There were two bands of gold lace encircling his cuffs, set with three gilt fouled-anchor buttons. The collar, front, top, and bottom, bore a wide band of gold lace; as did the two outside pocket flaps, along with even more set-in-three gilt buttons. The lapels' outer edges, and tops and bottom seams, were gold-laced, and nine gilt buttons to either lapel allowed it to be worn open, or closed in foul weather.

Another thing to rue, he thought suddenly. Going to London to assure his confirmation, and smarm his way through the junior clerks below-stairs, the basement moles who had pored over all his records of service, "tsk-tsk-ing" over every undotted I or slovenly crossed T.

Then off to Coutts's Bank with prize-money certificates, off to see his solicitor, Matthew Mountjoy, who handled his affairs ashore; both the farm and his dealings with the financial side of the Admiralty-and his creditors. Feeling relief, and guilt, that he was called by duty from the bosom of his family after only one night with them in hired lodgings in Portsmouth. And before any trace of his affair with Phoebe showed on his face!

The pleasures of shopping, like a wealthy gentleman, free of a demand upon his time. Of course, he needed new hats from Lock's, new full-dress and undress coats, pristine white breeches and waistcoats, shoes and boots-that was required! Pistols, too, from Mantуn; his had gone down with Zйlй. A new sea chest in which to store all his new finery… and a new sword.

He'd have a Gill's, no other. Wilkinson was all right, he thought, but a Gill's he'd had before, and it had never failed him. Until he'd been forced to surrender it to that puffed up, piss-proud young Frog, Col. Napoleone Bonaparte. Oh, there was the slim, straight rapierlike smallsword he'd taken from the French captain, when he'd taken Jester-back when she was named Sans Culottes. But it was much too ornate, a bit too slim and elegant a blade, fit for full-dress occasions, not a real bare-knuckle brawl. He wanted a fighting sword, and that was what he'd found.

It was a Gill's-at thirty-one, he sensed he had already developed a conservative streak, and some positively rigid prejudices-less elegant than his lost one, but more fit for the melee. His old hanger had been slimmer, a true gentleman's "hunting sword," slightly curved. His new blade, the cutler had told him, was patterned upon a French grenadier's hanger. The blade was wider along its entire length, a tad thicker in cross-section, and only slightly curved; much less like a Light Cavalry saber than most, with all but the first two inches before the guard honed razor-sharp, and the first eight inches of the top behind the wicked point as well. It fit his hand, felt solid and durable, yet nowhere near as heavy as a humbler cutlass. Like all hunting swords or hangers, it was shorter than a smallsword-only twenty-six inches of blade-but he preferred that in the confusion of a shoulder-to-shoulder, nose-to-nose melee. And it was reassuringly heavy close to the guard, but wickedly light and quick as it tapered to the point.

Black leather grip wrapped in gilt wire, a slim, gilt-steel swept hilt with a large oval guard to protect his fingers. There were no seashells this time, but a fairly plain pattern of stylized oak leaves. The scabbard was black leather, with gilt furnishings. They had soldered a coin-silver plaque to the outer face of the upper furnishing, with a pair of crossed cannon over a fouled anchor engraved, wreathed in oak leaf. Almost like the design of his old watch fob… which was now the prize of some garlic-breathed French sergeant of Lancers, too, unfortunately!

New watch and fob, new grogram boat cloak, shaggy watch coat, dressing robes for warm or cold weather… it had turned into such an orgy of Spending and Getting! And guilt over his pleasures had driven him to purchase even more, for Caroline, the children, Sophie… even a pair of bosun's pipes for Porter and Cony, to mark the warrants he'd gotten Porter and Bittfield, and the Admiralty's recognition of his own prerogative to promote Will Cony to bosun's mate.

Then, recruiting drove him from their arms, setting up his own rendezvous, printing fliers to summon calf-headed cullys who wished to go to sea, dealing with the local regulating captain of the Impress Service. The dockyard officials, the port admiral… to find the rope and timber to restock Jester with spare topmasts and yards, stuns'l booms, miles of cable and rope, fresh paint, gunner's tools… and the reams of correspondence necessary to beg for permission, to justify any slight alteration that might cost the Crown tuppence! Why, it was so odious, so all-encompassing an endeavor, that he'd been lucky to get a meal ashore with Caroline and…!

"Anchor's hove short, sir. Up and down!" Knolles called Lewrie from his reverie.

"Very well, Mister Knolles. Brace for the heavy heave. Topmen aloft. Free tops'ls only. Spanker, jibs and tops'ls. Inner, outer flying, and fore topmast stays'l from the foc's'le… main topmast staysl and mizzen t'gallant stays'l. Should this perverse wind head us, I don't wish us fighting the square-s'ls all the way aground, on the Isle of Wight. Rough on the quick-work. And the career, hmm?"

"Aye, sir!" Knolles grinned in agreement.

"Wait to ring up or fish the anchors to the catheads, Mister Knolles. Should we get headed, we may have to anchor again, quickly. At the southern end of Saint Helen's Road, for certain, if a clear wind can't be found in the Channel."

"Aye aye, sir. Mister Porter, Mister Cony!"

"Won't be elegant, but…" Lewrie shrugged to his sailing master, Mister Edward Buchanon, a swart and laconic-looking soul come down from the Medway to be appointed into Jester, fresh from years aboard other ships as a master's mate, and fresh from his Trinity House examination at Tower Hill. So far, Lewrie had found him slow in speech, dull as dishwater in conversation. But that, he suspected, was the man's innate caution, as an experienced seaman first, and as a "newly" with his first senior warrant, in a strange ship, second.

"Aye, Cap'um." Buchanon nodded solemnly, with only a glint of delight in his eyes to betray him. " 'Tis better t'be safe'n sorry, I says. Sloop o' war's meant t' dash, now an' agin. But, 'tis many a dashin' cap'um laid himself ail-aback b'cause o' it. You'll be tackin', soon's we have steerage-way, I suggest? Larboard tack'll take us too far t'loo'rd, toward the island."

"I most certainly will, Mister Buchanon, and thankee kindly for your wise suggestion," Lewrie happily agreed.

"Heave, and in sight!" The call came from the forecastle, as the best bower arose from the depths, trailing a storm cloud of mud and sand, and the stench of weed. Pawls clacked in the capstans, now rumbling as the hands trotted around them, bare feet drumming. Sails rustled and blocks cried as canvas sprouted on standing stays and on the tops'l yards high aloft. Jester heeled slightly to the pressure, stirring and shuffling side-wise, crabbing to the wind, with her tall rudder hard-over to windward, two quartermasters, Spenser and Brauer, maintaining their full weight on the double wheel. A gust, and she heeled a bit more, but a gust that backed more abeam this time, and Lewrie saw the quartermasters ease the helm a spoke or two, smiling.

"Der rutter, ve haff, Kapitan," Brauer, the pale-blond Hamburg German informed him. "Genug, aber.. . she bites, zir."

"Lay her full-and-by, close to the wind as she'll bear, till we have a goodly speed, then," Lewrie told him, with relief in his voice. They weren't going to be blown sidewise onto the shore to their lee! "Ready to come about to the starboard tack."

"Well, the lee tops'l braces, and belay!" Lewrie could hear Cony shouting from the waist to the gangway brace-tenders. Jester did not rate a yeoman of the sheets in her muster book, so a bosun's mate was called upon to supervise several chores beyond the duties of one aboard a larger ship.

Lookin' fine, Will Cony, Alan told himself proudly; lookin' fine.

Cony had filled out a bit from the stripling volunteer he'd met aboard the Desperate frigate during the Revolution. Dressed now in a little style, with a white-taped short seaman's coat with gilt buttons, a dark blue waistcoat, and tailored slop trousers; good sturdy shoes on his feet, well-blacked, with silver buckles-solid silver, not coated "pinch-beck." A petty officer's plain cocked hat instead of a round hat with low crown and flat, tarred brims. The former poacher lad from Gloucestershire had risen in the world. And would rise even further, if Lewrie could do anything about it. The fleet needed men like Will Cony.

"Three knots, sir!" Mister Midshipman Spendlove shouted from the taffrails, where he and his new mate, Midshipman Hyde, had just taken a cast of the log.

"Verdamt!" Brauer groaned, and the sails aloft rustled, losing their luff, as the commissioning pendant streamed farther aft, to the starboard quarter.

"Headed, by God. Mister Knolles, ready about?" Lewrie called.

"Ready, sir."

"Helm alee! Tack her, Mister Knolles. New course, due east."

And Jester came about. Logy at slow speed, but her bows came around sweetly, the harbor sweeping by in an effortless pirouette. Seawater began to chuckle and gurgle under her forefoot, to murmur down her sides. From aft, there was a burbling, high-throated sound of chuckling from around her rudder as she settled on her new course and found new strength in a wind now come more from the south. From France, where she'd been born.

Across the harbor she trundled under reduced sail, Ride Sand and No-Man's-Land astern, and Horse Sand, and the Horse Tail, off her bows, in the narrows.

Directly the wind backed more from the east, she fell off and tacked again to larboard tack, with the wind striking her left side, with Warner Sand and St. Helen's Patch well to their lee. Monkton Fort was the stern range-mark, up to the nor'west.

Damme, can we do it in one long board? Lewrie exulted within. It would be a hellish comedown to chortle too soon, if he all but promised an easy departure, then was forced to come to anchor, after all. Best keep silent, for the nonce. And fret, while appearing a paragon of equanimity.

No, they were headed again as the fickle breeze swung back to the South. Larboard tack would force them down below St. Helen's Patch and toward Denbridge Point, into the cul-de-sac of Nab Rock, the New Grounds, and Long Rock.

"Ready about, Mister Knolles! Quartermasters, new course east-sou'east. Mister Buchanon, I propose to go east-about the New Grounds, and stand out into the Channel to make our offing, before we come about to west, in deep water."

"Aye, sir, that'd be best, I think." Buchanon nodded, after he'd pored over the chart pinned to the traverse board on the binnacle cabinet. He looked relieved, that his expertise would not be tested in those narrow channels, for below Denbridge Point there were also the risks of Betty's Ledge, the Denbridge Ledge close inshore, and North Offing, or Princessa Rock. They were day-marked, supposedly lit at night, but it was still a chancy business.

Around Jester came to the starboard tack, shallow Langstone Harbor and Cumberland Fort abeam to larboard. Chuckling again, as she passed four knots. There was a bit more chop now, the promise of the Channel's lumps to come. Current flowing one way, tide race opposed to it, and a southerly wind cross-patched atop it all, they would be careening and bounding like a coach on a winter-rutted road soon enough. If the wind stayed from the south, and they remained at ESE, close-hauled as dammit, right up against it.

Finally, St. Helen's town, and its creek on their starboard quarter! The last spit of New Grounds abeam!

"Ring up anchors, Mister Knolles, we've no more need of 'em. Ring up and fish, then buckle the hawseholes. Idlers! A tune, there!" Commander Lewrie demanded, utterly relieved, now that he and his fine little ship were safely on their way to making their offing.

The fiddle screeched again, in harmony with a tuning box and a fife. "Heart of Oak," they began, and everyone knew it by heart-the former Cockerel's, the fresh-caught merchant seamen from the press, the hands turned over from the guard ships, those that Howe hadn't put to sea aboard his line-of-battle ships; the ships' boys second class down from

London and Mister Powlett's Marine Society, the Marines, and the sailors lent to him off Nelson's Agamemnon, off Victory and Windsor Castle to work her passage home; the midshipmen, of a certainty, and the brace of nine-year-old boys first class gentlemen volunteers who'd signed aboard as cabin servants to learn enough of the sea so they could become midshipmen someday themselves.

And the landsmen from the hulks and debtor's prisons, the volunteers from some rendezvous tavern inland, the sprinkling of Maltese seamen hired out by the Grand Masters he'd ended up with-soon they all would learn it, and know it by heart.

Come cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer,

to add something more to this wonderful year;

Add something, Alan vowed to himself. Something writ large. I've never known a peaceful commission, a voyage that was "all claret and cruising." Trouble… well, damme, trouble has a way of findin' me. This time, though… this time I'm all but a captain, on me own bottom with a ship and crew seasoned just enough for starters. And I'll make 'em even better. God save me, but I love this ship! What she's capable of, given half a chance. What I think this ship, and I, together, can accomplish. Father, Fate… the Navy, beat me into a sailor. Well then, so be it. A damn' good'un, too, I believe, at last. And who'd have ever thought it!

To honor we call you, not press you like slaves,

Oh, yes, we do press! Pressed me, in my own way, he laughed.

For who are so free as the sons of the waves?

Free? he scoffed. Mostly, yes, I am. At last! To run a ship my own way. Take her in that Rebel John Paul Jones's "harm's way." And win! Damme, that's been my main fret-that I wanted this just as much as family… maybe more.

Heart of oak are our ships,

heart of oak are our men,

we always are ready;

steady, boys, steady. ..

Alan Lewrie had never been known as much of a singer, but this time he lolloped out the chorus in a bellow, along with the hands of the afterguard and the quarterdeck people.

We'll fight and we'll conquer, again and again!

A first lift of the bows to the Channel chops, a sluice of sea breaking over her forecastle. The rush of water creaming alongside of her impatient flanks. A sibilant, silken respiring, it was, of a live being made of oak and iron. Wind coming stronger aloft, keening among a maze of sheets, braces, jears, lifts and halliards, an Irish banshee's crooning moan among the stays and shrouds, with frolicsome flutterings, as luffs and ratlines danced.

HMS Jester, eighteen-gunned Sloop of War had been reborn; and reborn English. And around her beak-head rails, and new figurehead of a gilt-crowned fool, an English Channel now christened her with salt.

"Offing enough, Mister Buchanon," Lewrie decided, one hour later. "Mister Knolles, come about to larboard tack, then make sail. Fore and main courses to the first reefs. Take in the main topmast, and the mizzen t'gallant, stays'ls."

"Aye, sir… all plain sail. Bosun Porter? Ready about!"

More canvas-more speed; white-hued virginal canvas never exposed to weather except at sail drill during their working-up period of River Discipline. Course-sail brails undone, drawn down by their clews to sheet them home, with a wary portion gathered in reserve about the yards to the first line of reef points. Long yards creaking around to the best angle for a beam wind-a "soldier's wind"-powerfully long English yards, and wider, fuller-cut sails than the more-timid French practice.

More flutings and keenings aloft, more moans and whisperings. Jester began to bound over the sea, her wake-breath sonorous yet insistent. As Commander Lewrie left his quarterdeck, at last satisfied, to go below, he could almost believe he could hear her singing to herself-a chorale of freedom and power.

While around her forefoot and cutwater, around her transom post, that chuckling, gurgling rush…

HMS Jester, he could almost conjure, was laughing softly with delight, as she stood out to sea. Stood out to find the war.