A King`s Commander

CHAPTER
1

"It's working," Lieutenant Knolles exclaimed, with the sound of true wonder in his voice. "It is actually working."

"Well, o' course, it is, sir," Mister Buchanon chided his earlier skepticism. "Th' cap'um knows a thing'r two."

Lee guns run out in-battery, though aimed at nothing; weather artillery run into loading position, and Jester forced to sail over on her shoulder, canting her deck as if she were beating close-hauled instead of sailing with the scant wind large on her larboard quarters.

It was a thing old Lieutenant Lilycrop of the Shrike brig had taught his first lieutenant during the tail end of the American War, and it might not avail aboard a larger ship of the line-to heel a shallow draughted brig-sloop or ship-sloop in very light airs, reducing drag created by her hull, by reducing the total area of her quick-work, which was immersed.

And it was working, for Jester was slowly forging ahead of the main line of battle, on the lee side where frigates and lighter ships belonged of course, to catch up with Agamemnon and Cumberland, which were almost up to gun range of the fleeing French. Four-and-a-half knots, at best; but that was at least a knot-and-a-half quicker than anyone else at the moment, as the fickle weather of the Ligurian Sea in midsummer played its usual coy games.

"Deck, there!" came flushing's call from the foremast. " Cape Sepet, two points off th' weather bows!"

"Never catch 'em up," Lewrie glumly predicted. "God, what an opportunity wasted. Again!"

"Cape Garonne, two points off th' lee bows!" Rushing further informed them. "Signals Cross is a'workin' on Sepet!"

"Four bloody days, all the way to Toulon, and… damn 'em!"

The van squadron of the French Mediterranean fleet, now a much reinforced assemblage after ships from the Biscay ports had slipped in past the weak guard at Gibraltar as soon as milder spring weather had freed them, would be almost abeam of the Croix de Signeaux atop Cape Sepet. The wind-what wind there was-was coming more southerly, directly into the Bay of Toulon, Before noon, the main body, perhaps the lead ships of the rear squadron, would be inside the two horns of the bay's wide entrance, able to shelter under the heavy artillery of Toulon 's many formidable fortresses.

"Signal from Brittania, sir!" Midshipman Hyde shouted. "And, from the repeating frigates. 'Discontinue the Action,' sir!"

Lewrie turned aft to watch every ship of the line hoist replies, to watch every frigate on the disengaged lee side hoist the blue-and-yellow checker. "Mister Hyde, hoist the repeat," Lewrie ordered with a sour grimace. "So everyone knows we're useless. Damn him!"

On Agamemnon, of course, there flew the "Query." Trust Nelson to dare to challenge Vice Admiral Hotham's decision. No "Respectfully Submit…," this time, as there had been after the last fiasco. Then, Nelson had gone aboard Brittania to plead that the two French 74's he had taken-Зa Ira and Censeur-be left astern under guard of some frigates, and the pursuit continued. Admiral Comte Martin didn't have the stomach for a real fight; he'd continue to run in rough disorder, and his trailing ships could be overhauled and battered into surrender in penny packets. But no, Hotham had demurred. And even days after, Nelson had been pinch-mouthed and pale with anger when he'd repeated Hotham's words to Lewrie. "No, we've taken two. We've really done very well, Nelson. We must be content."

Those two taken, but Illustrious had been mauled after she had come up to aid Agamemnon and the lead frigates. She'd been taken in tow by the Meleager frigate, but blown onto a rocky shoal off Avenca on the Genoese coast, and lost. HMS Berwick captured alone, too. Tit for tat.

And today… one French ship of the line shot to rags, set on fire, and her colors struck to Agamemnon and her tiny squadron. But she'd blown up before she could be taken as prize. And Admiral Hotham was most like content… again!.. with the results! One for nought. Tit for tat. What a bargain, Alan thought; why, by the turn of the century, we'll surely've whittled 'em down to a manageable number!

"He's a glass on me, sir," Hyde carped, referring to the signals midshipman aboard Agamemnon, not half a nautical mile ahead, and to their right. "Surely, he sees our repeat signal."

"I'd imagine his captain is trying to digest it first, Mister Hyde," Lewrie snarled. "Farts! A brace of farts, the pair of them! Their Martin and our Hotham. Goddamned rabbit-hearted… dismal, cowering farts stagg'rin' about in a bloody… fucking… trance!"

There, at last; Agamemnon hauled down her "Query," and hoisted the proper repeater reply. Cumberland answered a moment later, along with Fremantle's Inconstant, Captain Cockburn's Meleager, and the rest of Captain Nelson's small detached squadron, which had ended up far in the lead of the battle line, as usual.

"Mister Knolles, secure the hands from quarters," Lewrie said. "Run out the larboard battery and bowse up to the bulwarks. Same with the starboard battery. Get her flat on her keel again, and ready to comply with any alteration of course Agamemnon directs."

"Aye, sir," Knolles grunted in disappointment. "Uhm, I s'pose sir…"

"Aye, Mister Knolles?" Lewrie snapped.

"Well, sir. At least we chased 'em back to their kennel. That must be worth something. Kept 'em from escorting a grain convoy from North Africa." Knolles posed with a wistful hopefulness.

To which his captain replied with a dismissive, "Shit!"

"Well, sir…" Knolles shrugged.

"Martin came straight for us, chased us a day and a night from nigh to Genoa back to San Fiorenzo, Mister Knolles," Lewrie commented. "As close to looking for an engagement as that mouse will ever get… while the grain convoy most like went sou'west, near the Balearics so we'd be feinted away from any hope of intercepting it. Four damn' days we've been playing tail chase, far off to the north and east. I'll lay you any odds you like they're loaded by now, and heading home. And I'll lay you even better odds our Admiral Hotham will trundle back to Corsica, as pleased as a pig in shit, and never think to detach scouting frigates to look for 'em, till they're back in Marseilles. We've been buggered, in short. Again. Now, attend to my orders, sir. I've no time… nor any reason… to discuss tactics or strategy. Not when our commanding admiral is so bereft of understanding either."

"Aye aye, sir," Knolles almost wilted under the unaccustomed heat of Lewrie's bile. He was not usually the target for his captain's wrath.

Philosophically, he realized though, that anyone would suffice for the moment, and that it wasn't in any way personal. Or permanent.

"He's having one of his days," Knolles said to Bosun's Mate Cony a few minutes later, once the guns had been secured; powder bags and shot drawn, flint-lock strikers removed, touch-holes and vents covered, and tampions inserted in the barrels. "Poor bugger."

"Ya might say that, Mister Knolles, sir," Cony allowed, looking aft at the moody, impatiently pacing captain, all hunched over like some plow-ox brooding on remembered goads. "But, he's had a power o' worry t'fret on, 'side's how we look t'be losin' this 'ere war, so far, sir. But th' latest news from home'z better. An', he's the sunny sort. I 'spect he's weathered th' worst Sing small f r a few more days, Mister Knolles. Till we're t'Genoa proper, an' he'll be himself, again. But right now, he don't need no more frustin."

"Point taken, Mister Cony," Knolles grinned shyly. "No more of our petty, uuhm… frustrations?" he suggested diplomatically.

"Now 'at's th' very word I wuz lookin' for, sir. Th' very word."

Got to stop taking things out on the people, Lewrie chided himself, massaging his temples, and the bridge of his nose, as if trying to scrub himself into a better humor.

But it had been a horrible winter, a miserable spring, and looked to be a dismal and frustrating summer, this fine new year of 1795. Both professionally-saddled with an inept, sluggard of a shit-brain fool as commander of the fleet-and lately, personally, as well. In fact, for a time it had been a terrifying time; though that was somewhat eased by his brother-in-law's last letters.

For perhaps the hundredth time, he wished he'd never made that bold, smug toast to Nelson and Fremantle. How hollow that wish for victory seemed now, how rashly he'd tempted fickle Fate.

With Corsica theirs, and Lord Hood worn down to a nubbin by the pressures of command, he'd struck his flag the previous September, just after Calvi surrendered, and had sailed for home in his flagship, HMS Victory. And had taken victory, or any hopes of one, with her. Hood had promised intentions of returning, refreshed, sometime in the new year, but "Black Dick" Howe had kept his promise to retire, and Hood had been retained as senior admiral in London, ashore. Vice Admiral Hotham had taken over the Mediterranean fleet, after Sir Hyde Parker had stood in for the interim.

Parker was cautious and conservative, to be sure, but competent.

Hotham, now, well… cautious was about as much as anyone might allow. Dull, dithering, slow as molasses, unable to commit, or make a decision. His favorite color was rumored to be "plaid." But he was so senior he couldn't be passed over, too healthy to ship home as unfit. And had far too much patronage to be trifled with even by Lord Hood, the Board of Admiralty, or the Prime Minister, Pitt.

Perhaps Hood was too exhausted to care, Lewrie brooded in foul humor; though the signs had been evident long before. While Jester was fitting out at Gibraltar to go home in the early spring of '94, Hotham had been at sea near Toulon. He'd loped back to Corsica just as soon as the French put out, to join up with Hood, though he'd been an equal match for Admiral Comte Martin's fleet, and could have won himself an epic victory, if he'd even lifted one finger to try. French seamanship was abysmal back then, the jumped-up matelots from the lower decks who'd commanded hadn't the first clue, and it could have been a proper massacre! But for Hotham's caution. By the time Hood sailed from San Fiorenzo, Martin had staggered into Golfe Jouan, and got himself blockaded for seven months… as out of the game as a legless pensioner at Greenwich Naval Hospital.

With Hood's departure, though… it was like taking tea water off the boil, and setting it out on a windowsill without pouring into the pot. Their "brew" had gone tepid, unleaved; then positively cold.

The winter gales had set in around November, and Hotham had so reduced poor Bear Admiral Goodall's blockading squadron that once he'd been blown off-station, Martin had been free to nip along the coast to Toulon and refit toward the end of the month.

Then, like locking the stable door after the horses had bolted, Hotham had assigned the proper number of frigates and lesser warships to watch Marseilles, Toulon, Hyeres Bay, and Gourjean Bay, when no one but an utter drooling idiot in Bedlam would have thought of sailing.

And Jester had been one of those lesser ships, one of the very unlucky, and had spent up to twelve days at a stretch, at times, heaving and bobbing like a wine cork under storm trys'ls, or heaved-to and bare-poled, trusting to sea-anchor drogues to keep her bows-on to wind and sea so she wouldn't broach or capsize. And a very merry Christmas season that had been!

Then in the spring of '95, once the weather had cleared, Martin had come out, much better armed, refitted, and trained, as well as reinforced.

Probably threatened from Paris with the guillotine, he had at least pretended to try to retake Corsica. He'd left his 18,000 men and transports at Toulon, thinking he had to clear the seas of the Royal Navy, first. And where was Hotham and the fleet? At San Fiorenzo Bay, where they could guard Corsica? Good Christ, no, he'd taken them over to Leghorn on the Tuscan coast, no matter that the Mediterranean was so full of spies and informers you could purchase two with dinner. Surely Hotham had been told, hadn't he? Had an inkling? And if the line-of-battle ships had needed refits, then why hadn't he fetched the supplies to Corsica, rather than sailing over to them?

"So everyone could come down with the pox," Lewrie muttered in acidic jest. Leghorn was a hotbed, a paradise, of vice and venery-and hip-deep in diseased whores of every persuasion, something for just about anyone's purse, or taste. San Fiorenzo by comparison was almost stuffy and Calvinist, and dull as Scotland on a Sunday.

And what better way to erode the efficiency of his ships, than to expose officers and men to the debilitating effects of the pox and the Mercury Cure.

God, even Nelson and Fremantle had succumbed! Fremantle had met some Greek doxy through old John Udney, the British Consul. Another of the Prize Agent, Prize Court set, and Lewrie strongly suspected he also lined his purse as a pimp to the visiting squirearchy. Nelson took up with one Adelaide Correglia. No raving beauty, that; no sylphlike armful! The night Lewrie had dined aboard Agamemnon at anchor, that doxy- who'd moved into the great-cabins with Nelson, for God's sake!-had trotted out to table in little more than a sheer nightgown and dressing robe. So tight bodices or corsets wouldn't aggravate the abscess in her side she temporarily suffered, so please you! Prating, silly, and inane, twittering and tittering-and that went for the pair of them.

Why, the man'd made a perfect ass of himself over the mort, all but cutting her meat for her, and feeding her forkfuls, all but wiping her chin, and toasting her so lovey-dovey every five minutes it'd damn' near made him spew. And, as Fremantle had put it on their way back to their gigs, "makes himself ridiculous with that woman. Damned bad supper, to boot!"

No, Hotham had been just as bedazzled, and as buggered, as any of his officers, and when word finally came, he'd scrambled to sortie, with only thirteen of the line. Well, fourteen, if one could count a Neapolitan 3rd Rate-74 as seaworthy, or battle-ready.

That first set-to in March had been in weather as scant, and a wind as light, as today's. Three days pussy-footing about--farting about!-and unable to close each other. And, even with twenty-two sail of the line, Martin had proved to be just as timorous as Hotham. And just about as benighted, with no eagerness to do much of anything.

While the rest of the fleet had almost posed for paintings atop a mirror-smooth sea, Nelson in Agamemnon, thankfully without Adelaide Correglia, had forged ahead, dragging Fremantle's Inconstant, Cockburn's Meleager frigate, and a few more with him to harry the tail end of the French, who had been content to run for home and Mother, with their tails tucked between their legs. Jester had been right up with them, and for a time, it had seemed as if that epic sea battle would occur.

Two French 74's shot to lace, Зa Ira and Censeur, after Nelson fought them for two-and-a-half hours of close cannonading. Over 100 men killed or wounded aboard Зa Ira alone, as opposed to only seven wounded aboard Agamemnonl

Which shows what a proper-drilled ship can do, Lewrie thought; and what a barking shambles a bad'un can be.

But what could have been accomplished if Hotham hadn't broken off that action, too? Hadn't said "…we must be content, we've done pretty well."

Then, after "saving" Corsica, Hotham had scattered his frigates and such to the four winds on patrol duties and ineffective blockades, trundling his "liners" back to Leghorn. Perhaps Mister Udney had a doxy lined up for him?

Jester had at least scooped up two more prizes from that spell of duty, though they'd not seen a penny of the prize money for them yet, either. One of them, a supposedly neutral Danish merchant brig, was still anchored at San Fiorenzo, while the Prize Court nattered as to whether her papers were colorable or not, even though she'd been crammed to her deck heads with warlike material.

Another bad comparison between Hood and Hotham; at least under Hood, the Prize Court had been a tad less venal and corrupt. Less so than what anyone familiar with a court's doings could expect. Hotham in charge, though…

No, not in charge, Lewrie sneered; just bloody here, but never in charge, even of his own bowel movements!

Now, today's muddled fiasco. Again, there'd been rumors that Martin was to come out, this time to escort merchant ships to North Africa to pick up corn so the south of France wouldn't starve, or riot, when their own crops failed for two summers in a row. The piratical Barbary States had grain aplenty, and were more friendly with France than anyone else they pirated.

Yet what had Hotham done with that information? Go look for a convoy? Cover Marseilles and Toulon so tightly that no merchantmen might come out?

No, again! He'd sat as "sulled up" as a bullfrog at San Fiorenzo, conserving what little energy he was still thought to possess, and had detached Nelson with a squadron of the very sort of ships that should have been prowling the seas in search of the French convoy, or their fleet; not west to interdict-but east, to Genoa! To buck up the Austrians, who didn't have a navy to play with, and were loath to advance one foot west of Genoa without a guard on their seaward flank.

Nelson in Agamemnon, clinging to his half-worn-out 64-gunner like she was a lucky talisman, even though he'd been offered command of newer, larger ships time and again. Fremantle's Inconstant and a fine 32-gun frigate the Southampton, Cockburn's Meleager, two brigs of war, Tarleton and Tartar, the frigate Ariadne, Jester, and a small 14-gun brig-sloop, HMS Speedy, and the humble cutter Resolution.

How satisfying it had been, six days earlier, to set sail for Genoa and Vado Bay, under a commander who could at least be trusted to charge into battle. And to get away from Admiral Hotham.

Naturally, it'd turned into a farce. Not a day out, they'd run into Admiral Martin's entire fleet, twenty-three sail of the line, and supporting frigates, stooging about northeast of Corsica! They'd spent a day and a night being chased themselves this time, turning to combine against any French frigates that got too near, then spinning away when the odds became too daunting. Chased all the way back to San Fiorenzo, and Hotham's "aid."

Seven hours it had taken him to rescue them, to recall his shore parties and libertymen, to weigh anchor and lumber out on a poor wind to their rescue. Seven hours of damned fine seamanship to stand off-and-on San Fiorenzo Bay and not be crushed like bugs by the weight of the approaching French line-of-battle ships before Hotham could save them!

And then had come these last four days of slack-weather pursuit, to end up off Toulon, letting Martin get away again. Toothless hounds too feeble to bark; chasing each other back and forth without even a nip on the hindquarters to show for it, as if making a show for the young dogs in the neighborhood; that they still knew how to beat the hounds. Even if neither one couldn't have cared less if they'd actually caught the other. Or remembered what it was a dog really did with a rival dog.

"Piss on the gatepost," Alan snickered with dismal amusement, "and toddle off with yer tail high."

"Sir?" Midshipman Spendlove inquired, close at hand.

"Just maundering, Mister Spendlove. Pay me no mind," Alan said, blushing to have been overheard, and glowering hellish-black.

"Aye aye, sir," Spendlove replied meekly, scuttling away from his captain's possible wrath.

As if serving under Hotham were not plague enough, as if a pagan god had decided to muck about with his life of a sudden, everything he held dear seemed to be tumbling down like a house of cards.

Prize Court, Phoebe… Caroline]

He shook himself and shrugged deeper into his coat, turned his face to the dubious freshness of the wind to blank his thoughts of how near he'd come to being a widower.

After Calvi had surrendered, as if a floodgate had been opened, letters from home had begun to arrive on an almost monthly schedule to keep him informed of hearth and family. Caroline was a highly intelligent woman, witty and expressive, and her many letters well-crafted and filled with newsy, chatty gossip, local lore, the farm's doings, what his children had got up to. And how much she loved him.

All of which had made him squirm, but only a little, with shame of his betrayal. Yet it was a socially acceptable betrayal, was it not? Most English gentlemen of his stripe married more for connections or land than love, in the beginning. One had to be careful; it took a rich man's purse to attain a Bill of Divorcement from some unsuitable mort, so they weighed their options, and the girl, and the material benefits she could bring to the marriage, with care. Beauty was valued, as was a pleasant and agreeable demeanor. Mean t'say, if one were stuck forever-more…!

But once at least one male heir was assured of living to adulthood__ two or three was much better-it was expected by both parties in the better sort of Society that the man would keep a mistress for his pleasure, sparing his wife the perils of further childbirth. They might be civil, sociable, and agreeable to each other, still. But it was understood, and tacitly accepted; as long as one had discretion. Many wives even welcomed such an arrangement, and felt a sense of relief. Some few men with the purse, and the ton, for it, kept more than one mistress. A man had his needs, after all! Especially one facing such a lengthy separation, in time and distance.

But Caroline's letters had stopped arriving toward the end of January. Gales and storms in the Channel, the Bay of Biscay? A packet ship lost on-passage, and her latest missive with it? The risk of correspondence over such a long distance that every Navy man faced, Lewrie could have thought. Yet there were letters from London that still arrived, letters from Burgess Chiswick, and his father, in India.

Finally, in April, just after the first indecisive set-to against the French fleet, a letter had come from his brother-in-law Governor in Angles-green. And worry, and longing, coupled with his lingering sense of guilt, in spite of being such a smug hound with purse, needs, and ton, had chilled him to the bone as soon as it was in his hands.

Alan, I most sadly take pen in hand to discover unto you, and most strictly against my dear Sister Caroline's Wishes, and most rigorous Instructions, that both she, and your Children, have been on the very verge of Death.

There'd been wave after wave of illness in the parish, beginning sometime after the harvests were in, and continuing into the new year. Flux, grippe, the influenza and fevers. Many of the elderly and weak, the very old and very young about Anglesgreen had been taken to their beds, and a fair number never rose from them, but had joined what the vicar at St. George's termed The Great Majority.

First to succumb had been little Charlotte, then Hugh, lastly Sewallis, all within two days and nights. First sniffles, headaches and fevers, followed by incontinent bowels, vomiting, chills and the most heartrend-ingly wet, racking coughs.

No cordials, no herbal teas or purchased nostrums or folklore remedies had helped, not even warming pans, hot and dry flannels, or hot and steamy flanneling. The local surgeon-apothecary was an idiot. They'd sent at last to Guildford for a gentleman-physician educated at Edinburgh, whose Jesuit's bark, opium, and antimonies had broken their fevers, whose bleeding had restored the balance of their humors, and whose pills and drops had quieted their coughs, and allowed them to draw breath once more.

Passing quiet, restful nights seemed to restore them wondrous well, though they were for days afterward listless and languorous, quite febrile and weak, with but the most delicate digestions or appetites, as you may well imagine.

Caroline had been too busy to write, Governor further imagined he might understand; later, worn down and too exhausted by her valiant struggle to preserve her dear children's very lives. So, at the very instant that the family could feel relief, and give thanks to a merciful God, Caroline had also come down with chills and fever, headaches and sniffles, then collapsed over supper, pale as Death itself!

Before she took to her bed, she enjoined us all, dear brother-in-law, that we were, under the sternest threats, not to communicate to you any of their travails, so that you, so nobly and honorably in Arduous Service for King and Country, should have no distracting Worries, no additional Burden that might affect that Service. I thought it quite daft but demurred, for the nonce. However, now that…

They'd despaired so much of her life, as Caroline suffered very much more than the children had, that they'd sent to Guildford for the physician once more, and he had all but thrown up his hands, and told them to expect the worst.

Governor Chiswick was also a skilled writer, much too damned skilled! Like some droning bore who relished describing every agony of his own surgery for a stone, Governor had gone to wretched, terrifying and overly excessive details, painting a picture so vivid and ghastly of Caroline's, and the children's, every moan, of how haggard and bedraggled, how skeletal her visage had appeared as she'd sunk to the last extremes. How scant her breath, how thready her pulse…!

Christ, if he was here now, I'd strangle him, Lewrie thought in once-more impotently distanced rage; and quite damn' gladly, too! By God, he's done me no favors!

Yet, miracle of miracles, and with the unstinting, damned near ferociously tender care of Sophie de Maubeuge, Caroline had rallied… she'd lived! The crisis was over, sometime in late February, and since Caroline was well on her way to a full restoration of her health, but still too weak to pen much more than spidery hen-scratches, Governor thought it was time he was told. In morbidly excruciating detail.

And what the hell was I doin' in late February, Lewrie sneered to himself, scathing himself again with self-loathing? Why, I was on top of a Corsican whore, dickerin' with criminal prize agents… too full o' lust for Mammon… an' just plain old lust!… t'give family more'n the idle, passin' thought!

When did I get his damned letter? Late April. Just after a night ashore with Phoebe, damn my blood! Feelin' like the Devil's Own Buck-of-the-First-Head, with nothin' on my mind but more quim, and breakfast! Noble, honorable… Arduous Service, mine arse!

He felt guilt, a shipload of raging, bellowing Guilt. Not just for his dalliances, for his venal concerns placed ahead of family, but for his smugness, his conceit, his blithe disregard for life's lessons.

How fortunate he'd been so far, and how cocksure he'd breezed through. Battle, wounds… that he'd not lost an eye like Nelson, or a limb like Lilycrop; that he'd been exposed to the most hellish fevers in both the Indies, China, that he hadn't come down with sepsis or lockjaw fever from a cut in battle, or those two unspeakably daft duels he'd fought in his callow, feckless youth. That it was such a wonder he'd lived this long was some assurance that he always would!

Or that those close to him would be just as fortunate, and that he could pay them no mind, dismiss them from his thoughts once he had sailed them under the horizon-and gaily assume that they'd be there at home, unchanged, pristine and untouched, like porcelain gewgaws he might collect, like marionettes stashed in a glass-front cabinet until the next performance. Which would occur whenever it suited his lights!

Sobering, to think he could have lost them all. Wife, children, heir, love, and joy… shameful and sobering, to consider what he'd been up to while all this near-horror had happened.

Hadn't he seen it? How many couples birthed ten, twelve babes, and ended burying all but two? A man with means, and the best physicians on retainer, might lose two, three wives to child-bed fever before they interred him, as well, at the "ripe old age" of fifty!

That letter, and the ones that had followed from Governor and his mother-in-law Charlotte, finally a shaky one from his dearest Caroline herself, had brought him relief, but little joy. Perhaps this was what the reverends called an epiphany. Perhaps it had occurred in some ironic conjunction with seeing a stern, tarry-handed fire-eater such as Horatio Nelson spoon and coo over his mort, Adelaide Correglia, making an utter fool of himself, even though he still spoke of his dear Fanny back in Norfolk as some sort of household goddess. Or of seeing the dour, taciturn, and inarticulate Capt. Thomas Fremantle chortle and blush as he tried to play the gallant with his Greek doxy at the opera in Leghorn.

How much of a purblind fool do I look? he'd wondered. How huge the quim-struck cully have 7 been? Hmm…

Whatever. As drenched as a dog doused with a bucket of water to get him off a bitch in season, he'd cooled to Phoebe. Turned surly and short. Made excuses, invented duties that kept him aboard Jester until he could hide from her no more.

And what a muck I made o' that, he squirmed, working his mouth on his weakness as the squadron stood on nor'west toward Cape Sepet.

He'd gone to break it off, cut swift and clean. To make amends to Caroline, even if she never learned of it. Pray God she never learned of it! But, in explaining himself, and his reasons… And it hadn't helped that Phoebe that day had looked so fetching, so damned handsome! Neither had it helped that her huge brown eyes had filled with tears so readily at his sudden, and inexplicable, dismissal and betrayal.

Frankly, their rencontre had not been one of his shining moments.

"Pauvre homme" she'd muttered brokenly, her face crammed into a lace handkerchief, and she'd rushed to throw herself into his arms-to comfort him ! Crying and clucking, stroking and soothing, as if he was the one to worry about!

"Phoebe, I do love them all, more than my own life, d'ye see.. he'd muttered. "And nearly lost them, so… mean t'say… this. We…"

"But, zey are recover', Alain mon amour, merci a Dieul" Phoebe had shusshed. " 'Ow 'orrid eet mus' 'ave been fo' you. 'Ow thankful you mus' be, mon coeurl An' no one, you may tell. But, you tell me."

There had been that; what captain could unbend, let his tears flow, show weakness before his inferiors. Oh, he'd had Cony and Cox'n Andrews in, given them the bald facts, with hopes that Maggy Cony, and their infant son might be weathering it. But, how long he'd pondered, fretted, wished to weep, to scream, to beg God to spare 'em…

"Surely, you must see, dear Phoebe…" he'd stammered. "Mademoiselle Aretino, rather, hahumm!-that this, that our…"

"You mus' tell me ev'rysing, dear Alain!" she'd insisted.

So he had. Sitting together on a sofa. Embraced. And his own tears had, at last, come, no matter that he'd held them in control this long, and what was another hour of a sad duty?

Wept on her damn' tits, Lewrie railed at himself! Went to end it, and I ended up toppin' her! Again! Yorktown… Toulon… there'd been a power of rogerin', the days before the end o' both, 'twixt soldiers an' camp followers. Like tellin' Death t'go bugger himself. Long as we're playin' at life-makin', you can just piss off!

He'd taken his comfort with Phoebe, the comfort and sympathy she had been so eager to offer. And he'd been so grateful to receive. But it had felt so perverse a thing to do, even more worthy of guilt than before, when he'd been unaware, that he'd ended despising her to her face. Which was to say, that he'd despised himself, and had simply found a suitable target.

They'd had a high old row; shouting, cursing, flinging expensive gewgaws at each other. And damn his blood, if they hadn't gone right back to ranti-polin' in the heat of the moment! He'd spent the night. And had awakened even more confused, even more dithering than when he'd climbed the hill-street to her… no, "their" house.

The sudden transfer to Nelson's squadron had come as a godsend. If he couldn't make up his own bloody-weak mind, he thought, then the Navy would make it up for him, If he hadn't the "nutmegs" to tell Phoebe off proper, then perhaps time and distance from San Fiorenzo'd do it for him.

God, y'er such a bloody coward, me lad, Alan told himself; such a weak, venal, spineless… but, damme, why's she have to be so sweet about it, so…?

"Still no signal for a change of course, sir," Lieutenant Knolles said at his side. "We're standing in rather close to Cape Sepet, and those batteries."

"Hmm?" Lewrie grunted in alarm, certain his quavery musings had been spoken aloud, in even a tiny mutter or whisper. That just bloody everyone knew his business; or soon would.

"Standing on, sir," Knolles repeated, with a quizzical expression. He took off his hat, ran his fingers through his blond hair, and clapped it on again, in a gesture Lewrie had come to know as concern.

"Why, for spite, I s'pose, Mister Knolles," Lewrie allowed, now he was back in the real world. "To trail our coats right to their doorstep. Rub their cowardly noses in it."

"I see, sir." Knolles nodded, with a slight, wolfish grin.

"Though, just what it is we're rubbing their noses in is beyond me, at the moment." Lewrie shrugged, damned by his irresolute dithering beyond all glee of his own witticism. Knolles, though, and those on the quarterdeck nearest them, rewarded him with a tiny, appreciative chuckle, even so. As if to mollify the mourner.

The word had surely spread through the ship, as the word always will, in an eye-blink, Lewrie was certain. Since then, the people had been walking on eggshells around him. Though they certainly sympathized with his plight, they couldn't commiserate until he allowed it, till he even mentioned his family. He was approached like a new widower who was barely launched into his period of mourning; cosseted gently, without actually broaching the subject of what he needed cosseting for!

Hellish challenge, Lewrie thought; to be captain of a ship, and thought lucky. Sure, they're wond'rin'… if I'm not blessed, if I can have a near-fatal sickness back home, am I suddenly just a run-of-the-mill captain? Jester still a lucky ship, or…

To their north, the French fleet was entering harbor, just as he had predicted, without even trying to turn and show their fangs. Their van was already inside the bay, only their topmasts showing above the rugged heights of Cape Sepet, and the main body around their flagship brailing up square sails to slow as they entered the Bay of Toulon.

" 'Ere's a sloop o' war, fetched to, sir," Mister Buchanon pointed out to their left. "Just below th' batt'ries at Cape Sepet. One o' 'eir corvettes, like us. 'Bout our size, sir. Twenty-twenty-two guns, I make her."

A most sleek and jaunty corvette she was, too, presenting her larboard profile to them, about two miles off and about an equal distance from the sheltering guns. New, Lewrie thought, noting her yellow pale up-perworks, still pristine and virginal under a fresh-from-the-yards first coat of linseed oils. A black lower chain wale that set off her saucily curved sheer line, and a broad white gunwale. Though her sails belied that newness; they were of a more-worn dun than most French ships sported, from spending more time at sea since her launching.

"Signal, from Agamemnon, sir!" Hyde interrupted at last. "The squadron…" he read off slowly, "Wear… to starboard tack. Course easterly. And, make all sail conformable with the weather, sir."

"For Genoa." Lewrie nodded, suddenly feeling a weight depart his weary shoulders. Dither enough, and someone else'll make your decision for you; and have sense enough to be damn' grateful when they do, Alan almost snickered in relief. "With the Frogs run back to their pond, I trust we'll have a much quieter passage, this time, hey, Mister Knolles?"

"Indeed, sir," Knolles replied, chuckling.

"Very well, Mister Hyde. Hoist the Affirmative. Mister Knolles, pipe Hands to Stations to Wear Ship."

A glance astern to Agamemnon, then past her to Hotham's line of battle, which had already begun to turn east in rigid line-ahead order; the lead ship hardening up across what little wind there was, and the one next astern of her sheeting home and bracing in to turn in her wake, once the lead ship's stern galleries were midships abeam. Going back to San Fiorenzo Bay, he supposed, their dubiously performed duties done, for the time being. And another fine chance for a victory lost.

"Signal's down, sir!" Hyde shouted.

"Wear-ho, Mister Knolles," Lewrie directed moodily. "Put the ship about to the starboard tack."

There was a thin warlike sound down to leeward that turned his attention north once more, a flat, slamming thud of a gun. That French corvette had just shot off a lee gun, the traditional challenge to combat! The misty single bloom of gun smoke rose over her decks, obscured by her hull and sails.

Would they…? But Agamemnon showed no sign that Nelson had even taken notice; no directions to Jester, or another of the powerful frigates in the squadron to go teach that Frenchman some manners.

"What a lot of gall, I must say, sir!" Knolles all but yelped in spite of himself, once the ship had her head around.

"That's the French for you, Mister Knolles." Lewrie felt like japing. "Just like women. Always have to have the last bloody word, d'ye see… in everything. And… full to their hairlines with ' Gaul,' don't ye know." He simpered.

"Oh, merciful God, sir," Midshipman Spendlove groaned at just how bad a jape it was. "Ow!"

"You wouldn't be just the slightest bit French, yourself, would you, Mister Spendlove?" Lewrie snickered, feeling his mood brightening at last, now that Jesters bowsprit pointed to someplace more promising. "Do I detect a touch of ' Gaul ' in you, as well, sir?"

"God, no, sir!" Spendlove countered. "That was good old English cheek. The sort allowed midshipmen. A different matter entirely, sir!"

"I stand corrected about your antecedence, young sir," he said with a mock bow. As Lewrie turned away, he missed the wink exchanged between Hyde and Spendlove, the smiles of relief among the crew. The captain had cracked a jest, and a smile, after weeks without. Perhaps the bad times were over. For him, and for them all.

So long, Corsica, Lewrie thought, peering sou'west, though that isle was far under the horizon, a hundred mile or more. So long, my shore house. And my damn' rent money! And Phoebe, and my… well.

Free of Hotham, free of the fleet, under an energetic commander such as Horatio Nelson, Lewrie was sure there'd be action galore, and the reek of fired guns. Bags of other things to deal with, to think about; so much that he would no longer have a chance to remain venal or weak. A chance for redemption, perhaps?

Daft as a March hare… reedy as a willow wand, was Nelson, but Lewrie was coming to like his direct, and enthusiastic aggressiveness. And who'd o' thought it, the first time he'd met him. Or the second.

And this time, please God… he prayed silently. I promise to keep me member buttoned snug in me breeches; swear on a stack o' Bibles, if you like. Just steer us to action, so I can stay out o' trouble.

Mostly, he amended quickly.

And, he could not help smiling ruefully; there was a phrase he had heard, mostly on the lower deck, the wry wisdom of a frazzled sailor who had bitten off more than he could chew. And, it even rhymed!

When in trouble, when in doubt…

hoist th' main,

and fuck-off out!

"Ahum." He coughed into his fist. "Steady as she goes, Mister Brauer. East-sou'east. Thus."