A King`s Commander

CHAPTER
7

"You…!" the scarred man sneered, his permanently scrub-pink complexion mottling with an anger so fatal it could have killed, just by itself, straight across the desk in the great-cabins of the French National corvette La Vengeance.

Vengeance was at anchor in the port of Nice, but a southerly, a sirocco, blew into the harbor, making the agile 350-ton corvette do an edgy dance. Which didn't do Lt. Henri Becquet's attempts at composure any good, either, as he suffered the well-deserved tirade. As Lt. Henri Bec-quet attempted to find a way to wriggle free of responsibility-and the threat of court-martial and the guillotine. France did not suffer its fools gladly, had no use for failure, or excuses for it.

"You…!" the scarred Capitaine de Vaisseau hissed again. He partially hid his brutally scarred face with a black silk mask, an eye patch that extended upward to cover a broken-lined brow, downward to hide a cheek that had been slashed to the bone. There was no disguising, though, the tyrannical mouth, the upper lip and part of a nostril that had been savaged and crudely sewn, making him an offset harelip. "You stupid… goddamned… fooll" he thundered. "Idiot!"

"M'sieur…" Lieutenant Becquet shivered so violently that his teeth chattered. His very life depended on the next few moments, suspended. in midair at the end of a figurative single skein of light thread… and Le Hideux the one with the razor blade! Perversely, Becquet cast a glance to the civilian aft near the transom windows, who was a dark, brooding shadow against the midday glare. Le Hideux was showing off, performing for the civilian, Becquet suspected. Covering his own failures with a spectacular rant, if the civilian was down from Paris, to inquire why the convoys failed so often, so much was lost…?

"What can you do?" the senior captain asked the ether, with a soft toss of his hands, and a look toward the deck head. He rose and paced slowly, his weakened left calf supported by a stiff knee boot reinforced with an iron brace. Clump, shuffle… clump, shuffle, and Lieutenant Becquet began to sweat an icy flood as Le Hideux approached him. "Here is the very sort of laziness I continually fight against, Citizen," he said to the civilian. For his benefit… and his own. "Idiots, fools, shit for brains. Oh, they spout all the right slogans, cheer when you tell them, Citizen Pouzin. As if halfhearted enthusiasm for the Revolution was enough, n'est-ce pas? But, deep in their souls, they stay shop clerks! Open on time, pretend to work, then run for the cafйs or the brothels, as soon as the door is shut for the evening. Without a thought of working! Without a care for anything but their comforts!"

Clump, shuffle… clump, shuffle, behind Becquet, who kept his gaze straight ahead at the silhouetted Citizen Pouzin, pleading with his eyes. And expecting a dagger in his kidneys.

"A gun captain, did you know that, Citizen Pouzin?" Le Hideux sneered. "From the Garonne, where they do not understand the sea. A river man. A gun captain who turned against his 'aristo' masters when he saw which way the wind was blowing. When we broke up that elitist naval artillery corps, that pack of bootlickers!… Becquet turned on them. To save his hide, hein? So he could have his soup and bread, a ready supply of coin, only. For his wine, and his whores! Got promoted because he shouted the loudest. So he could make even more money to waste on wine and whores?" Le Hideux accused, shouting into the lieutenant's ear so close that spittle from his ravaged lips bedewed Becquet, as cold as Antarctic ice crystals.

"Capitaine, I did my duty, I…"

"Too hard a task, was it, Becquet?" Le Hideux scoffed. "Too much to ask, to unload the cargo, as soon as you got to Bordighera? Even if you had to work past closing time, hein? But you had time. You docked at dusk? Answer!"

"Oui, Capitaine, just at dusk, but the Savoians…"

"Let the infantry company go ashore, instead of ordering them to help unload," Le Hideux growled, stumping back into his sight. "I ordered you to unload quickly, did I not? Dash in, dash out, before a 'Bloody patrol saw you. So that the convoy would be safe. So those Savoian volunteers would get their arms and equipment. A direct order, and an important task. Which you nodded and parroted back to me, did you not, here in this cabin, Becquet? Swore on your honor you'd fulfill, to the letter, hein? Oui?"

"Oui, Capitaine … but…!"

"Thought one puny three-gun battery of light fieldpieces would be protection enough, did you? For ships in your charge? To protect your lazy hide? Were you aboard La Follette when the 'Bloodies' opened fire on the battery?"

"Certainment, Capitaine]" Becquet declared.

"Liar," Citizen Pouzin asserted calmly, snapping Becquet's head around. "A letter from your midshipman, Hainaut."

"Oui, Hainaut!" Le Hideux chimed in. "Not four days since his capture, and we already have a letter he sent, asking for his exchange. He, at least, did his duty. You were not aboard. Where were you, in bed with a whore, up in the town? A whole half hour they took, before the battery was silenced. Were you so taken with wine that you needed a whole half hour to wake up? A half hour, Becquet. A real man would have mustered his crew, sailed out, and supported the battery. With the guns you had aboard La Follette, you could have deterred them entering. But what did you do with that precious time? Nothing]"

"The crew, they ran off, Capitaine, I tried to muster them…"

"Not run off," Citizen Pouzin countered, coming closer. "You gave them shore leave for the night. How convenient."

"They didn't come back, I…" Becquet almost swooned in fear. "Some did. I brought them…"

"From the same brothel where you wallowed?" Le Hideux scoffed.

"The 'Bloody' corvette entered, and the few who'd stayed, or the few who'd come back with me, they…"

" Hainaut had mustered them for you," Le Hideux accused. " Hainaut had sense enough to load the artillery. To load the artillery, do you hear, Citizen Pouzin? The gun-captain's guns were unloaded! Were they even loaded for the voyage, you idle fool?"

"We drew the charges, once we tied up. Accidents, new allies…"

"Convenient," Pouzin whispered, coming close enough from those harsh shadows at last, so Becquet could see him. A square-cut, hefty man, quite handsome in a rough-and-ready way, with a blunt chin and a square head. All business. "Perhaps, Capitaine, too much so."

"All you had thought for was a bottle or two, a good supper, and a plump whore, wasn't it, Becquet?" Le Hideux snapped. "Crew let go for the night, so they could have a good, easy time of it with you, so they would like you? Perhaps a bit too much libertй, йgalitй, fraternitй, hein?'

Citizen Pouzin lifted a bushy brow at that statement. A French officer was supposed to be no better than the commonest man beneath him, due no more dignity. There was supposed to be brotherhood among them, a true comradeship in the service of The Cause.

"Time enough for that when the voyage is over, when you had completed your mission," Le Hideux added in a softer voice. Pouzin was in charge of intelligence, and had as many connections in Paris as did Le Hideux; as many ears into which he could pour poison against him. "Then, and only then," he continued, glaring at Pouzin to show how heartfelt were his sentiments. And how innocent. "May you let your guard down. Had you lost your ship in battle, I'd be kissing you on both cheeks, Becquet. Had you hurt the 'Bloodies,' gotten the cargo ashore, it would have been bad luck, bad timing, their arrival, but…"

"But it seems such a total lack of diligence, and caution, we might be able to think of it as treachery," Pouzin challenged in his gruff, maddeningly calm voice. "How else may we explain the suddenly foolish actions of a man so well regarded, just weeks ago. With such a diligent, able, and unblemished record in the Republican Navy?"

"M'sieur, oh God, I…!"

"Citizen," Pouzin corrected, with a warning hiss.

"Now your Savoian hands have run away, and will never come back, hein?" Le Hideux summed up, goading Becquet with a cruel leer. "The Savoians delayed training and arms. When they seemed so eager to join us. A brave French garrison turned to blood soup, a valuable company of experienced, battle-hardened officers and men who would have trained them, lost. How much enthusiasm for military service do you think the Savoians have now, hein? There is no doubt word has spread deep into the mountains. Of how inept French warships, of how ludicrous the French Army, look. And, it's all… your.,. fault\"

"Dear God, sir…!" Becquet whimpered, almost pissing himself.

"But you will atone for this, mon pauvre petit Gun Captain," Le Hideux promised in a caressing whisper, that whisper more threatening than his loudest rants. "Oh, indeed you will. On your head be it."

"Sir…!"

"By the authority given me by the Committee of Public Safety," Le Hideux intoned, stumping away to lean on his desk to rest his leg. "I order you be held in irons until the time of your trial by court-martial, where you will answer charges of grave dereliction of duty… cowardice in the face of the enemy… the loss of your command without a shot being fired… the loss of your convoy and their cargo…"

"And treason against the Republic," Pouzin tacked on, heaving a huge shrug. "Trafficking with the enemy and conspiring to…"

There was a thud as Becquet's wits left him, and he swooned to the deck, a spreading wet stain on his trousers.

"At five, this afternoon," Le Hideux grunted. "Guards! Take this cowardly scum away!"

"A foregone conclusion." Pouzin sighed, heading for the cabinet to pour them both glasses of wine. "A court packed with officers, and men… of sound Republican, Revolutionary spirit…"

"Of a certainty," Le Hideux agreed, wincing as he sat down, to rest that continual dull ache that had been his burden the past nine years. The bastard who'd cut him with his sword, laying his face open, had also slashed his left calf, after he was down and disarmed, writhing and howling with agony…! "Pour encourager les autres, Citizen. The grand revolutionary, Thomas Jefferson… he said that the Tree of Liberty must be watered with the blood of patriots. I water it with the blood of fools and cowards. Of shop clerks! So the others might become true patriots. Even if they come to their patriotism from fear. You see what I contend with, hein, Citizen Pouzin? The idleness, the thoughtlessness I endure? I am surrounded by incompetence, and lackluster pinheads. What I would give for just a few more Bretons here, a few more with the hardy, seafaring courage of the ancient Celts…"

Pouzin rolled his eyes, bored that Le Hideux was harping upon his favorite theory. He'd heard quite enough of it in the full year they'd cooperated together. Most warily cooperated, that is. Neither was superior to the other, running their separate operations in parallel; sometimes at cross-purposes, sometimes hand in glove. And writing to Paris, to their own superiors, and patrons, of a certainty, reporting on each other. They were both in the same business, really, this horrid little deformed ogre Le Hideux, and Pouzin the spy (if Pouzin was indeed his right name), that of seeking out defectors, traitors, failures, and fools, such as Becquet. Of inspiring the others to keep the ardent flame of passion for the Revolution alive in every breast. To weed the unworthy, the lazy, the smugly satisfied, so that France, so threatened from without (and quite possibly within, such as in the Vendee where resistance still sputtered) might survive, then march to the ends of the earth to spread her glorious doctrines. If that took a thousand bad bargains and traitors to the guillotine… et alors?. .. Pouzin thought philosophically.

"And the brutal logic, the innate sense of the Breton peasant." Le Hideux sighed in longing. "Not these shortsighted, city-bred…" He took a sip of wine to cool his melancholia. "I envy you, Pouzin. The zeal and dedication of the people who work for you. Do you ever face…?"

"A different sort of worry, Capitaine." Pouzin chuckled. "I worry about who is loyal, who is lying to me. Of which reports can I trust, and which are made up to please me, to earn my gold. Who works for the other side, or both. But, thankfully no, no lack of zeal. It is far too profitable to them. And, for the good ones, too much fun. A good spy thoroughly enjoys his work. Now then… the rest of the bad news, This ship that raided Bordighera… your Hainaut tells us, quite innocently in his letter to the parole commission, that she was named Jester. Even worse, she took one of the ships we… arranged… off San Remo. Aboard were two of my best agents, returning from Leghorn. One is dead, the other a captive."

"That's bad," Le Hideux commiserated. "But, far west of where we expected this embargo to reach, in a backwater. Had your people in Genoa told us this, I would definitely have provided escort within fifty sea miles of the coast. Though my few poor ships are stretched so thin," he added, to excuse himself. Pouzin could smell a brave but exculpatory report to Paris; his and Le Hideux's.

"I grant you," Pouzin allowed. "And I sympathize with your lack of suitable warships. Yet…"he posed, with another Gallic shrug.

"Two ships lost," Le Hideux rasped, running a hand over a rough and patchy beard and short mustache he'd grown to help disguise his injuries. "Another taken off Finale? Again, where my vessels dare not go, except in squadron strength."

"Our principals in Genoa, and Leghorn, are upset, that our mutual arrangement unravels so quickly," Pouzin gloomed. "There are so many other ships naturally. But the captains and crews must take even more risk now. And one of our Tuscan principals was temporarily detained. He is not a man of stout courage. It will take more gold, he writes."

"He is robbing us, and he knows it," Le Hideux spat. "A chance encounter off San Remo. An idiot who should have put back into Finale, under the protection of the castle's guns, as soon as he saw a 'Bloody' frigate. Two out of dozens? The vagaries of war. Which they agreed to happily. The bulk of the goods, messages, and money get through."

"Certainment, Capitaine," Pouzin quickly agreed. Certainly, Le Hideux was ruthless, a monster in human guise… but he'd been successful enough to keep his command-and his head-this long. Grain from North Africa, coastal convoys that lost ships, also of a certainty, but mostly delivered the goods to support the advance of the Army. And allow Pouzin to maintain his far-flung spiderweb. "But with the British squadron in Vado Bay, and our army threatened by de Vins… a greater effort is called for. No matter the cost."

"Get me Hainaut back," Le Hideux said, of a sudden. "He's not a Breton, but he's of the ancient blood, of the Belgae. In his head he has information we need, Pouzin. He's been in Vado Bay, aboard this Jester. He may be only a midshipman… now. But, he's paissan con-nard, a wily one. A cunning one. He has a great future. He's counted their guns, can tell us of their ships, their schedules…"

"But we know them," Pouzin countered. He could not relate what his latest secret letter from Genoa hinted, from one of their principals aboard II Briosco; that Hainaut had been taken so easily, so clumsily, that the "Bloody" sailors laughed at him. A cunning peasant, yes, he was, Pouzin was sure; cunning enough to have a very strong streak for self-preservation. "A sixty-four-gun ship of the line, three frigates, a pair of what we would call corvettes, a pair of brigs of war, a brig-sloop of fourteen guns, and a cutter."

"We know the ships, yes, Pouzin, but not the men who command," Le Hideux demanded. " Hainaut will know to listen and learn, to probe and discover their faults. You will get him back quickly."

"I will get him paroled," Pouzin promised; it was easier than saying no, though how long it might take… "There are midshipmen of equal value from the Berwick Admiral Comte Martin took in his initial trv against them. But…"

"Now there's a head that should tumble into the basket, Pouzin," Le Hideux sneered, tossing back his wine and reaching for another. "A coward and a fool, who abandoned Зa Ira and Censeur. Another Bec-quet. Another time-server. Another shop clerk! Hainaut is ten times that Martin's worth. At least he is dedicated, and zealous. You don't see, do you? Have I not told you of the ancient Chinois general, Sun T'zu? The man who knows his enemy, as well as he knows himself, will never be defeated. Especially if he knows himself, best of all. What are their faults, their strengths? Their vices, their weaknesses… what have we learned about them, so far, I ask you?"

That was an indictment of Pouzin's intelligence-gathering, and could not go unanswered.

"A fair amount, Capitaine," Pouzin retorted, baring his teeth. "We know that this Nelson took both Зa Ira and Censeur. Traded fire with Alcide before she blew up. He was a favorite of Hood. Led the battle line both times Martin fought Hotham. A very aggressive man. Our principal met him, when he represented Hood in Genoa, last year, and was highly impressed. A little fellow, a bit frail…"

"Watch out for the little ones, Pouzin, the minnikins have more ambition than most," Le Hideux cackled. "He will be vaunting, brave. Perhaps too ambitious and eager for glory. Ah ha!"

"The frigate Inconstant," Pouzin went on, proving his worth to Le Hideux, and hating every minute of justifying himself to such a hideous fellow. "Her Captain Fremantle… dull, dogged, quiet. Capable, but inarticulate."

"A follower," Le Hideux dismissed. "A gundog. The others?" "The one off Finale, Meleager. Her Captain Cockburn is a young man, a minor 'aristo' from lower Scotland. Very prim and proper, but…" "His family rich?"

"I don't know," Pouzin intoned, the phrase he hated most of all! "A rich 'aristo' will be smug, easily satisfied. A poor one will be all ambition and nose-high airs, too proud to listen to anyone. He's lucky once, but again? Go on. Tell me of this Jester's captain."

"A commander, in his early thirties. She has eighteen cannon on her main deck… nine-pounders. Carronades, of course. They all seem to have them, almost doubling their armament. She was a French corvette, once… Sans Culottes… taken off Toulon after the 'Bloodies'…"

"But you don't know his identity," Le Hideux purred. "Not yet. He has not set foot in Genoa, so no one… but your Midshipman Hainaut, has seen him, so far." Pouzin sighed in surrender. It appeared that he would have to get Hainaut exchanged, and as quickly as possible, after all. "We know little more about her. An agent from Calvi-when we still had communications with him-reported Jester's arrival at San Fiorenzo. Last June, or July, as I recall. I don't have my records with me. I doubt that agent is willing to make inquiries now, since Corsica is occupied. Getting a letter to him is almost imp…"

"Try Genoa, first. I know the 'Bloodies.' There's nothing they like more than a stroll ashore, an invitation to a supper, or a ball. A coupling with a whore? You can arrange that, Pouzin?"

"Of course, Capitaine," Pouzin agreed with a tiny smile. "Poxed, or otherwise?"

"Oh, the 'Bloodies,' so many of them are already poxed. Look at how little effect it had, after their long stay at Leghorn." Le Hideux chuckled. "I want to know who he is, what he's like… so I can lay the trap that kills him, Pouzin. He's dangerous, this one, whoever he may be. He's hurt our Cause, made us look like fools, le salaud intrigant!"

Made you look the fool, Pouzin thought, his face a stony mask.

"I will move the squadron east, Pouzin," Le Hideux announced suddenly. "I must. Our presence at sea must be seen, by the Savoians, and our unwitting… traders, hein?"

"Escorted convoys?" Pouzin hoped aloud.

"We must," Le Hideux growled. "Else we risk losing more ships, more supplies, which the Army needs so badly. And soon, before de Vins masses his Austrians. Or the Genoese at last find a scrap of courage. We must both use our influence… or our threats… against Toulon, to force Martin to give me the strength I need. He hoards corvettes and frigates, refuses me any of the trained men or experienced officers I need. Yet expects me to work miracles with my castoffs and converted merchantmen. Here, here, is where the Navy should be, Pouzin! Facing the 'Bloodies' with a large squadron, under my command. Four of our little armed tartane expedients could never outgun or outfight one British frigate. Yet, how dare they sneer when we fail! If we wish to defeat the Austrians, and guard our borders, they must release to me the proper ships, at last. I cannot face this embargo, otherwise."

"Well, there is a way, perhaps, to weaken it," Pouzin hinted coyly. "While you prevail upon Toulon to send more warships. Jester fired a shot over the heads of those looters who were desecrating our brave soldiers. But, can we not allege that the damage to their buildings came from an indiscriminate broadside… against Bordigheran civilians? That this British ship fired on innocent, helpless villagers, hein? We both know the 'Bloodies' have no real love for Savoians, or the Genoese. They mean to exploit them, use them in the most cynical manner, to uphold rich 'aristos' and landowners, at the poor people's expense. A broadside of our own… a paper broadside, hein?… might make infuriating reading in Genoa. A slaughter on the docks, too, when the poor people came down to save their town from being burned to the ground?"

"I see." Le Hideux nodded, his eyes widening with the possibilities. "But," he countered with a petulant air, "they might send this Jester away from the coast, put her at patrol duties far out to sea… where I cannot reach her with the force I now have. A Jester took my Little Fool at Bordighera. But I will not be this man's fool, Pouzin. I will not laugh at his jests. He must pay. Oui, we must weaken the embargo, and embarrass the 'Bloodies.' If it takes your lies to do it, et alors. But it is bloodless. The Italian states must see British blood for French blood. We must have victories to boast of, so they come to fear us. Or admire us. We must be seen able to punish this Jester, don't you see?" Le Hideux insisted, his eyes bulging, and a livid purple-red cast coming to his scars, in a flushed ginger face. "And you will aid me in arranging it," Le Hideux concluded, with the sureness of the delusional demented.

"A hid…" Pouzin began to say, but checked himself. "A titanic task," he amended. Too late. Le Hideux's good eye had slitted in black fury. No one but Hainaut had ever been able to mention his maiming, without suffering for it. Die Narbe, he named him in admiration and a respectful jest. Something Pouzin was not allowed, would never be allowed. Too many slips of the tongue like that, and Pouzin would pay, with his head on the block beneath the blade, one day!

Pouzin flinched a trifle, though he meant to stare calmly, turn bland and innocuous. Since his first sight of Le Hideux, Brutto Faccia, Die Narbe… however men called him… he'd felt ice water trickle down his spine in dread of him, had felt his "coulles" shrivel up inside his groin. And had felt his stomach turn in utter loathing of the outward appearance, as well as the soul within.

"I will compose the rumor at once, Capitaine," Pouzin swore. "And get it off east. And arrange for Jester's captain to be studied. Hainaut to be paroled and exchanged for someone off Berwick. And you still plan the convoy to Alassio? I must make arrangements for them to meet it," Pouzin ticked off, trying not to sound rushed, though he felt a tremendous urge to be away from the poisonous little monster. "You will extend your escorts east, to protect this convoy, and offer battle to the 'Bloodies,' hein?"

"Oui," Le Hideux confirmed, his remaining eye hooded with venom.

"Au revoir, then, Capitaine."

"Au revoir, Citizen," Le Hideux snapped coldly.

It was quite a clever plan, the hideously scarred captain mused, and Hainaut 's "testimony" to an alleged massacre, once he'd been coached on what he was to "remember," would be even more official, and convincing. Citizen Pouzin indeed was very good at what he did. And being master of an intelligence ring was most likely as great a delight to him as "the deadly game" was to his minions. A tireless, and clever, worker, one totally dedicated to furthering the Revolution. Look what Samuel Adams's lies about the "Boston Massacre" had started!

Even if he had been a commercial importer-exporter from L'Orient before the Terror, and a minor representative in the fledgling Assembly. An elevated shop clerk-and a nattering lawyer-Le Hideux glowered; a rich man, as exalted as any "aristo"!

Pouzin was not to know it, but Le Hideux had already discovered his true identity through his own intelligence network of informers and collaborators, minor functionaries of local or naval committees, and a host of officials in the Ministry of Marine. There were skeletons in Pouzin's closet; some Royalist sentiments in the family, a cousin conveniently sent to Boston, and Pouzin's attempt to purchase a title back in 1786 of the old calendar. Someday, Le Hideux was sure he would use that information to damn Pouzin, if he persisted in ogling him like a carnival monster, or sneering behind his back at his mutilation. Not anytime soon, though, Le Hideux sighed. A new guard was taking over, the original patriots being supplanted, deposed, or guillotined after show trials, and the unctuous lawyers and bien йlevй schemers were now in the saddle, no better than the haughty "aristos" they'd helped kill. The professional politicians, Le Hideux sneered; it is ever thus! Men who thought him an ogre, too, a frightening, crippled toad who rose in the patronage of the giants of the Revolution that they'd replaced. A time to lie low, he decided, to escape their notice. And to give them such a military and naval success that his witch-finding activities for the original rebels could be conveniently forgotten. When Genoa became theirs… he could become their scourge, a shabby but useful tool for the sneering arrivistes. And take his chances.

There'd never been a time when he hadn't felt like a tool, an implement to be discarded. Safer, perhaps, to have remained a Breton peasant, in the fisheries with his father. He might have come to own three or four luggers, by now. But still go home each evening to a drab, and limited, village cottage, stinking offish and shiny with their scales. The ambitions his father had, that he had had… He could have become a priest, a pampered sycophant of the "aristos." Even without a cassock, the Jesuits had taught him much, had declared him to be a wondrous pupil. Had they not introduced him to Machiavelli's writings? How apt a preparation the Jesuits and their coldly calculating logic had been to him… to ready him for the time when he was better to be feared, than loved! His acceptance into the old Royal French Navy, the best he had been allowed, since getting into the glorious old aristocratic Armйe was impossible for a fisherman's son. The sneers and jibes there, too, as the smelly fishmonger's boy, the dirty-arsed coastal peasant…!

He'd risen, though, by doing their dirty work, by being better than anyone else. By taking on the tasks the idle "aristos" wouldn't, or couldn't. But, successful though he'd been, until his downfall in the Far East, he'd been their despicable tool, a brute instrument best kept on the orlop until needed. Then cast him aside, with a pittance for a disability pension, as soon as…

He'd made them pay, all those who had sneered at him, derided him, passed him over so some simpering frailty with a weak chin, but a perfect lineage, could advance. Revenge had been so sweet, and their terror so savory, when they'd beheld his new appearance. He'd hunted them down, with the diligence of a starving ferret clawing his way into a henhouse. Found them, denounced them no matter how secure they were in the new order, along with the "aristos" who truly deserved the guillotine, the weak, the foolish, the idle…

No, despite the appalling risk he ran to remain in power, even at the gall of his soul to remain the tool of more powerful men, the power was heady. Tried in the fire, he'd been-by his failure, and all the years he'd suffered the jeers and curses in the streets, the urchins who taunted him and imitated his limp, or ran screaming at the sight of him-for the fun of it!

Now, he knew how to use his hideousness to terrorize, in making handsome men jump when he gave an order. Or shiver like an aspic with a single glare! And the women… the ones who'd turned away, crossed the street, and crossed themselves for luck against him. Even whores who'd laughed him to scorn, or refused his trade, well… he'd hunted down a few of those, too, and their families. And made them pay their comeuppance in his cells, before their trials and beheadings.

Fear was a wonderful aphrodisiac, fear of his physical person, and fear of his power; greater and more coercive than mere political power. More brutal and direct, to get what he wanted. No woman anywhere in France could dare refuse him now.

And those officers' wives and daughters, oh yes\, the daughters best! What a thrill it was to have them without the mask, candles lit so they must see him, so he could savor their revulsion, the stomach-churning shame and horror on their faces. All so he might spare their husband, their father, from the guillotine, indictment or denunciation. The perverse duties they'd performed, weeping, to keep them alive. Only the prettiest now, only the slimmest, most graceful… and, youngest! As long as he held on to his power, he could enslave an adolescent for months, keep her father in chains all that time, until he'd tired of her, and his preordained but delayed sentence was…!

Hardly Jesuitical, he thought with a leer, dragging pen and ink to him. There must be a letter to Toulon, no longer begging for ships but demanding-threatening. If he failed for lack of support, they would go down with him, those time-serving, timorous shop clerks! A set of orders to ships of his squadron, to escort the Alassio convoy. A letter to the captain of La Resolve, a corvette only victualing at Nice, to consider himself permanently attached. Bayard, a devilishly handsome rogue, who knew better than to sneer, or gape, but…

Bayard, Le Hideux pondered. What tale had he told him…

"Etienne," he shouted for his clerk.

"Oui, Capitaine?" The careworn little nonentity quavered at the door, leaning in as if scared to be alone with his employer.

"Something nags at me, Etienne," Le Hideux replied, distracted. "Two things. You have a retentive mind, perhaps you may recall. Early last summer. Reports from Citizen Pouzin regarding the arrival at San Fi-orenzo of a British ship named Jester. All engagements or sightings mentioning identified 'Bloody' ships since the fall of Bastia. Or at least before Calvi surrendered. Search my files and find it. Secondly, Capitaine Bayard told us a tale at dinner from his time with the Brest fleet. Something concerning a British vessel that he witnessed. Do you remember his story?"

"No, sir, sorry," Etienne stammered, ever in fear of failing his master, of paying for it…! "Y… you might do best to ask of Bayard, sir. The other, though… Jester? Something akin to Le Bujfon, or Le Plaisantin? I do recall that, I think. Around the time the convoy to Calvi was… lost?" he dared remind Le Hideux of that debacle.

"Oui, find it, vitel" Le Hideux glared so fiercely that clerk Etienne went quite pale, and fell on his knees before a large chest of documents and reports, hands shaking and palms wet. It took several long minutes for him to produce, all the while aware of the scratching of the senior captain's quill. Then the drumming of his fingers on the desktop after he'd finished his letters and was… waiting!

"Voilа, Capitaine]" Etienne sighed with relief. "In Lieutenant de Mal-leret's report. From La Flиche? The British ship she fought… when Lieutenant Michaud was slain, was Jester. He saw it on her transom."

"Salaud intrigant!" Le Hideux exclaimed with an inward hiss of air. "The meddlesome bastard!"

The ship that had taken his convoy at Bordighera, the British ship that had savaged La Flиche and taken another convoy… killed a promising fellow Malouin, a Breton champion, Lieutenant Michaud… they were the same?

"Oui, Capitaine, quel dommage…"

"Send for Bayard. I must know what his story was about. There was a name he mentioned, but…!" Le Hideux ordered, seething. "This one, this Jester. We must destroy her, Etienne. And her captain, too! This I vow. Whoever he is. I will eat his brains and shit in his skull!"

"Oui, Capitaine." Etienne nodded, mouth agape. He'd never seen this ginger-haired ogre this angry, not even when presiding at a trial of an "aristo"! Trial? he thought. A good excuse to become scarce.

"Ah… I have the charges drawn up for your signature, Capitaine. Becquet's?"

"Oui, give them here, Etienne. Once you've sent to La Resolve for Bayard, finish searching all the files for any further mention of this Jester. I must know her. Him. Pouzin promises, but I cannot wait on him…"

Le Hideux-Brutto Faccia-Die Narbe-he went by an entire host of sobriquets; none of them flattering or reassuring. He dipped his quill and signed Becquet's fate; charges and expected sentence:

Citoyen Guillaume Choundas-Capitaine de Vaisseau.