King`s Captain

PROLOGUE

Visa rantis saevae defectu laboribus undae,

Quam Theridi longinqua dies Glaucoque repostum

Solibus et canis urebat luna pruinis.

She beheld a ship outworn

with the toils of the savage Sea,

long since offered up to Thetis and Glaucus,

which passing Time had scorched with its suns

and the Moon with her hoarfrosts had worn.

– argonautica, book ii, 285-87 Valerius Flaccus

There was a thunder 'pon the sea.

Crash and bellow, a deep, continual tympany-drumming which went on and on 'til the waters on this slightly foggy, coolish day shivered as if in terror, and the winds, already nothing to boast of from out of South-of-West, were shot nigh to stillness. Winds failing and the long Atlantic rollers beguilingly rippled and fractured like an ocean of shattered glass fragments. But it wasn't the wind that did it-it was that thunder.

They could feel it, a gun-thunder which had quailed the winds and waters, rumbling upwards from the sea itself, as if some drowned volcano had cleared its throat numberless fathoms below; and their ship shook to that thunder, vibrated and trembled, humming in enforced harmony.

A game lass was their little ship, a plunger and a "goer" most of the time. But she was now worn just about out from too much daring and panache, too many hasty but vital errands and patrols, and nothing like a proper refit despite rare port-calls at Gibraltar, Lisbon, or at Oporto. Coming apart at the seams, she was; those seams weeping weary salt tears which had her hands at the bilge pumps every morning before breakfast; her oaken flesh and bones baked sere and dry as old toast-and not enough paint, tar, or oils left for even a "lick and a promise" either. Her bottom was foul, and she trailed a verdant jungle of vinelike weed and green slime from her quick-work-slowing her, so that she now lumbered like a dowager with the gout, instead of dancing upon the winds like the light-footed darling she once had been.

Yet her standing and running rigging, her towering masts, still stood in a lean Bristol fashion, her spars and yards were yet sound, and her sails-though much patched-still curved sweetly wind-full. Though her captain had considered frapping her roundabout with lighter kedge or stream-anchor cables, like a truss or corset, to remind her how to hold together for just a bit longer.

But slowed as she was, as frailing, her crew could load and fire three broadsides in less than two minutes, could still cajole her to "dance" at the peak of their expertise, gained in three years' continuous service together.

So she stood, near the end of the battle-line as it sailed on Sutherly, with the lead ships just starting to tack about Nor'west to double back on the two converging packs of foes they faced-a repeating frigate to pass messages or aid a ship which might be disabled.

HMS Jester-sloop of war, 18-still served.

Though again, to her captain's mind (and a rather chary mind it was at that moment, thankee!) being on the lee-side didn't particularly mean the "safe" side of the battle-line. Off Jester's lee bow, down to the Sou'east, there were about eight or nine Spanish ships of the line, with accompanying frigates, and coming up slowly to merge with another pack. And that pack, good God! Seventeen, at the least, tall-sided, ugly brutes they were: two-decker 68s, 74s, and 80-gunners; some of them three-deckers, and one monstrous four-decker flying more admiral's flags than sail-canvas it seemed. And so stuffed with guns that every time she lit off a broadside, it looked like a mountain blowing up!

And here they were, curling about into a rough Vee, sandwiched like a forlorn nut between two arms of a nutcracker, fifteen warships of Admiral Sir John Jervis's fleet-formerly the Mediterranean Fleet before they'd been run out of that sea the previous summer-all just about as bad off as Jester in material condition when you got right down to it, yet blithely standing into danger as though they were about as fresh as new-picked daisies. Or as belligerent as a rutting bulldog!

With their artillery crashing and bellowing, making that thunder… sending shock waves through the sea.

"I can make out, sir…" Lieutenant Ralph Knolles attempted to say, as he took off his hat and swiped both forearms of his coat at his hair and brows. A bad sign that; usually, one nervous hand over his blond locks was sufficient sign of worry.

"Aye, Mister Knolles?" Commander Alan Lewrie replied, sounding almost calm in comparison.

"Beyond, sir." Knolles pointed towards the Spanish Fleet. "It may not be a convoy. About eight or nine more rather large ships over yonder… to the West-Nor'west. Do they all assemble, sir… well!"

"Two-deckers, d'ye think, sir?" Lewrie frowned, stepping to the starboard side of his quarterdeck, leaning on the bulwarks, and raising his telescope for a look-see. The smoke from all the gunfire was thick, a sulphurous, reeking mist which hazed the day even worse. More than a few British line-of-battle ships stood between him and the ones Knolles had sighted too, their gun-smoke and towering masts and sails obscuring what little he could see. But he could barely make out three-masters yonder, well up to weather and almost hull-down from the Spanish line.

Least an hour or more off, he thought, sailin' large, to come down to join?

He couldn't tell.

As if we need more, he sneered to himself; already got a bloody Armada here anyway! On its way North to join the French Fleet waitin' at Brest, the Dutch Fleet too. Transports, most-like. Carrying troops for an invasion of Ireland. Or England!

And if Admiral Jervis threw away his ships in this action, then what hope did Lord Bridport and the Channel Fleet at Portsmouth have to stop them? Or even get word of their coming in time to…?

Takin' this lot on's like a horsefly deliberately landin' on a game-table; sure t'get swatted! Lewrie speculated. Has t'be done, no error. Growl ye may, but go ye must, and all that…

"Cah-rrisstt!" was Lewrie's sudden, un-captainly comment. And a rather loud comment it was too.

In his telescope's ocular, he'd just discovered the fore-end of a ship of the line which wasn't crossing right-to-left, sailing obediently in the battle-line. He was looking at the beak-head and figurehead, the cutwater and frothing bow-wave below an out-thrust bowsprit and jib-boom of a warship-pointing right at him!

"Hands wear ship!" Lewrie yelped, eyes wide in disbelief, as he lowered his glass in shock. "Helm hard a'weather!" Seen with normal vision, un-enlarged, wasn't much better as she bored direct for his Jester. HMS Captain, third but last from the tail end of the line, was swinging out of line alee and loomed close enough to trample them, if Jester didn't get out of her way!

"The Captain," Mr. Midshipman Hyde gawped.

"Commodore Nelson," Mr. Midshipman Spendlove supplied.

"That… bugger!" Lewrie opined, as his crew sprang to loosen braces and heads'l sheets. He heard Lieutenant Knolles and Bosun Cony barking urgent orders, felt the deck shift under his feet as his ship heeled to wear about, falling off the wind, spared a second to observe that things were well in hand. Then spared a longer glower at Nelson and his two-decker.

No one left the sacred order of the line of battle, no one, not ever! The Fighting Instructions were nigh to Gospel, and God pity the fool who disobeyed them. To turn away leeward, away from presenting a broadside to those Spanish warships, that could be called Cowardice in the Face of the Enemy-a hanging offence!

"Bugger!" Commander Lewrie snarled again. Not only was Nelson swinging clear of danger… he was forcing him to swing clear too!

Jester had been a cable to leeward of the line when HMS Captain began her turn, a fairly wide one to retain her speed. Being a smaller ship with smaller sails than a liner, she could cut a smaller radius of turn. So they ended up close together, once both ships had worn about to larboard tack, with the scant winds crossing their left-hand sides, for Captain was standing on almost Easterly to build back up to speed. They were within shouting distance.

Lewrie stood by the larboard bulwarks, hands fisted and akimbo on his hips, wondering just how much of what he had to say to a man who had just quit the line he could get away with.

Damn 'im, he's still a Commodore! Lewrie fumed to himself.

"Hoy, Jester.¹" came a high-pitched, slightly nasal shout from a runtish little dandy by Captains starboard rails. The dandy's hands were cupped round his mouth. "Follow me into clear air for signals!"

"Hoy… sir!" Lewrie replied, deliberately delaying his "sir." "And what…?"

What the bloody Hell you think yer playin' at? was Lewrie's real question. He amended it though, regretting the necessity.

"Where are you going… sir?" he bellowed instead.

"No time to explain!" Nelson hallooed back, sounding infinitely pleased with himself, damn' near laughing with joy in point o' fact! "Before they join both bodies astern of us in the Nor'east! Follow me, Jester! We're off to glorrryyy!"

"Cack-handed, brainless bloody… cavalry charge… pip-squeak!" Lewrie grumbled in a harsh mutter, his face stretched into a toadying rictus of a smile. "Death or glory, mine arse! Mine arse on a bloody… bandbox.¹"

Then the Captain, with her longer waterline and taller, wider sails aloft, was surging past, beginning to turn even more Westward as wind filled her rigging and her greater speed returned.

"Do we follow him, sir?" Lieutenant Knolles wondered, still aghast.

"Christ, I don't… Christ! He's…!"

Captain was now aiming to pass between the last two ships of the line. Diadem and Excellent, to shorten the distance she'd have to sail to engage the entire Spanish Fleet!

"He's gone lunatick!" Lewrie breathed in awe.

But he's right… damn 'im! Lewrie had to admit to himself. Do we hope Collingwood's on a run o' luck today and doesn't collide!

"Have a prayer…" Sailing Master Mr. Buchanon moaned, crossing his thick fingers for luck as Captain Collingwood's Excellent seemed to shy, dithering whether to shorten sail, back the tops'ls to brake… or haul her wind and leave the line too.

"Aye, we'll follow, Mister Knolles," Lewrie sighed. "Well alee of Excellent, mind. Somebody has to do signals. Old Jarvy to Nelson or vice versa. Clap him in irons…? This gap's too narrow, and closing. They'll merge, if we don't… get past us without a real fight. Haul taut to windward, Mister Knolles, course Nor-Nor'west."

"Aye, sir!"

"And Mister Buchanon? Do you keep those fingers crossed."

"Oh, aye, Cap'um," Buchanon rather soberly assured him. "Now 'til Epiphany, if 'at's what it takes. God help us, we're in for th' most confounded scrape!"

Lewrie shared a quick, quirky, and sardonic smile with his stolid Sailing Master, then turned away to look outward once more. The small batch of Spanish ships to leeward were almost level with them now and level with the tail end of the British line, which was still labouriously wheeling about one after the other… at a point which seemed to Lewrie's fevered imagination to be too damn' far South to be of any comfort.

To the West, Captain Troubridge's Culloden, at the head of that wheeling line, was almost level with the rear of the Spanish main body. Again, too far to windward to be of much immediate use to them. Apart from the fleet and its palls of gunfire, they were in clearer air, in undisturbed, un-roiled winds which cupped the sails taut and full, the two lone ships who'd disobeyed. Now going like Cambridge coaches!

Aft… Was Excellent dithering again, he wondered? Coming off the wind to wear, he hoped most fervently? Was Diadem too…?

Forrud-over Jester's larboard bows. There lay the Spaniards at which they charged, like naive house-terriers at an enraged bull on their first day of a country weekend. A very menacing and formidable pack of Dons they looked too! Though not in any particular order, he also noted. Though it must be said that at that moment Lewrie would have grasped at any straw of encouragement, no matter how frail. They were bunched, more like three ragged lines overlapping each other, and not a well-ordered in-line-ahead. Earlier, Jervis's line had shifted from two cruising lines into one battle-line, crossing the Dons' bows, while they'd come to do battle in three or four columns, as if to bore through in several places at once. But they'd been shot out of that plan-if plan it had been.

They could only fire the guns of those which were nearest, Lewrie grimly decided-only the first six or so! That, unfortunately, seemed to be more than enough to swat Captain away, for it included that four-decker which that moment erupted again in a ragged broadside he could almost count.

He quit when his tally rose over 60-odd guns along her starboard beam-times two equaled a sum too terrible to contemplate. He felt like a headache was coming on.

Yet, like a city-bred terrier too stupid of the consequences of tackling a huge farm animal, Captain opened fire as she neared the middle of that nearest line-of-battle, delivering a well-timed broadside from her 32-pounders and 18-pounders that pummeled her target like an Alpine avalanche of boulders.

Fresh gunfire came, this from Culloden as she cruised up close to the tail of that nearest rank of Spanish ships. Sails were flying loose, puckering to round-shot; t'gallant and royal masts and yards at odd angles as they fell and tangled along the tops'ls and the fighting-top platforms; and timbers and bulwarks screamed, man-sized slivers of oak blown high as their main-course yards from that hopeless pummeling.

"Sir, deck there!" the main-mast lookout shouted down. "They be turnin'! D'ye hear, there! Head o' th' line's turnin' North!"

A fresh broadside from HMS Captain as she stood on, as if she'd pierce through between enemy ships to get at the second line, if that's what it took, hazing and becoming slightly indistinct as she sailed into the sour battle-fog of spent powder. One poor, lone, 3rd Rate 74, sure to be blown to flinders the very next instant, but she had daunted her foes and made them turn away! That gap would not close anytime soon; there was still time for Old Jarvy to complete his tack about to the North, bringing more ships into action-in perfect order. Lewrie was pretty certain the Dons had hauled off to sort themselves out into one long battle-line; but from where he stood that instant, it looked like the Spanish had no stomach for a real fight-and were flinching from the flea-bites of a single ship!

"Daft little bugger," Lewrie whispered in appreciation. "There's method to his madness, aye… Still mad as a hatter though."

"It's…!" Knolles gulped, as if witnessing the Second Coming.

"A cheer for Captain, lads!" Lewrie bade in a quarterdeck roar, "… a cheer for Commodore Nelson… he's showing us the way!"

His crew obeyed gladly, sure they were witness to one of those rare miracles, whooping and tossing their hats into the air and overside, no matter the cost of replacements that their Purser, Mr. Giles, would dun them for once soberer heads prevailed.

Lewrie looked astern again for aid. Several other vessels had taken Nelson's cue; for here came Blenheim of 98 guns, Prince George of 98, with Ocean and Irresistible in their wakes to re-enforce the insanity; still out of gun-range, far astern of Culloden but spreading more sail, letting fall their powerful courses, which were usually brailed up during battle to prevent accidental fires from the discharges from their own guns. And HMS Victory-Old Jarvy's flagship-was in the process of wheeling about, tacking ponderously slow but sure, exposing her tall, bluff sides. Would those powerful ships arrive soon enough though, Lewrie fretted? Turning back to look at Captain, Lewrie could see her snuggling up close to a large Spanish two-decker, guns ablaze and ripping pieces off her with every shot. Taking fire too, taking damage but shrugging it off. The Spanish ships weren't firing quickly, none of them-nothing like three broadsides in less than two minutes.

"Poor practice, their gunnery," Lewrie commented.

"Slow, sir. Damn' slow, aye!" Knolles agreed. "Two or three minutes 'tween broadsides, not…"

"Mister Crewe!" Lewrie bellowed for his Master Gunner.

"Sir!" that worthy barked back from the waist.

"A broadside, Mister Crewe. 1 know it's too far for a hope of hitting anything, but the Dons yonder need a little more discouraging."

"Sir, uhm…!" Knolles blanched.

It was the accepted, gentlemanly practice for repeating frigates or auxiliaries near the battle-line to keep mum, their gun-ports closed, and they wouldn't be fired upon by the more powerful liners in return. To open their ports though, run out and fire upon larger ships, allowed them to be re-considered as fair game. And an 18-gun sloop of war with 9-pounder popguns had no business even placing herself near stray shot, much less inviting quick destruction.

"Bloody insane, ain't it, Mister Knolles?" Lewrie said, with his mouth screwed up, and an eyebrow raised. "But… there seem to be bags of insanity about today."

"Long as we don't take ourselves too serious, sir." Lieutenant Knolles shrugged, feeling fatalistic. His captain was wearing his bemused look, that wolfish, "Oh, what the merry hell," smirk. And his eyes… eyes that Knolles had come to be able to read; they were blue, or they were grey, by mood or temper. Had they steeled themselves flinty cold-grey, he would have been trembling in his boots, for when Commander Lewrie was out for blood, and there was hell to pay… Thankfully, this time he saw that they remained placidly, rake-hellishly blue.

"We'll not go plungin' into range of those monsters like we're a 1st Rate, no, Mister Knolles," Lewrie assured him with a chuckle and a wink. "But we will make them look astern and see blood and thunder comin' down on 'em."

"Ready, sir!" Crewe reported.

"Blaze away then, Mister Crewe. Blaze away!"

It was impossible, really; nearly a mile-and-a-half separated Jester from the nearest Spaniard, and had her guns been able to shoot that far, with the elevating quoin blocks all the way out and the gun breeches resting on the truck-carriages, 9-pounder round-shot could do no more than doink! against thick oak sides and bounce off.

But out ripped their puny broadside, a bow-to-stern rippling of sound and fury, higher pitched and lap-dog sharp, compared to the great-guns of Captain or Culloden. But those puny iron balls would sing through the air, whistle and moan, and they would raise splashes where they struck-might even skip a time or two like a well-flung river pebble. They'd get someone's attention, or divert it.

"Short," Mr. Knolles noted, seeing the trout-splashes.

"Well, of course," Lewrie snickered.

"Bloody hell!" several gunners crowed from the waist, standing to peer over the bulwarks and gangway, through the open ports to spot the fall-of-shot. "Cowards, cowards!" someone began to sing-song.

Nothin' t'do with us, Lewrie thought, goggling as he saw the line of Spanish ships begin to peel apart; we couldn't've…!

The head of that line, their van group, was arranging itself in proper line-ahead at last, but hardening up to the wind to spare those astern from collisions-and inclining more to the fFwr-Nor'west! The further column which had their guns masked by the nearest were stretching out into line as well, the ones nearest Jester back and filling, whilst those further North were making more sail, making room for those astern. And bending away! Leaving the smaller pack near Captain, including that massive four-deck flagship, by themselves, a bit to leeward!

"Mister Hyde, hoist a signal," Lewrie snapped. "Any one'll do, as if Nelson sent one. Dons can't read it, but… Mister Crewe, serve 'em another! Helmsmen, do you ease a spoke'r two a'weather. Let her fall off the wind a bit."

And open the range, he told himself; so we don't sail right into that mess- get too close-and get squashed like a cockroach!

"Ready, sir! On the up-roll, lads… steady… fire/"

Their slight turn away swung their broadside to point in the general direction of that monstrous four-decker. Mile-and-a-half, it was, for their 9-pounders-Range-To-Random-Shot. And this time that useless-as-dried-peas broadside struck the sea within half a cable of her waterline-flying tortoise-slow by then, Lewrie suspected-the iron round-shot cripple-skipping even closer a time or two.

She fired back!

Such a stupendous, sudden explosion from all her decks of guns that sailors whooped with delight for an ignorant second or two; that they'd somehow struck a weak spot and blown her sky-high!

"Uhm, errr…" Mr. Knolles said again, stoic but corpse-pale.

Oh, shit! was Lewrie's prime thought.

Moans and roars, sounds of tearing silk, irate witches' screams, and heavy surf crashes that went on and on, rustling overhead, beyond the bow and stern! Great pillars and feathers of spray leaped skyward, and the oceans boiled and frothed with more surf noises, as if Jester had conjured up a tropical reef at the entrance to a lagoon! Hundreds of yards to windward though… nowhere near her.

And once the shock had worn off, as chagrined gunners and gangway brace-tenders got back to their feet after flinging themselves down instinctively, Jester s crew began to jeer their hapless foes.

"Uhm, Helmsman… two more points off the wind'd suit," Lewrie shakily ordered, marvelling that he hadn't pissed his breeches.

"Aye, aye, sir!" the senior quartermaster agreed, enthusiastic.

"Well," Lewrie crowed, clapping his hands and trying to justify his arrant stupidity, "that should draw their teeth for four or five minutes at any rate. A good broadside wasted, and them slow as treacle at reloadin'. Spare Captain her attention too. Mister Crewe, do you secure the larboard battery for now. Reload and stand easy."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

"Five minutes more, we'll have some other ships up to us," Lewrie went on, pacing aft to peer at the reinforcements which were positively: bounding over the sea by then. "Mister Hyde? What signal flags are we flying?" he asked, craning his neck to look aloft up the mizzenmast.

"You said anything'd do, sir, so I grabbed the first four near to hand, sir." Hyde smirked. "Accident, really, but it's… It, uhm… means… 'Start Excess Water,' sir."

Lewrie looked aloft once more, hands on his hips, shaking his head in wonder, and began to bray with laughter! "Take it down, Mister Hyde… take it down. 'Fore the others think we're passing the word from Nelson to pump out and lighten ship. Run up more, as if we were speakin' the flagship. Meaningless strings of rubbish, mind, no real legible orders to anyone. Serve 'em gibberish, to keep our Dons on the hop. Good, God… 'Start Excess Water'! Hah!"

"Aye, sir." Hyde chuckled.

"Well, we won't be trying that on again anytime soon," Lewrie told Knolles, once he'd paced back to the nettings overlooking the waist at the forrud end of the quarterdeck. "Discretion above valour is our watchword. How is Captain faring?"

"Her fore topmast's shot away, sir, but it appears she's gunnel-to-gunnel with one of theirs. And boarding her!" Knolles relished to relate. "A real neck-or-nothing day, sir."

And by five in the afternoon it was over. The Spanish never managed to unite, and the smaller body of ships which had lain to leeward had turned about and sailed off to the South, out of sight. The bulk of the main body had limped away towards Cadiz, with the British squadron too cut up to pursue But it was a day of victory.

For the Spanish had left behind four ships: San Ysidro, a 3rd Rate of 74 guns; San Nicolas, a 3rd Rate 80, which Nelson had first engaged and boarded; the San Jose and Salvador del Mundo, both 2nd Rates of 112 guns! All defeated by slipshod sail handling and collisions, by horrendous casualties, and extremely poor, and slow, gunnery.

For a time, the flagship of Vice-Admiral Don Jose de Corduba, that four-deck monster the Santissima Trinidad, had struck her colours too, after being totally dis-masted, forcing the Spanish admiral to transfer to a frigate. A last-chance rally 'round 4:00 p.m. though had driven the British off, so the Spaniards could tow their flagship away. The largest warship in the world of 136 guns, the only four-decker anyone would ever build, and she'd almost been taken as prize-by the ferocity of Nelson and his 74-gunned HMS Captain!

"There, there, bad noises done… no more gun stinks," Lewrie told his cat, Toulon, as he carried him in his arms, cosseting and stroking him. The black-and-white ram-cat had spent the day far below decks on the orlop with Aspinall and the Ship's Carpenter, Mr. Reese, bottled up and moaning as gun-thunder echoed and thrummed 'round him. Now he was famished for attention and "pets," mewing plaintively, pawing, kneading "biscuits" for comfort. "Mmmah-whahhJ" he entreated, muzzle under his master's chin.

"Big, timorous baby, yes I know…"

"Signal, sir!" Midshipman Spendlove announced. "Our number from the flag!"

Followed by "What Sort of Lunatic Are You?" I shouldn't wonder, Lewrie told himself with a rueful shrug.

"It's 'Captain Repair on Board,' sir," Spendlove concluded.

"Very well," Lewrie replied, turning to call out to his First Officer, "Mister Knolles? Take us down to Victory and lay us under her lee. Mister Cony? Ready my gig and boat crew. Best turnout, Cox'n Andrews."

"Aye, sah… best rig," his Jamaican coxswain answered. "We'll be ready, sah… as hon'some as Sunday Divisions!"

Handsome they were, half an hour later, when they rowed him over to the flagship, tricked out in clean check shirts, slop-trousers, and brass-buttoned, short, blue shell jackets. Ably competent too, hooking onto the starboard main-chains at the first try, oars tossed upright as one, as Lewrie made the long ascent up boarding battens and man-ropes to the upper deck.

A fresh-scrubbed side-party greeted him with twittering bosun's pipes, the slap of stout shoes on oak planking, horny hands on Brown Bess muskets, and a glittery whirl of swords presented in salute, winking in the wan winter sunset.

"This way, Commander Lewrie, if you please," an officer bade.

Up to the broad quarterdeck, where a group of senior officers stood, hats off and chortling like they'd just left a good comedy back home in Drury Lane and were waiting for their coaches to take them to some even more diverting entertainment: Captain Robert Calder and Captain Grey, Fleet Captain and the Flag Captain of HMS Victory; Rear-Admiral Parker off Prince George; Vice-Admiral The Honourable William Waldegrave off Barfleur-Admiral Hood's old flagship during the Revolution-Vice-Admiral Charles Thompson off Britannia; and Lewrie's recent squadron commander during '94-'95, Commodore Horatio Nelson, cheek-by-jowl with the gruffly gracious Admiral Sir John Jervis, K.B., a dour old tar who (there's a wonder, Alan goggled!) seemed almost congenial for a change. 'Twas a wonder what a victory would do.

"Sir John, gentlemen," the lieutenant announced. "Commander Lewrie of the Jester sloop."

"Lewrie… ah!" Old Jarvy grumped, doffing his large cocked hat as Lewrie did his, his head tilted back a bit to peer (rather dubiously, did Alan imagine?) down his fine-sculpted nose. "Heard some about you, sir. 'Deed I have," he pronounced, most disconcertingly.

That don't sound promisin', Lewrie quailed, not knowing how he might respond. Just how much has he heard? And which bits?

"Your servant, Sir John," he cooed instead, making a "leg."

"Well?" Old Jarvy barked, still holding his hat high over his head though Lewrie had lowered his to his side. "Did you? 'Start your water'? And was that before or after the Santissima Trinidad fired?"

"Oh!" Lewrie brightened instantly, much relieved to hear the chuckle which rose from Sir John, see the puckish grin on his phyz… to receive much the same sort of cheery approbation from the rest, all those senior and august commanders! "I'm certain more'n a few of our people did, Sir John… immediately after. For myself, 'twas a close run thing. I didn't anticipate such a response… certainly not her full attention."

"A fellow who yanks the lion's tail, sir," Admiral Jervis said, with a touch of high-nosed frost, "simply must expect a clawing!" He twinkled, snorted-actually making a jape! Almost but not quite as full of jollity as an affable compatriot and nothing like the flinty, humourless disciplinarian he was reputed to be, who could give anyone a case of the runs by simply glaring at him.

Admiral Jervis clapped his hat back on, stepping closer to take Lewrie's hand and pump away at it quite vigourously for a brief time, as the rest tittered polite appreciation for their commander's jest.

"I'll caution you, Commander Lewrie, about making a career of tomfoolery," Sir John added, pursing his features nigh to an actual admonishment, "but 'twas a splendid gesture nonetheless. You, Captain Troubridge in Culloden… Commodore Nelson… Was it disobedience of my signalled orders…?" he posed, detaching his hand from Lewrie's. Christ, am I for it after all? Lewrie shivered again. Distressingly, now his hand was free again, Admiral Jervis doffed his hat high aloft once more, making Alan twitch in indecision. "… then it was a most forgivable disobedience, hmmm?" "Thankee, Sir John," Lewrie muttered, dumbstruck. That hat…! "Your casualties, sir, your damage?" Admiral Jervis asked more softly, coming closer, and glooming up in grim expectation.

"Why, none, sir," Lewrie declared. "No damage either. They couldn't shoot worth a… they were very poor at long-range firing." "Close-in, though…" One of the senior officers sighed. "But still, slow as 'church-work,' " Little Nelson chortled with glee. "Else we'd never have been able to stand within pistol-shot for as long as we did, sirs. Yank the lion's tail indeed, Sir John. Got Santissima Trinidad to waste a month's worth of shot and powder on his ship… 'stead of mine. My thanks, Commander Lewrie. When he was of my squadron at Genoa, sirs, I found none more expeditious and slyboots than Commander Lewrie when it came to befuddling our foes."

"No casualties… and no damage," Sir John mused heavily. "I do declare. Good, though. Good. 'Tis been a bloody-enough day."

"Well, for the Dons, much worse, sir," Nelson prattled on. "I must think they suffered ten times worse than us. You've been aboard the prize-ships, seen…"

"Aye," Sir John grunted, clapping one hand behind his back to pace himself back to his usual taciturn grumpiness. "So you may sail off towards Cadiz and 'smoak' the dispositions of their remaining warships, sir?" He directed this to Lewrie.

"Aye, Sir John," Lewrie said automatically. "Though… we are a tad worn down, sir. I was hoping to careen her, re-copper her bottom. A short spell in port before…" Should I doff my hat to him too?

"You've been in commission since… Captain Calder?"

"Three years, this month, Sir John," Calder supplied, off the top of his head.

"We shall make other arrangements then," Sir John said, almost mournfully. But instantly there was a twinkle in his eyes. "Lewrie, today is Valentine's Day. I shall make you a present. Remain under my lee 'til I send you written orders."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"And, well done, Lewrie. Damn' foolhardy, but well done."

"There was a lot of that going round today, sir. I think it must be catching," Alan allowed himself to jape.

"… called the San Nicolas my 'Patent Bridge for Boarding First Rates,' ha, ha!" Nelson could be heard to titter in his high voice. "Up and over, without a pause, 'board the San Jose, d'ye see."

Lewrie cocked a chary brow at that statement; Nelson was never a shy man when it came to taking acclaim-he'd seen that preening side to him before. And he most-cynically suspected no one had called it that yet- Nelson had made it up himself. For his vaulting vanity!

Damn' fool! Lewrie sighed. Never knew when to stop troweling it on!

Servants were sporting trays of drinks 'round, and Lewrie snagged himself one and took a welcome sip of a very good claret. Old Jarvy's best, he imagined, saved for a rare occasion such as this.

"By the by, Commander Lewrie," Captain Calder purred, stepping over to him. "Just before this little set-to, we received some mails for the fleet. I do believe, should you speak to our First Officer, he has yours ready to hand."

"Mail, sir!" Lewrie enthused. It had been weeks since he'd had news from home. "I can't think of a single thing more to make this day any more perfect."

"Uhmm… is that some cat hair on your coat, sir?"

Nearly nine o'clock of the Evening Watch and almost time that all glims and lanthorns were doused for fear of fire in the night hours. Even a captain had to heed the Master At Arms. There was still time, though, to race through just one more letter from his wife, Caroline, back home in Anglesgreen, then give them all a slower, more loving perusal the next morning.

He swiveled and craned under the swaying overhead lanthorn for the most light at his desk, idly stroking a sleeping Toulon, atop the attractively crinkly discard pile of other mail from chandlers, tailors, bankers, and such, tucked up all Sphinx-like.

… has purchased three hundred acres of Land, talked of

running up a manse, just by the old ruined tower

where long ago we pledged our mutual Love…

Lewrie flipped back a page or two, looking for a clue. Was this some new botheration from Harry Embleton or his father, the baronet? That was Chiswick land, just by his own rented acres, land he stood a chance to inherit (his brother-in-law, Governour, for certain) once old Uncle Phineas Chiswick went "toes up" (and, pray God, soon!). Phineas would never sell a three-hundred-acre tract off whilst living and would likely find a way to tuck it in his coffin and hoist it off to Perdition with him! Just for spite! In fact, he'd rather die than give away a single blade of grass to a passing drover's goat! Ah…!

… to England, and has been making the most

perfect Hooraw in the village since. And he

now lodges on Us, until he discovers suitable

quarters; which, as I am certain you understand,

Dearest, has caused no end of Upset…

Must be further back, Lewrie puzzled. If her brother, Burgess, had returned from service with the East India Company army, Caroline would be over the moon with joy, would never express reservations, even if he came back sick, lame, or bankrupt! More like, he could lodge with Phineas and his mother in that drab pile, with Governour and Millicent at their new house.

"Now where the deuce…" Lewrie grumbled half-aloud, sorting out the fronts and backs of the hefty letter. There came the crisp clang of two bells up forrud, the stamp of boots, and a musket butt from the marine sentry at his main deck door, almost at the same instant.

"Master At Arms, sah! Reports 'darkened ship,' sah!"

"Christ on a crutch!" Lewrie yelped.

"Sah?"

"Very well… carry on then… Jesus!" Lewrie barked back.

… the proper Respect and Deference due your

sire, and most of all, Dearest, that tender

Consideration I feel bound to show Brigadier

Sir Hugo as my father-in-law, though, until his

un-looked-for arrival, we had never met.

"My bloody father!" Lewrie muttered. "Aye, dark, alright. Dark and gettin' darker!"

I pray you, though, Alan, should you have any

suggestions as to how to finesse this matter,

I beg you write at once and tell me… what shall

I do with your father?

Load those pistols I left in my study was Lewrie's first thought; send to the blacksmith's for a gross of chastity belts was his second. Then-best yet-run!