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A King`s Commander - Dewey Lambdin
- Дата:30.06.2024
- Категория: Приключения / Морские приключения
- Название: A King`s Commander
- Автор: Dewey Lambdin
- Просмотров:2
- Комментариев:0
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Alan Lewrie is now commander of HMS Jester, an 18-gun sloop. Lewrie sails into Corsica only to receive astonishing orders: he must lure his archenemy, French commander Guillaume Choundas, into battle and personally strike the malevolent spymaster dead. With Horatio Nelson as his squadron commander on one hand and a luscious courtesan who spies for the French on the other, Lewrie must pull out all the stops if he's going to live up to his own reputation and bring glory to the British Royal Navy.
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"Though not all followed your instructions, milord…" Curtis said with a sad, begrudging moue. And Lewrie suddenly felt sorry for whichever captain hadn't gotten in pistol-shot range!
"Seven, Commander Lewrie!" Howe exulted, getting to his feet to cramp about wearily. Perhaps his shoes pinched him sore, Lewrie wondered. "Six taken as prize… one a total loss. Four more, and one of those a three-decker, mind! Four more battered so badly they might spend the next year, entire, in graving docks. Oh, aye, 'twas a splendid day, indeed, sir! Perhaps my last service to the King…"
"Oh, sir, surely not, why…" Curtis toadied some more.
"Damme, Curtis, I'm ancient," Howe countered petulantly. "I should be ashore, and allow some younger, fitter man a sea command. So, you are off to Admiral Hood, are you, Lewrie?"
"Aye, milord. Gibraltar first, then Corsica."
"Then we shan't keep you but the one hour more. Sir Roger will have dispatches for you, to carry on for me."
"I would be most honored, milord," Lewrie replied firmly, all but laying his hat over his heart and making a "leg" to the old man.
"Your clerk has a fair hand, sir?" Curtis inquired.
"Aye, sir."
"Then I shall deliver to you a single copy, and your clerk… and anyone else with a fair hand, may reproduce it while you're on-passage," Curtis decided. "It is vital. It is urgent… goes without sayin'…" Smirky little smile and a chuckle. "But hardly a national secret. Not after a ship gets word to London."
"One more thing, Commander Lewrie," Howe interjected, coming back to the desk after a fruitless search for something to drink, A wineglass was in his hand, from his re-erected pantry, though there was no sign as yet of his wine cabinet. "Sir Roger, an order for Admiral Montagu, directing him to place his squadron off Brest, denying the French re-entry. Explain to him that my ships…"
"Your most able ships, at least, sir…" Sir Roger suggested as he whistled for the flag lieutenant, who should be doing the scribbling for his betters. "And captains," he muttered sotto voce.
"Uhmph," Howe grunted, with a sour, dyspeptic expression, one more time reminding Lewrie of just how much "Black Dick" really did resemble the Rebel, George Washington, with an attack of gas! "… that until the fleet is fully found again, he must keep them from reaching the French coast. And that I will bring the main body along, as soon as we're able. Should he have taken prizes from the grain convoy… made contact with it at all… he is to send them into English ports under prize crews, without escort. Further, it is my appreciation the French, having suffered severe damage aboard those ships that retired our recent action, will be shaping course for Brest or L'orient, and quite possibly will be unable to make any reasonable or spirited resistance to any action he should undertake. Do you have that, Roger?"
"I do, milord. In essence," Sir Roger Curtis replied, making a few hasty scribbles of his own, and seeming to resent it.
"Lewrie, I cannot delay you 'making the best of your way' with dispatches, but… should you sight Admiral Montagu's squadron, you are to break your passage and speak him… deliver my orders to him."
"I will, milord. But… what if I should sight their grain convoy?" Alan asked. "Should I break passage and attempt to inform anyone?"
"No," Howe decided, after a long, mazy yawn and a period of weary reflection. "You carry on, with dispatches. I will use our attached frigates for scouting."
"And we rather doubt their convoy is actually close enough to even Mid-Atlantic, as of yet, Lewrie," Curtis added. "And most certainly, will not be taking a southerly track anywhere near your course."
"I see, Sir Roger," Alan replied, much eased that he'd not be swanning about for days or weeks, in a fruitless search. "Very well, then, milord. Should I stay aboard Queen Charlotte, to await orders, or go back aboard Jester? I am completely at your convenience, sir."
"No, best let Mister Codrington fetch them to you," Admiral Howe decided, after another stupendous yawn, and taking his chair once more. "I fear our hospitality, at the moment… given the circumstances… is none of the best, after all."
"I'll take my leave then, sir? Milord Howe? Sir Roger?" Alan said, beginning to bow his way out. "My congratulations once again, on this victory… a glorious way to usher in the summer."
"A most glorious first day of June, Commander Lewrie, aye!" Sir Roger Curtis brightened, making a little note to himself that he stuck in a side pocket of his "iron-bound" dress captain's coat.
"Sorry we could not make you more welcome, Commander Lewrie," Lieutenant Codrington said, once they'd gained the gangway. "After your actions, as well, in escaping those frigates, and shaving their battle line, well…! There should have been a bottle in it, at least!"
"I quite understand, sir," Lewrie chuckled in mock rue. "I'm quite satisfied the fleet was here, to rescue me, as it were. Uhm… when you come aboard, Lieutenant Codrington? The fleet will be off for home, soon?"
"I doubt that, Commander," Codrington told him. "Still all the Frog ships that got away to deal with. A letter to send?"
"Aye," Alan answered. "A letter of condolence to the parents of a lad who was killed this morning."
"I apologize, sir, I didn't know…"
"None needed, sir," Alan allowed. "I'd hate for them to think he's still, well…"
"I'm quite certain Captain Curtis will have a frigate sailing for England with our good tidings, Commander Lewrie." Lieutenant Codrington scowled. "Dashing, really-sails set 'all to the royals.' When I fetch you the documents, you may rest assured your letter to the lad's parents will be aboard that frigate. My word on't."
"My heartfelt thanks to you then, sir," Lewrie said as they shook hands on the agreement.
"Ahoy, th' boat party, below! Make ready!" A petty officer shouted down. "Side-party… uhmm. Sorry, Mr. Codrington, but…"
"Do make no fuss over me," Alan offered. Most graciously, and modestly, he thought. "You've better things to do, at the moment, I'm sure, than take men away from repairs. Or seeing to their mates."
"Oh, thankee, sir!" The petty officer beamed in approval.
"An hour, no more, sir," Codrington promised, casting an envious eye over Lewrie's shoulder to the beautifully formed sloop of war that rode fetched-to, two cables off.
CHAPTER
7
"Ship's comp'ny… off hats," Bosun Porter ordered, speaking in a throaty rasp, though one almost soft and reverent, for once, as the ship lay once more fetched-to, just at sunset.
Once free of Howe's fleet, just after sailing them under the horizon, the winds had come more westerly, more like what was expected in the Bay of Biscay, and Jester, on starboard tack, had loped nearly forty-five miles farther, by dusk. Now she lay cocked up to weather, some sails full of drive, others laid all a'back to snub her motionless.
T'gallant yards a-cock-bill, though, to signify a death, and a burying- lift-lines purposely put out of trim to speak grief.
The entry port on the starboard gangway to weather was open, and a party stood by with the canvas-shrouded corpse on a long eight-man mess-table board. The small hump beneath the Red Ensign seemed too small to bother with.
How much room did a mere boy take, Alan wondered; short before- shorter, now? There'd been little to find of his head and shoulders but scoops of offal. Josephs's body looked arsey-varsey; the two round-shot at his feet more headlike. Heretical it might be, but Lewrie had the thought anyway, as he opened the prayer book to the ribanded page… custom said the sailmaker took a final stitch through the nose of those dis-charged-dead, to assure the crew that the departed was truly gone over. Now, if there wasn't a nose, or a head…?
He shook himself, to silence such fell musings. The light of a spectacular sunset was fast fading. He had to hurry.
"O God, whose beloved Son didst take little children into His arms and bless them; Give us Grace, we beseech Thee, to entrust this child, Richard Josephs… gentleman volunteer… to Thy never-failing Care and Love…" he intoned from the prayer book. And followed its suggestion that, for the interment of a child, Lamentations 3:31-33 was particularly apt. "… for He doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men…"
There followed Psalm 130, tried and trusted by sailors since time immemorial. Most of them knew it, and could recite it softly, with the older men leading:
Out of the Deep have I called unto thee, O Lord;
Lord, hear my voice,
O let thine ears consider well,
the voice of my complaint…
And it got especially tearful, and Lewrie could hear rough tars beginning to weep, when they got to
… My soulfleeth unto the Lord before the
morning watch; I say, before the morning watch.
A lesson from the New Testament, the equally familiar 23rd Psalm, and then, since they had no clergy aboard to celebrate the Eucharist, or speak a homily, Lewrie skipped ahead to the Committal.
"In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our shipmate Richard Josephs, and we commit his body to the deeps… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make His face to shine upon him and be gracious unto him, the Lord lift up His countenance upon him, and give him peace. Amen."
There was a dry swishing noise as the mess table was upended, as the Red Ensign collapsed, followed by a splash alongside. Josephs was making an end to his first and only passage, sped by the weight of combative iron to abyssal depths, where, it was hoped, there was no corruption, until the Day of Resurrection.
Thank God, he knew it by heart, for he could no longer read the text of the prayer book. His eyes were just as full of tears. Damme, only a year older'n Sewallis, he thought! As he, and his crew, began to chant the Lord's Prayer. Even as the westerly huffed impatiently over the gangway, fluttering the pages of both prayer book and Bible, as ratlines quivered
and shook, and an eldritch wailing keened aloft in the rigging. And ghostly wind-mutters spoke in the shrouds.
"… for ever and ever, Amen," he concluded.
"Saints presarve us!" an Irish Catholic seamen whimpered, and a number of the burial party on the gangway crossed themselves, muttering like sentiments. There was a surge forward to the bulwarks.
" Es come!" An ancient-looking member of the sail-maker's crew swore. " 'E's come f r 'im!" he declared.
Lewrie stepped to the starboard bulwarks and peered over the side, and once more, his hackles and nape-hairs went up. Heart rose in his throat, stomach chilled in icy terror, and his breath stopped, faint!
There were seals in the water, close-aboard, cavorting about; their wine-bottle bodies swirling half submerged, round in a circle below the entry port where little Josephs had splashed!
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