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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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Описание онлайн-книги A King`s Commander - Dewey Lambdin:
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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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!
Sweet Jesus, save us, Lewrie gibbered to himself!
A seal's head broke water, about ten yards off to windward, a sleek, bewhiskered hound's head, with wide-open, gentle puppy eyes.
Lir, Lewrie gawped! Seals, this far out to sea, why else A …!
More heads appearing, in a pod as they back-paddled, gazing up at the sailors along the rail, as more and more left off their circle to join them, until the entire pack was motionless. Just breathing and staring! Bobbing on the slightly restless sea, letting wrinkly wind-stroked waves break over them as the sea got up.
"Seals, not sharks, Cap'um," Mister Buchanon whispered harshly near his ear, which made Lewrie like to jump right out of his skin! "You be th' one t'tell 'em, sir. 'Tis seals, come fr him. You'll see. They won't be afeard no more, when 'ey hear 'at."
"Calmly, lads!" Lewrie called out, still skittery with fear of the unknown, himself. " 'Twasn't sharks that have come to… take him. 'Twas seals Look at 'em. Just playful seals!"
"Aye, 'tis a selkie, th' tyke's t' be!" the Irish sailor said, with a note of gladness, and pleasure in his voice. And several more West Country men agreed aloud, still crossing themselves cautiously, but sounding almost crooning, now, as if a wrong had been righted.
"Goo'bye, lad!" one called down to the depths. "Goo'bye, boy! 'Twill be playin' t' yer heart's content, ye'll be doin', now on 'til foriver!"
Christ, what sort of madness is this, what heresy have I countenanced? Lewrie wondered. Though his hands were calmer, easier, and no longer terrified-most of 'em, anyway, he thought; noting how a landsman or new-come was being told the Real Facts of Life by the old and experienced "sea-daddies."
"Ye selkies…" the old sail-maker's assistant chortled. "Poor chub'z a good lad, 'twoz Josephs. See ye take th' best o' keer o' him, hear me? An'…" More fresh tears ran down his aged cheeks. "An' when it come me own time, pray Jesus an' all th' saints, ye come f r me, when I go o'er th' side. God pity ye… an' God love ye."
One by one, the seals' heads submerged, into a swirl of barely disturbed water, until only the oldest and largest was left, blinking incredibly huge and soft brown eyes at them. Why he did so, Alan had not a clue, but… he waved to him. The seal seemed to nod, as a sea broke over him, and came up blinking once more, his huge gentle eyes swept clear of saltwater tears, Lewrie could conjure, with droplets of sympathy bedewing his mustaches.
And then he was gone.
As if he'd never been, he submerged, making not even the tiniest ripple on the waters; he sank out of sight, and he was gone. And Alan Lewrie shivered like a wet dog, having to grip the bulwarks' oak to keep a grip on his sanity. Shivering at the revealed presence of a sea god far older than Jesus!
"Christ!" was all he could mutter in icy awe, as he came back to his senses. And wishing to be far away from that hoary phantasm.
"Ahum," he continued, "Mister Knolles? Hands to the braces… put us back on the wind, and get us underway."
"Aye aye, sir," Knolles replied from the quarterdeck astern.
Bible and prayer book gathered from the deck where he'd dropped them, bent pages reverently smoothed out. That took a few welcome and contemplative moments. Hat back firmly on his head. Back to his place along the weather bulwarks of the quarterdeck, where he could pace, as a symbol of authority… Christ, as a symbol of Reason!… again.
"Mister Buchanon," he had to ask, though, drawing the sailing master to his side, where they could talk confidentially. "What are they, the what-you-call-'ems… selkies?"
" 'Ere's a legend, Cap'um," Buchanon told him, " 'at long, long ago, 'twas a battle comin' 'twixt Good an' Evil, an' Lir, a as one o' oP gods, come t'this fishin' village, lookin' for help 'gainst Evil. Now th' villagers cried off, d'ye see, sir. Said 'ey's too poor, 'ey didn't know a thing 'bout fightin', nor weapons. 'Eir men go away t' fight, 'eir wimmen'n babes'd starve. So Lir-so me da' tol' me-put 'is cess on 'em all. Said he'd come again, oncet th' battle woz won. Good did beat Evil. Never for very long, though… an' ain't that just th' way of it, sir? Well, ol' Lir come back t'at village, 'bout th' time 'ey'd all forgot, an' laid his curse. He turned 'em into selkies, Cap'um. Seals with human souls, sir, who remembered livin' ashore, an' how good 'twoz. Drove 'em inta th' sea, weepin' an' wailin', where 'ey'd bawl all 'eir live-long days."
"Doesn't sound like a good god, to me, to punish so," Lewrie sniffed in disapproval. Of action, tale, or truth, he didn't know.
"OP Testament's full o' such, though, sir," Buchanon countered wryly. "But, here's the cruelest part o' Lir's curse. After a century'r two, his cess seemed t' sputter out. One at a time, 'ey swim ashore on some rookery beach, an' woke up people, again, Cap'um! Thought 'ey'd paid for 'eir sins, at last, an' woz free. But, oh no!"
"Don't tell me they got so used to being seals, that…" he kenned with a wry grimace. "They began to ache for the sea?"
"Aye, sir, 'at 'ey did." Buchanon chuckled. "Fell in love an' wed, had babes an' houses, an' lives worth livin'. But then, some night, sir… when the wind's blowin' soft off th' sea, an' th' moon is shinin' soft an' pretty, 'ey gets t' starin' at it, walkin' th' beaches night after night, lis-tenin' t'th' others out there, callin' to 'em…? Comes a time, sir, 'ey can't resist no more. Strip off eir clothes, an' swim out, with no lookin' back, an' turn back inta seals, 'ey do, Cap'um! Have a high old time o' it, for a while, back with 'eir ol' friends in th' sea, as selkies again."
"And then that gets old, and they remember being people, and their loved ones ashore?" Lewrie shivered.
"Doomed t'go through th' whole pain, over an' over, again… 'til th' end o' Time, Cap'um," Buchanon intoned, as sure of his lore as he was of the next sunrise. "But, 'tis said, sir… 'ere's times 'ey come back ashore, t'fetch 'eir gits. Selkie makes a babe, he's half selkie, himself, then. An' he can't resist wadin' out some night, neither, when his da' or ma does. No matter whose heart it breaks. 'Twaz a heavy curse Lir laid on 'em, sir. A heartless bugger, he."
"No, Mister Buchanon," Lewrie protested. Or felt that he had to, as a rational man. As some sort of a Christian. "Lir sent the seals-selkies-to take Josephs? That'd be robbing God of that lad's immortal soul! That'd keep him from Salvation!"
"Th' lad'z from Bristol, sir," Buchanon explained, shaking his head, utterly convinced of his lightness, no matter that he was speaking an ancient pagan heresy. "Little Josephs might o' been a selkie t'begin with, livin' 'at close t'th' sea, from a seafarin' fam'ly? I seen, or heard, o' such before, Cap'um, back home when I'z a lad. A spell as a seal… Lir didn't rob God. Jus' borrowed Josephs's soul, for a piece. More like, th' lad'll appear in 'is world again, might be a foundlin', an' grow up t'be a sailor. Maybe one with a better run o' luck, th' next time, an' a longer life. After he pays off whatever sin he done in his oP life afore, sir… then, he'll go t'his true reward. B'sides, sir… 'ere's more myst'ries in 'is here world'n we can shake a stick at. An' we just saw one, sir, and 'at's a fact! All folk can do sometimes is be left t'wonder."
"Amen to that," Lewrie said automatically, looking astern at their wake, a gray specter, only darkly sunset-tinted upon the foam. Wondering if it would be a wonder-or a sign of a further curse from Lir!-to espy another seal. "Well, then. Ahum! Thankee, Mister Buchanon. That'll be all for now. Do carry on."
"Aye aye, sir," the sailing master replied, doffing his hat in salute as he wandered over to the hands by the wheel, as Seven Bells of the Second Dog were struck up forward.
Lewrie went below to his cabins for his supper, stowing Bible and prayer book in the shelf above the chart table on the way.
"Yer rhenish, sir?" Aspinall inquired, cleaning his hands on the fresh white apron he wore. "A glass o' claret tonight, then?"
"Brandy, Aspinall," Lewrie decided grimly. "Big'un!"
"Aye, sir. Best for what ails ya, says I," Aspinall rambled on cheerily, as he poured three fingers-worth into a snifter. "Sad it is, sir. That little tyke? But, a stout measure o' something always bucks a body right up, sir."
Toulon came slinking out of hiding, into the cheery light from the overhead lanthorns, wailing a welcoming "Maa-ahh-awr!" with even more urgency and enthusiasm than he usually showed. And that was not insubstantial, to begin with. Greeting his master (as much as cats may be said to have the concept of master down pat) with a desperate show of affection. Or a desperate need of it, himself.
Never known to be a particularly doting tribe, except when it suited them, still… Toulon seemed to empathize as he climbed Alan's chest, patted and kneaded furiously, and reclined on his shirtfront finally, little head butting under Alan's chin, licking and purring in remarkable, commiserating ardor.
"You feel it, too, Toulon?" Lewrie asked softly. "Scare you, too?"
"Maiwee?" was the ram-kitten's shuddery reply, as he turned himself boneless, to flatten his body even closer.
"Scared the Devil out of me, let me tell you," Lewrie confided to his creature. He stroked Toulon down from forehead to tail-tip, in thankfulness that there was somebody there to give him comfort at least. "Was it even real, puss? Did it really happen like I think it did? God!"
Should it ever come my time, Alan thought, cringing at the very idea; that's one way to escape the Devil and his fires. A back gate for the damned-become a selkie!
"Wouldn't do you a bit of good, would it, Toulon?" Lewrie told the ram-cat. "Can't abide your sponge-down now, much less a swim."
"Moi," the cat sang under his jaw, paws working as he slinked higher toward his collars.
"Christ, what use is a selkie who can't swim?" Lewrie snorted, forcing himself to chuckle. Like most good English seamen, he could not swim a single lick. If a ship went down, most of them said that trying to swim only prolonged the inevitable. Or saved one just long enough to be eaten by something, right after one got one's hopes up, and…
"Damme!" Lewrie sighed, taking another refreshing draught of his brandy, shoving another fey feeling away.
Poor little Josephs, he pondered, instead; barely got his sea legs, and bam! Maybe it is best, that… that Lir took him? Just for a bit, say. Chub might be happy to be a seal, for a while. Happier'n he was 'board this ship, at any rate!
A lad about Sewallis's age and size, Lewrie mourned with infinite regret; dreams shattered, terrified-started!-heartbroken, then dead, long 'fore his time!
There came the faint sound of a fiddle tune from the gun deck. Slow, lugubrious, and atonal, like what Captain Ayscough aboard Telesto had delightedly told him was the "great music" played on bagpipes.
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