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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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Jester was pummeled, sent reeling, as iron smashed home, aimed at her midships. There was a tremendous pillar of spray alongside, then a second, the shuddery twist of the hull as it was struck, down low by a graze, then a direct hit, and a mighty thonk of rupture. A groan aloft, that juddery humming ended suddenly. Replaced by a wail of pine and fir as her mainmast began to topple-everything beyond the fighting-top swayed over the larboard side, coming down like some sawn tree! The main chains had taken another hit, and everything was shot away that held it upright! All they could do was duck and pray as it collapsed, crashing down into the ocean in a rat's nest of torn sails, tangled rigging, and broken yards, to dangle on the gangway or bulwarks, further tangled with the collapsed boarding nettings, blinding the guns. A discharge from one of the nine-pounders might set alight the ruins. Jester was disarmed and powerless!
"Mister Crewe, starboard battery! Waisters and idlers," Alan cried in despair. "Chop all that away, now, Mister Porter! Spenser, steer due north, best you're able with all that dragging. Hurry!"
There was nothing left aloft for drive but the mizzen sails-spanker, top'sl, and t'gallant, and they'd be lucky indeed to be able to steer effectively, if at all, with all that force so far astern.
"Spare stays!, jury-rigged from foc's'le to the foretop!" Knolles was shouting forward tc the hands digging free of the ruins.
Jester had slowed, drastically, dragging herself almost to a stop, bereft of wind power. Beyond crippled. Almost conquered.
He's going to win, damn him, Alan felt like weeping! His ship turned to scrap lumber, defenseless against whatever might come. He suspected Choundas would close and board, to take her as prize. Take his ship, in a sea of bloodshed. Take him prisoner, and what he felt like inflicting on him, once they were anchored in a French port, he… no, By God! You want me, you'll have to kill me! You want Jester… then you'll have her over my dead body!
Lewrie drew his sword and let it glisten in the sun.
"Starboard batt'ry ready, sir!" Crewe rasped. He looked down on his gun deck. On his people. The ports were open, the artillery run-out. Grimy, bleeding from cuts and splinters, mouths agape with terror, and some of them shivering, amid the carnage, the dead.
"They'll not have us!" Lewrie roared. "They'll not have herl If they try, we'll kill every last mother-son of 'em! Close shooting, and make 'em pay, Mister Crewe!"
And he was amazed, that they could raise a cheer! A weak one, aye. But an angry, defiant cheer for their ship.
Choundas had slipped ahead, of course, his rigging mostly free of damage and his sails still drawing power. Headed east-nor'east on the wind, but even then easing her braces and sheets to fall off, and employ her larboard guns. And her stern, her vulnerably thin stern…!
"Fire as you bear, Mister Crewe! Hold her, Spenser! Nothing to loo'rd, for just a minute!" he pleaded.
"Aye aye, sir!" Spenser grunted, as he and Brauer and two more hands threw all their weight on the spokes to hold full lee-helm, the rudder jammed hard-over.
"Point…!" Crewe ordered. "As you bear… Fire!"
From the foc's'le carronade, then aft to the quarterdeck, some swivels firing, too; a controlled, steady tolling, the guns so hot by now they leaped off the deck with recoil, titanic crashes and bellows of rage, deafening thunders and harsh ejaculations of gunpowder, all dun gray and brown, shot through with embers and flaming bits of wad. The range was little over a cable, and the results were immediate.
The corvette's stern was caved in! Glass sash-windows blown in, both quarter-galleries shattered, her taffrail and flag lockers blown skyward. The name board and dead lights to the officers' wardroom all were smashed beyond recognition. Her transom post was whittled by shot, and her rudder twitched like a hound's ear. And there would be carnage further forward, as hard nine-pound shot caromed down the length of her open gun deck, breaking into hundreds of jagged shards on gun barrels and carriages, creating a maelstrom of wood splinters to quill her crew, to rip and rend! They could hear her, and them, wail, they imagined!
"Can't 'old 'er, sir," Spenser gasped. "Sorry, but they's too much drag t'larboard. Payin' off, again. Make due north, just."
"Reload, Mister Crewe!" Alan demanded. "One more time!"
"Tackin'!" Knolles countered. "She's going over to larboard, sir!"
"Now shell rake our stern," Lewrie groaned. Once she gets settled down on larboard tack, she'll make sou'west, easy, he thought. "Get that raffle chopped away, Porter! Hurry with that stays'1. And rig the main topmast stays! from the maintop to a foc's'le ladder, if that's all you have. I need jibs. Any sort o' jibs! Now!"
Close as Choundas was, he'd get a quartering slant across HMS Jester's stern. At about the same range as the shot she'd delivered! Lewrie paced to the larboard side, to see the last of the mess going over the side, the last raveled stays and braces cut. With a great splash, the last of the upper masts hit the water to float away aft.
"Better, sir!" Spenser encouraged, spinning the spokes.
"Due east?" Lewrie asked him.
"Mebbe, sir!" Spenser allowed, chomping on his tobacco quid in a frenzy. "Nor'east, at best, I think, Cap'm. We're so slow."
"Good enough, then. Ready, Mister Crewe? We're coming about to weather some more for you!"
"We'll be ready, sir!" Crewe stolidly assured him.
"Give him a broadside, while he's tacking, then. Then load and run out, quick as you can. Soon as he's in arcs."
Choundas was standing away southerly, already on the eyes of the wind, sails rustling and luffing, and jibs just beginning to fill, and draw. His ship would heel over as she felt the force of the wind upon her braced-around square sails, delaying that raking broadside a little. Until she was more in control, her decks more level. And then…
"Meleager, sir!" Hyde crowed. "Signal, sir! 'Do You Require Assistance!' "
"Hoist 'Affirmative,' Mister Hyde!" Lewrie yelped in relief. "You're goddamned right we do!"
And there she was, about a mile off and coming hard, beating to windward with a bone in her teeth, guns run out and ready! She'd clear that western headland by miles, pass ahead of Jester's bows even if she managed to attain nor'east. And chase this foe away!
Lewrie went to the starboard side of his quarterdeck, wincing in agony with each step, left hand still clamped atop his skull. Choundas was there, he was certain. Even at 200 yards, he thought there was a man on that opposing quarterdeck, a slight man with pale skin and dull reddish hair. A man who wore a large black patch. A man who was shaking his fists at him, his mouth open to howl curses at him.
"Got jibs, sir, at last!" Buchanon told him. "Come a'weather?"
"Close as she'll lay, aye, Mister Buchanon," Alan replied, with the shuddery sort of giggle a condemned felon might essay right after a hanging rope snapped and dumped him alive in the mud under the gallows.
Jester came up toward the wind, struggling to lay nor'east. As Choundas heeled over and stood out to sea, bearing sou'west. Men were aloft, letting the corvette's royals fall. Stern-to-stern, they were separating, no guns able to bear. Choundas had been driven away, not able to deal with a frigate's fire. Jester had been saved, would go on living. It was over.
For the moment, Lewrie thought wearily. There'd be a next time. Twigg would see to that, damn his blood! Pray God Cockburn catches him up and shoots him to toothpicks! Spares me the… spares me!
"We continue on this course, sir, we'll block Meleager's course," Buchanon cautioned, close by his side. Buchanon put a steadying arm to Lewrie, as he swayed and sagged, utterly spent.
"Aye, come about, again, Mister Buchanon. Due north, steer for the western headland, so Cockburn gets a clear passage to seaward close-hauled. Unless he wishes to come inshore of us, cut the corner…?"
Too tired to think, as if he'd gone fifteen rounds with a bully-buck at a village fair; it always was this way after a hard fight with him. He leaned on the bulwarks, tried to sheath his sword.
"Mister Hyde, hoist 'Submit,' followed by 'Pursue the Enemy More Closely.' 'Vast coming about,' Mister Buchanon. We'll stand on. Cockburn can gain on the bastard, if he cuts inshore of us. Stand on," Lewrie decided. He'd wait until Meleager was abeam, then come about, into the shelter of Alassio Bay. Jester would need quick repairs, perhaps even a tow, to get back to safety at Vado. She'd never crawl there on her own.
"Porter?" he shouted, wincing again. "Pipe 'Secure from Quarters,' then let's see what needs doing we can do for ourselves."
"Er… aye aye, sir!" Will Cony shouted back. He shrugged and pointed to a broken figure being borne below by the surgeon's loblolly boys on a carrying board. Bosun Porter was groaning and writhing over several large, jagged splinters, his right arm ravaged and soaked with gore. "I'll tend t' hit, sir," Cony assured him, beginning to rouse stunned hands back to their posts.
"Fancy a sip o' somet'in', Cap'um?" Andrews tempted, offering a small pewter flask, on the sly. "Neat rum, sah. Put de fire back in yah belly."
"Thankee, Andrews." Lewrie sighed, taking a small sip.
And wondering what thanks he'd have to give Cockburn, for saving his bacon. He grimaced at the sharp bite of the rum; and how even more insufferable Captain Cockburn might be, in future. Or how low he'd be groveling in gratitude, pretending to like the taste of boot polish.
Grateful, aye… Alan realized with a small, mournful groan of relief. He takes him or kills him, 'stead of me, I'll buss his blind cheeks! I don't ever wish to cross that bastard's hawse again. Ever!
CHAPTER
11
"A desperate action, sir," Nelson told him in the privacy of Agamemnon's great-cabins. "Gallantly carried," he added. A bit more praise, very similar to their last meeting; though thrown out rather offhandedly, not quite so congratulatory, and bitten off, delivered in a moody, frownful snappishness. "Five dead, a dozen wounded? I am sorry for your losses. The only losses the squadron suffered in our cutting-out expedition. Not a single man even hurt aboard the rest. My condolences."
"The rest of the squadron didn't have to contend with Choundas, sir," Alan told him, a bit put off by Nelson's less than charitable air, wondering if the killed and wounded had ruined what might have been a fine report for Nelson to submit to Admiral Hotham.
"You're quite sure it was him, I take it?" Nelson demanded of him. "My opposite number, this will-o'-the-wisp, Choundas?"
"No error, sir. Saw him with my glass as he hauled his wind to break off the action, stern-to to us. A mite uglier than last I saw of him in the Far…"
"So this Mister… Silberberg wrote to me, Lewrie," Captain Nelson grumbled, his long dainty fingers fretting papers on his desk, still standing and looking down distractedly. "I do not very much care for spy-craft, nor for those who engage in it. Valuable though their information may be at times… they… some of them, put far too little emphasis or value on the fighting man, take too much upon themselves, and too much of the credit…"
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