Those two taken, but Illustrious had been mauled after she had come up to aid Agamemnon and the lead frigates. She'd been taken in tow by the Meleager frigate, but blown onto a rocky shoal off Avenca on the Genoese coast, and lost. HMS Berwick captured alone, too. Tit for tat.
And today… one French ship of the line shot to rags, set on fire, and her colors struck to Agamemnon and her tiny squadron. But she'd blown up before she could be taken as prize. And Admiral Hotham was most like content… again!.. with the results! One for nought. Tit for tat. What a bargain, Alan thought; why, by the turn of the century, we'll surely've whittled 'em down to a manageable number!
"He's a glass on me, sir," Hyde carped, referring to the signals midshipman aboard Agamemnon, not half a nautical mile ahead, and to their right. "Surely, he sees our repeat signal."
"I'd imagine his captain is trying to digest it first, Mister Hyde," Lewrie snarled. "Farts! A brace of farts, the pair of them! Their Martin and our Hotham. Goddamned rabbit-hearted… dismal, cowering farts stagg'rin' about in a bloody… fucking… trance!"
There, at last; Agamemnon hauled down her "Query," and hoisted the proper repeater reply. Cumberland answered a moment later, along with Fremantle's Inconstant, Captain Cockburn's Meleager, and the rest of Captain Nelson's small detached squadron, which had ended up far in the lead of the battle line, as usual.
"Mister Knolles, secure the hands from quarters," Lewrie said. "Run out the larboard battery and bowse up to the bulwarks. Same with the starboard battery. Get her flat on her keel again, and ready to comply with any alteration of course Agamemnon directs."
"Aye, sir," Knolles grunted in disappointment. "Uhm, I s'pose sir…"
"Aye, Mister Knolles?" Lewrie snapped.
"Well, sir. At least we chased 'em back to their kennel. That must be worth something. Kept 'em from escorting a grain convoy from North Africa." Knolles posed with a wistful hopefulness.
To which his captain replied with a dismissive, "Shit!"
"Well, sir…" Knolles shrugged.
"Martin came straight for us, chased us a day and a night from nigh to Genoa back to San Fiorenzo, Mister Knolles," Lewrie commented. "As close to looking for an engagement as that mouse will ever get… while the grain convoy most like went sou'west, near the Balearics so we'd be feinted away from any hope of intercepting it. Four damn' days we've been playing tail chase, far off to the north and east. I'll lay you any odds you like they're loaded by now, and heading home. And I'll lay you even better odds our Admiral Hotham will trundle back to Corsica, as pleased as a pig in shit, and never think to detach scouting frigates to look for 'em, till they're back in Marseilles. We've been buggered, in short. Again. Now, attend to my orders, sir. I've no time… nor any reason… to discuss tactics or strategy. Not when our commanding admiral is so bereft of understanding either."
"Aye aye, sir," Knolles almost wilted under the unaccustomed heat of Lewrie's bile. He was not usually the target for his captain's wrath.
Philosophically, he realized though, that anyone would suffice for the moment, and that it wasn't in any way personal. Or permanent.
"He's having one of his days," Knolles said to Bosun's Mate Cony a few minutes later, once the guns had been secured; powder bags and shot drawn, flint-lock strikers removed, touch-holes and vents covered, and tampions inserted in the barrels. "Poor bugger."
"Ya might say that, Mister Knolles, sir," Cony allowed, looking aft at the moody, impatiently pacing captain, all hunched over like some plow-ox brooding on remembered goads. "But, he's had a power o' worry t'fret on, 'side's how we look t'be losin' this 'ere war, so far, sir. But th' latest news from home'z better. An', he's the sunny sort. I 'spect he's weathered th' worst Sing small f r a few more days, Mister Knolles. Till we're t'Genoa proper, an' he'll be himself, again. But right now, he don't need no more frustin."
"Point taken, Mister Cony," Knolles grinned shyly. "No more of our petty, uuhm… frustrations?" he suggested diplomatically.
"Now 'at's th' very word I wuz lookin' for, sir. Th' very word."
Got to stop taking things out on the people, Lewrie chided himself, massaging his temples, and the bridge of his nose, as if trying to scrub himself into a better humor.
But it had been a horrible winter, a miserable spring, and looked to be a dismal and frustrating summer, this fine new year of 1795. Both professionally-saddled with an inept, sluggard of a shit-brain fool as commander of the fleet-and lately, personally, as well. In fact, for a time it had been a terrifying time; though that was somewhat eased by his brother-in-law's last letters.
For perhaps the hundredth time, he wished he'd never made that bold, smug toast to Nelson and Fremantle. How hollow that wish for victory seemed now, how rashly he'd tempted fickle Fate.
With Corsica theirs, and Lord Hood worn down to a nubbin by the pressures of command, he'd struck his flag the previous September, just after Calvi surrendered, and had sailed for home in his flagship, HMS Victory. And had taken victory, or any hopes of one, with her. Hood had promised intentions of returning, refreshed, sometime in the new year, but "Black Dick" Howe had kept his promise to retire, and Hood had been retained as senior admiral in London, ashore. Vice Admiral Hotham had taken over the Mediterranean fleet, after Sir Hyde Parker had stood in for the interim.
Parker was cautious and conservative, to be sure, but competent.
Hotham, now, well… cautious was about as much as anyone might allow. Dull, dithering, slow as molasses, unable to commit, or make a decision. His favorite color was rumored to be "plaid." But he was so senior he couldn't be passed over, too healthy to ship home as unfit. And had far too much patronage to be trifled with even by Lord Hood, the Board of Admiralty, or the Prime Minister, Pitt.
Perhaps Hood was too exhausted to care, Lewrie brooded in foul humor; though the signs had been evident long before. While Jester was fitting out at Gibraltar to go home in the early spring of '94, Hotham had been at sea near Toulon. He'd loped back to Corsica just as soon as the French put out, to join up with Hood, though he'd been an equal match for Admiral Comte Martin's fleet, and could have won himself an epic victory, if he'd even lifted one finger to try. French seamanship was abysmal back then, the jumped-up matelots from the lower decks who'd commanded hadn't the first clue, and it could have been a proper massacre! But for Hotham's caution. By the time Hood sailed from San Fiorenzo, Martin had staggered into Golfe Jouan, and got himself blockaded for seven months… as out of the game as a legless pensioner at Greenwich Naval Hospital.
With Hood's departure, though… it was like taking tea water off the boil, and setting it out on a windowsill without pouring into the pot. Their "brew" had gone tepid, unleaved; then positively cold.
The winter gales had set in around November, and Hotham had so reduced poor Bear Admiral Goodall's blockading squadron that once he'd been blown off-station, Martin had been free to nip along the coast to Toulon and refit toward the end of the month.
Then, like locking the stable door after the horses had bolted, Hotham had assigned the proper number of frigates and lesser warships to watch Marseilles, Toulon, Hyeres Bay, and Gourjean Bay, when no one but an utter drooling idiot in Bedlam would have thought of sailing.
And Jester had been one of those lesser ships, one of the very unlucky, and had spent up to twelve days at a stretch, at times, heaving and bobbing like a wine cork under storm trys'ls, or heaved-to and bare-poled, trusting to sea-anchor drogues to keep her bows-on to wind and sea so she wouldn't broach or capsize. And a very merry Christmas season that had been!
Then in the spring of '95, once the weather had cleared, Martin had come out, much better armed, refitted, and trained, as well as reinforced.
Probably threatened from Paris with the guillotine, he had at least pretended to try to retake Corsica. He'd left his 18,000 men and transports at Toulon, thinking he had to clear the seas of the Royal Navy, first. And where was Hotham and the fleet? At San Fiorenzo Bay, where they could guard Corsica? Good Christ, no, he'd taken them over to Leghorn on the Tuscan coast, no matter that the Mediterranean was so full of spies and informers you could purchase two with dinner. Surely Hotham had been told, hadn't he? Had an inkling? And if the line-of-battle ships had needed refits, then why hadn't he fetched the supplies to Corsica, rather than sailing over to them?
"So everyone could come down with the pox," Lewrie muttered in acidic jest. Leghorn was a hotbed, a paradise, of vice and venery-and hip-deep in diseased whores of every persuasion, something for just about anyone's purse, or taste. San Fiorenzo by comparison was almost stuffy and Calvinist, and dull as Scotland on a Sunday.
And what better way to erode the efficiency of his ships, than to expose officers and men to the debilitating effects of the pox and the Mercury Cure.
God, even Nelson and Fremantle had succumbed! Fremantle had met some Greek doxy through old John Udney, the British Consul. Another of the Prize Agent, Prize Court set, and Lewrie strongly suspected he also lined his purse as a pimp to the visiting squirearchy. Nelson took up with one Adelaide Correglia. No raving beauty, that; no sylphlike armful! The night Lewrie had dined aboard Agamemnon at anchor, that doxy- who'd moved into the great-cabins with Nelson, for God's sake!-had trotted out to table in little more than a sheer nightgown and dressing robe. So tight bodices or corsets wouldn't aggravate the abscess in her side she temporarily suffered, so please you! Prating, silly, and inane, twittering and tittering-and that went for the pair of them.
Why, the man'd made a perfect ass of himself over the mort, all but cutting her meat for her, and feeding her forkfuls, all but wiping her chin, and toasting her so lovey-dovey every five minutes it'd damn' near made him spew. And, as Fremantle had put it on their way back to their gigs, "makes himself ridiculous with that woman. Damned bad supper, to boot!"
No, Hotham had been just as bedazzled, and as buggered, as any of his officers, and when word finally came, he'd scrambled to sortie, with only thirteen of the line. Well, fourteen, if one could count a Neapolitan 3rd Rate-74 as seaworthy, or battle-ready.
* * *
That first set-to in March had been in weather as scant, and a wind as light, as today's. Three days pussy-footing about--farting about!-and unable to close each other. And, even with twenty-two sail of the line, Martin had proved to be just as timorous as Hotham. And just about as benighted, with no eagerness to do much of anything.
While the rest of the fleet had almost posed for paintings atop a mirror-smooth sea, Nelson in Agamemnon, thankfully without Adelaide Correglia, had forged ahead, dragging Fremantle's Inconstant, Cockburn's Meleager frigate, and a few more with him to harry the tail end of the French, who had been content to run for home and Mother, with their tails tucked between their legs. Jester had been right up with them, and for a time, it had seemed as if that epic sea battle would occur.
