"Signal's down, sir!" Hyde shouted.
"Wear-ho, Mister Knolles," Lewrie directed moodily. "Put the ship about to the starboard tack."
There was a thin warlike sound down to leeward that turned his attention north once more, a flat, slamming thud of a gun. That French corvette had just shot off a lee gun, the traditional challenge to combat! The misty single bloom of gun smoke rose over her decks, obscured by her hull and sails.
Would they…? But Agamemnon showed no sign that Nelson had even taken notice; no directions to Jester, or another of the powerful frigates in the squadron to go teach that Frenchman some manners.
"What a lot of gall, I must say, sir!" Knolles all but yelped in spite of himself, once the ship had her head around.
"That's the French for you, Mister Knolles." Lewrie felt like japing. "Just like women. Always have to have the last bloody word, d'ye see… in everything. And… full to their hairlines with ' Gaul,' don't ye know." He simpered.
"Oh, merciful God, sir," Midshipman Spendlove groaned at just how bad a jape it was. "Ow!"
"You wouldn't be just the slightest bit French, yourself, would you, Mister Spendlove?" Lewrie snickered, feeling his mood brightening at last, now that Jesters bowsprit pointed to someplace more promising. "Do I detect a touch of ' Gaul ' in you, as well, sir?"
"God, no, sir!" Spendlove countered. "That was good old English cheek. The sort allowed midshipmen. A different matter entirely, sir!"
"I stand corrected about your antecedence, young sir," he said with a mock bow. As Lewrie turned away, he missed the wink exchanged between Hyde and Spendlove, the smiles of relief among the crew. The captain had cracked a jest, and a smile, after weeks without. Perhaps the bad times were over. For him, and for them all.
So long, Corsica, Lewrie thought, peering sou'west, though that isle was far under the horizon, a hundred mile or more. So long, my shore house. And my damn' rent money! And Phoebe, and my… well.
Free of Hotham, free of the fleet, under an energetic commander such as Horatio Nelson, Lewrie was sure there'd be action galore, and the reek of fired guns. Bags of other things to deal with, to think about; so much that he would no longer have a chance to remain venal or weak. A chance for redemption, perhaps?
Daft as a March hare… reedy as a willow wand, was Nelson, but Lewrie was coming to like his direct, and enthusiastic aggressiveness. And who'd o' thought it, the first time he'd met him. Or the second.
And this time, please God… he prayed silently. I promise to keep me member buttoned snug in me breeches; swear on a stack o' Bibles, if you like. Just steer us to action, so I can stay out o' trouble.
Mostly, he amended quickly.
And, he could not help smiling ruefully; there was a phrase he had heard, mostly on the lower deck, the wry wisdom of a frazzled sailor who had bitten off more than he could chew. And, it even rhymed!
When in trouble, when in doubt…
hoist th' main,
and fuck-off out!
"Ahum." He coughed into his fist. "Steady as she goes, Mister Brauer. East-sou'east. Thus."
Pipes squealing, Marine muskets and deck-officers' swords presented in salute, as Commander Lewrie attained the entry port of Agamemnon, just after Captain Cockburn. The dance of gigs roundabout to line up in order of seniority had almost seemed laughable; had it not been deadly serious to some of the participants.
"Welcome aboard, sir," an Agamemnon Lieutenant greeted Lewrie's safe arrival on the starboard gangways. "Might you join the rest, on the quarterdeck yonder, for just a moment, sir, till…"
"Certainly, sir." Alan smiled, looking forward to an opportunity to speak to Fremantle again, that tall, laconic stalwart; and, to become acquainted with the rest of the captains of their squadron, who had so far been faceless names aboard distant ships.
"Captain Fremantle, good morning to you, sir."
"Lewrie… hey," Thomas Fremantle replied, never known for the use of five words, when one or two would do. "Keep well?"
"Indeed, sir. And free of our admiral, sure to keep better."
An audible sniff to his right, which turned Lewrie's attention to a very young post-captain, a prim, upright, almost delicately handsome sprog with an eager and earnest expression on his "phyz." Though at first glance, a moment before, that "phyz" had borne the not-quite-with-us-yet blandness and perpetual weak-mouthed pout of someone from the peerage, the sort who felt nigh-overwhelmed but was determined not to show it to lesser mortals. Now, a long vane of a nose, with a pug-tilted tip was lifted high in what appeared to be sudden revulsion.
"Allow me to name myself, sir. Alan Lewrie, the Jester sloop." Lewrie beamed with malicious glee to so discomfit such a paragon. "And I believe you are Captain Cockburn, of the Meleager frigate?"
Of course, he'd known; all he'd had to do was see from where a captain's gig had come, and observe the rigid order of boarding.
"It's announced Coe-burn, sir," the young sprog announced in a testy snap, looking Lewrie up and down like a disbelieving tailor.
"Your servant, Captain Coe-burn," Lewrie offered. "And I stand corrected." Beaming on, as if nothing could deter a sunny smile.
"Really, Commander Lewrie, our admiral…" Cockburn's petulant thin-lipped mouth grimaced in disapproval.
"Savior of Corsica, sir," Lewrie asserted quite cheerfully.
"Uhm, yess… though you sounded less than supportive of…" Cockburn frowned, as if disarmed; or at least confused.
"Spot o' bother at home, we heard, Lewrie?" Fremantle interjected quickly, to defuse the situation. "Better now?"
"Quite, Captain Fremantle," Alan said, allowing his intercessor to lead him away, quite thankfully. "Winter agues. 'Twas a near thing but my wife and children have recovered, sir, and thankee for askin'."
He caught a testy sniff from Cockburn, to his rear. Was he one of those hidebound in the Navy who had no use for a married officer, suspecting them of a lack of zeal and attention to duties?
Damn him, then, Lewrie thought quickly; senior to me or no, he's barely a jot over twenty-one. Already made "post" when most his age are lucky to be commissioned, at all? As much the "boy-captain" as Nelson looked at Turk's Island, I swear. Touch of the brogue or burr to him, no matter how "plumby" he speaks, too. Irish or Scottish? Lewrie wondered to himself. No, definitely a burr-maybe Lowland variety. Fair complected like a Scot. Your daddy a trewed Lowland Scot laird, young Captain Coe-burn? No knees for the proper kilt?
As he and Fremantle conversed, he turned a corner of his eye to measure Cockburn; just an inch or so taller than his own five-feet-nine, perhaps no heavier than his own twelve stone. Courtier-slim, elegant in his carriage… aware of himself, too.
Lt. George Andrews, Agamemnon's first officer, joined them, and Fremantle drifted away. "Bit of a rigid stick, hmm? Cockburn?" Alan inquired softly. "Know much about him, do you, sir?"
"Oh, him sir?" Lieutenant Andrews shrugged. "The usual story, Commander Lewrie. A long schooling, like most of us, carried on ship's books without actually serving, till he was fourteen or so." Andrews smiled. "Went into his first ship in eighty-six… passed his board, first try, in
ninety-two, I believe. Was aboard Brittania, with Hotham, when the war began…"
"No wonder he didn't like my scurrilous comments." Lewrie almost winced, beginning to wonder if he'd tromped through the manure again, in his best boots.
"A scurrilous comment 'bout our admiral, sir?" Andrews recoiled in mock horror. "Probably not a jot on what I've already heard, but… then into Victory under Hood as tenth lieutenant. Then into Speedy after a few months. You know the benefits of the flagship's wardroom, and may we all thank God for it, I say. Had Speedy for just a little over four months, and did incredibly good service in her, too. Then was jumped to "post" into Inconstant when Captain Montgomerie had to ask for relief."
"Mercurial." Lewrie sighed.
"A month in her, then into Meleager, Commander Lewrie." Andrews chuckled. "No, I should think mercurial can't quite convey how quickly he's rising! A good enough sort, I've gathered. Captain Nelson thinks the world of him. Sober, high-minded, a taut hand… though a bit of a stickler. Stiff and stuffy, but…" Andrews shrugged again. "Why?"
"Just want to know with whom I'm dealing, Lieutenant Andrews," Lewrie discounted. "After all, we'll be depending on each other…"
"Oh, I get your meaning, sir." Andrews brightened. "Haven't a worry in the world with him at your back, sir. When it comes to combat, Captain Cockburn's a perfect Tartar. Doesn't look the sort, does he? But then, neither does Captain Nelson, were one to judge solely 'pon a fellow's appearance, Commander Lewrie. Though I must say, you appear as… dare I say, sir?… as dashing as your past exploits repute you to be?" Andrews drew a finger down his own cheek, as if to scribe the cutlass scar on Lewrie's. "God help the French, Commander Lewrie, our captain remarked when he learned Jester, and 'Ram-Cat' Lewrie were to be part of our squadron."
It was quite refreshing for Lewrie, now that he was somewhat a "senior" officer, to be toadied to, gushed at, to have a subordinate "piss down his back" as he had over the years to senior officers. All he could do was blush in surprise, scuff his shoes, and make a stab at "shy" noises.
"Ah?" Lieutenant Andrews chirped, when a midshipman came to his side. "Very well, Mister Nisbet. Gentlemen, sirs? Captain Nelson is now able to receive you, and allow me to express his apologies for keeping you waiting. If you will follow me, sirs…?"
Nelson's stepson, Josiah Nisbet, Lewrie gathered, looking that somewhat portly, smug young man over; God help Nelson, he thought; as bad as old Forrester, back in Desperate. And thinking about old times in the American Revolution, he could not help wondering… one of his old captains, aboard Desperate-Tobias Treghues-one of God's Own Cuckoos, he. Offend him once, and you were in his bad books forever. And I think I just offended another of his tribe, Cockburn. Well then, God help me … again!
Stewards circulated, trotting out glasses and wine as senior men took seats near Nelson's desk, and the rest stood as close as they were able. It was a Tuscan red, a tad dry and puckery, but it was as close as Nelson might come to a proper "Welcome Aboard" claret, after a year or more in the Mediterranean.
"Gentlemen, good day to you all," Nelson began once they were supplied. "I should like to start by proposing a toast. To our squadron. To us."
"To us!" they chorused, tipping back their glasses.
"It is a fragile, and may soon seem like an arduous and frustrating, task upon which we have been embarked," Nelson continued. "One, I trust… given your zeal for its performance… which shall not prove to be unrewarding, or absolutely vital to our cause. But one that may seem to pose you on tenterhooks, should this duty be pursued properly. Top-up for you? And then I will reveal it to you."
