Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

• Название: A King`s Commander
• Автор: Dewey Lambdin
• Жанр: Морские приключения

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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"Get me Hainaut back," Le Hideux said, of a sudden. "He's not a Breton, but he's of the ancient blood, of the Belgae. In his head he has information we need, Pouzin. He's been in Vado Bay, aboard this Jester. He may be only a midshipman… now. But, he's paissan con-nard, a wily one. A cunning one. He has a great future. He's counted their guns, can tell us of their ships, their schedules…"

"But we know them," Pouzin countered. He could not relate what his latest secret letter from Genoa hinted, from one of their principals aboard II Briosco; that Hainaut had been taken so easily, so clumsily, that the "Bloody" sailors laughed at him. A cunning peasant, yes, he was, Pouzin was sure; cunning enough to have a very strong streak for self-preservation. "A sixty-four-gun ship of the line, three frigates, a pair of what we would call corvettes, a pair of brigs of war, a brig-sloop of fourteen guns, and a cutter."

"We know the ships, yes, Pouzin, but not the men who command," Le Hideux demanded. " Hainaut will know to listen and learn, to probe and discover their faults. You will get him back quickly."

"I will get him paroled," Pouzin promised; it was easier than saying no, though how long it might take… "There are midshipmen of equal value from the Berwick Admiral Comte Martin took in his initial trv against them. But…"

"Now there's a head that should tumble into the basket, Pouzin," Le Hideux sneered, tossing back his wine and reaching for another. "A coward and a fool, who abandoned Зa Ira and Censeur. Another Bec-quet. Another time-server. Another shop clerk! Hainaut is ten times that Martin's worth. At least he is dedicated, and zealous. You don't see, do you? Have I not told you of the ancient Chinois general, Sun T'zu? The man who knows his enemy, as well as he knows himself, will never be defeated. Especially if he knows himself, best of all. What are their faults, their strengths? Their vices, their weaknesses… what have we learned about them, so far, I ask you?"

That was an indictment of Pouzin's intelligence-gathering, and could not go unanswered.

"A fair amount, Capitaine," Pouzin retorted, baring his teeth. "We know that this Nelson took both Зa Ira and Censeur. Traded fire with Alcide before she blew up. He was a favorite of Hood. Led the battle line both times Martin fought Hotham. A very aggressive man. Our principal met him, when he represented Hood in Genoa, last year, and was highly impressed. A little fellow, a bit frail…"

"Watch out for the little ones, Pouzin, the minnikins have more ambition than most," Le Hideux cackled. "He will be vaunting, brave. Perhaps too ambitious and eager for glory. Ah ha!"

"The frigate Inconstant," Pouzin went on, proving his worth to Le Hideux, and hating every minute of justifying himself to such a hideous fellow. "Her Captain Fremantle… dull, dogged, quiet. Capable, but inarticulate."

"A follower," Le Hideux dismissed. "A gundog. The others?" "The one off Finale, Meleager. Her Captain Cockburn is a young man, a minor 'aristo' from lower Scotland. Very prim and proper, but…" "His family rich?"

"I don't know," Pouzin intoned, the phrase he hated most of all! "A rich 'aristo' will be smug, easily satisfied. A poor one will be all ambition and nose-high airs, too proud to listen to anyone. He's lucky once, but again? Go on. Tell me of this Jester's captain."

"A commander, in his early thirties. She has eighteen cannon on her main deck… nine-pounders. Carronades, of course. They all seem to have them, almost doubling their armament. She was a French corvette, once… Sans Culottes… taken off Toulon after the 'Bloodies'…"

"But you don't know his identity," Le Hideux purred. "Not yet. He has not set foot in Genoa, so no one… but your Midshipman Hainaut, has seen him, so far." Pouzin sighed in surrender. It appeared that he would have to get Hainaut exchanged, and as quickly as possible, after all. "We know little more about her. An agent from Calvi-when we still had communications with him-reported Jester's arrival at San Fiorenzo. Last June, or July, as I recall. I don't have my records with me. I doubt that agent is willing to make inquiries now, since Corsica is occupied. Getting a letter to him is almost imp…"

"Try Genoa, first. I know the 'Bloodies.' There's nothing they like more than a stroll ashore, an invitation to a supper, or a ball. A coupling with a whore? You can arrange that, Pouzin?"

"Of course, Capitaine," Pouzin agreed with a tiny smile. "Poxed, or otherwise?"

"Oh, the 'Bloodies,' so many of them are already poxed. Look at how little effect it had, after their long stay at Leghorn." Le Hideux chuckled. "I want to know who he is, what he's like… so I can lay the trap that kills him, Pouzin. He's dangerous, this one, whoever he may be. He's hurt our Cause, made us look like fools, le salaud intrigant!"

Made you look the fool, Pouzin thought, his face a stony mask.

"I will move the squadron east, Pouzin," Le Hideux announced suddenly. "I must. Our presence at sea must be seen, by the Savoians, and our unwitting… traders, hein?"

"Escorted convoys?" Pouzin hoped aloud.

"We must," Le Hideux growled. "Else we risk losing more ships, more supplies, which the Army needs so badly. And soon, before de Vins masses his Austrians. Or the Genoese at last find a scrap of courage. We must both use our influence… or our threats… against Toulon, to force Martin to give me the strength I need. He hoards corvettes and frigates, refuses me any of the trained men or experienced officers I need. Yet expects me to work miracles with my castoffs and converted merchantmen. Here, here, is where the Navy should be, Pouzin! Facing the 'Bloodies' with a large squadron, under my command. Four of our little armed tartane expedients could never outgun or outfight one British frigate. Yet, how dare they sneer when we fail! If we wish to defeat the Austrians, and guard our borders, they must release to me the proper ships, at last. I cannot face this embargo, otherwise."

"Well, there is a way, perhaps, to weaken it," Pouzin hinted coyly. "While you prevail upon Toulon to send more warships. Jester fired a shot over the heads of those looters who were desecrating our brave soldiers. But, can we not allege that the damage to their buildings came from an indiscriminate broadside… against Bordigheran civilians? That this British ship fired on innocent, helpless villagers, hein? We both know the 'Bloodies' have no real love for Savoians, or the Genoese. They mean to exploit them, use them in the most cynical manner, to uphold rich 'aristos' and landowners, at the poor people's expense. A broadside of our own… a paper broadside, hein?… might make infuriating reading in Genoa. A slaughter on the docks, too, when the poor people came down to save their town from being burned to the ground?"

"I see." Le Hideux nodded, his eyes widening with the possibilities. "But," he countered with a petulant air, "they might send this Jester away from the coast, put her at patrol duties far out to sea… where I cannot reach her with the force I now have. A Jester took my Little Fool at Bordighera. But I will not be this man's fool, Pouzin. I will not laugh at his jests. He must pay. Oui, we must weaken the embargo, and embarrass the 'Bloodies.' If it takes your lies to do it, et alors. But it is bloodless. The Italian states must see British blood for French blood. We must have victories to boast of, so they come to fear us. Or admire us. We must be seen able to punish this Jester, don't you see?" Le Hideux insisted, his eyes bulging, and a livid purple-red cast coming to his scars, in a flushed ginger face. "And you will aid me in arranging it," Le Hideux concluded, with the sureness of the delusional demented.

"A hid…" Pouzin began to say, but checked himself. "A titanic task," he amended. Too late. Le Hideux's good eye had slitted in black fury. No one but Hainaut had ever been able to mention his maiming, without suffering for it. Die Narbe, he named him in admiration and a respectful jest. Something Pouzin was not allowed, would never be allowed. Too many slips of the tongue like that, and Pouzin would pay, with his head on the block beneath the blade, one day!

Pouzin flinched a trifle, though he meant to stare calmly, turn bland and innocuous. Since his first sight of Le Hideux, Brutto Faccia, Die Narbe… however men called him… he'd felt ice water trickle down his spine in dread of him, had felt his "coulles" shrivel up inside his groin. And had felt his stomach turn in utter loathing of the outward appearance, as well as the soul within.

"I will compose the rumor at once, Capitaine," Pouzin swore. "And get it off east. And arrange for Jester's captain to be studied. Hainaut to be paroled and exchanged for someone off Berwick. And you still plan the convoy to Alassio? I must make arrangements for them to meet it," Pouzin ticked off, trying not to sound rushed, though he felt a tremendous urge to be away from the poisonous little monster. "You will extend your escorts east, to protect this convoy, and offer battle to the 'Bloodies,' hein?"

"Oui," Le Hideux confirmed, his remaining eye hooded with venom.

"Au revoir, then, Capitaine."

"Au revoir, Citizen," Le Hideux snapped coldly.

It was quite a clever plan, the hideously scarred captain mused, and Hainaut 's "testimony" to an alleged massacre, once he'd been coached on what he was to "remember," would be even more official, and convincing. Citizen Pouzin indeed was very good at what he did. And being master of an intelligence ring was most likely as great a delight to him as "the deadly game" was to his minions. A tireless, and clever, worker, one totally dedicated to furthering the Revolution. Look what Samuel Adams's lies about the "Boston Massacre" had started!

Even if he had been a commercial importer-exporter from L'Orient before the Terror, and a minor representative in the fledgling Assembly. An elevated shop clerk-and a nattering lawyer-Le Hideux glowered; a rich man, as exalted as any "aristo"!

Pouzin was not to know it, but Le Hideux had already discovered his true identity through his own intelligence network of informers and collaborators, minor functionaries of local or naval committees, and a host of officials in the Ministry of Marine. There were skeletons in Pouzin's closet; some Royalist sentiments in the family, a cousin conveniently sent to Boston, and Pouzin's attempt to purchase a title back in 1786 of the old calendar. Someday, Le Hideux was sure he would use that information to damn Pouzin, if he persisted in ogling him like a carnival monster, or sneering behind his back at his mutilation. Not anytime soon, though, Le Hideux sighed. A new guard was taking over, the original patriots being supplanted, deposed, or guillotined after show trials, and the unctuous lawyers and bien йlevй schemers were now in the saddle, no better than the haughty "aristos" they'd helped kill. The professional politicians, Le Hideux sneered; it is ever thus! Men who thought him an ogre, too, a frightening, crippled toad who rose in the patronage of the giants of the Revolution that they'd replaced. A time to lie low, he decided, to escape their notice. And to give them such a military and naval success that his witch-finding activities for the original rebels could be conveniently forgotten. When Genoa became theirs… he could become their scourge, a shabby but useful tool for the sneering arrivistes. And take his chances.

There'd never been a time when he hadn't felt like a tool, an implement to be discarded. Safer, perhaps, to have remained a Breton peasant, in the fisheries with his father. He might have come to own three or four luggers, by now. But still go home each evening to a drab, and limited, village cottage, stinking offish and shiny with their scales. The ambitions his father had, that he had had… He could have become a priest, a pampered sycophant of the "aristos." Even without a cassock, the Jesuits had taught him much, had declared him to be a wondrous pupil. Had they not introduced him to Machiavelli's writings? How apt a preparation the Jesuits and their coldly calculating logic had been to him… to ready him for the time when he was better to be feared, than loved! His acceptance into the old Royal French Navy, the best he had been allowed, since getting into the glorious old aristocratic Armйe was impossible for a fisherman's son. The sneers and jibes there, too, as the smelly fishmonger's boy, the dirty-arsed coastal peasant…!

He'd risen, though, by doing their dirty work, by being better than anyone else. By taking on the tasks the idle "aristos" wouldn't, or couldn't. But, successful though he'd been, until his downfall in the Far East, he'd been their despicable tool, a brute instrument best kept on the orlop until needed. Then cast him aside, with a pittance for a disability pension, as soon as…

He'd made them pay, all those who had sneered at him, derided him, passed him over so some simpering frailty with a weak chin, but a perfect lineage, could advance. Revenge had been so sweet, and their terror so savory, when they'd beheld his new appearance. He'd hunted them down, with the diligence of a starving ferret clawing his way into a henhouse. Found them, denounced them no matter how secure they were in the new order, along with the "aristos" who truly deserved the guillotine, the weak, the foolish, the idle…

No, despite the appalling risk he ran to remain in power, even at the gall of his soul to remain the tool of more powerful men, the power was heady. Tried in the fire, he'd been-by his failure, and all the years he'd suffered the jeers and curses in the streets, the urchins who taunted him and imitated his limp, or ran screaming at the sight of him-for the fun of it!

Now, he knew how to use his hideousness to terrorize, in making handsome men jump when he gave an order. Or shiver like an aspic with a single glare! And the women… the ones who'd turned away, crossed the street, and crossed themselves for luck against him. Even whores who'd laughed him to scorn, or refused his trade, well… he'd hunted down a few of those, too, and their families. And made them pay their comeuppance in his cells, before their trials and beheadings.

Fear was a wonderful aphrodisiac, fear of his physical person, and fear of his power; greater and more coercive than mere political power. More brutal and direct, to get what he wanted. No woman anywhere in France could dare refuse him now.