Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

"You said anything'd do, sir, so I grabbed the first four near to hand, sir." Hyde smirked. "Accident, really, but it's… It, uhm… means… 'Start Excess Water,' sir."

Lewrie looked aloft once more, hands on his hips, shaking his head in wonder, and began to bray with laughter! "Take it down, Mister Hyde… take it down. 'Fore the others think we're passing the word from Nelson to pump out and lighten ship. Run up more, as if we were speakin' the flagship. Meaningless strings of rubbish, mind, no real legible orders to anyone. Serve 'em gibberish, to keep our Dons on the hop. Good, God… 'Start Excess Water'! Hah!"

"Aye, sir." Hyde chuckled.

"Well, we won't be trying that on again anytime soon," Lewrie told Knolles, once he'd paced back to the nettings overlooking the waist at the forrud end of the quarterdeck. "Discretion above valour is our watchword. How is Captain faring?"

"Her fore topmast's shot away, sir, but it appears she's gunnel-to-gunnel with one of theirs. And boarding her!" Knolles relished to relate. "A real neck-or-nothing day, sir."

And by five in the afternoon it was over. The Spanish never managed to unite, and the smaller body of ships which had lain to leeward had turned about and sailed off to the South, out of sight. The bulk of the main body had limped away towards Cadiz, with the British squadron too cut up to pursue But it was a day of victory.

For the Spanish had left behind four ships: San Ysidro, a 3rd Rate of 74 guns; San Nicolas, a 3rd Rate 80, which Nelson had first engaged and boarded; the San Jose and Salvador del Mundo, both 2nd Rates of 112 guns! All defeated by slipshod sail handling and collisions, by horrendous casualties, and extremely poor, and slow, gunnery.

For a time, the flagship of Vice-Admiral Don Jose de Corduba, that four-deck monster the Santissima Trinidad, had struck her colours too, after being totally dis-masted, forcing the Spanish admiral to transfer to a frigate. A last-chance rally 'round 4:00 p.m. though had driven the British off, so the Spaniards could tow their flagship away. The largest warship in the world of 136 guns, the only four-decker anyone would ever build, and she'd almost been taken as prize-by the ferocity of Nelson and his 74-gunned HMS Captain!

"There, there, bad noises done… no more gun stinks," Lewrie told his cat, Toulon, as he carried him in his arms, cosseting and stroking him. The black-and-white ram-cat had spent the day far below decks on the orlop with Aspinall and the Ship's Carpenter, Mr. Reese, bottled up and moaning as gun-thunder echoed and thrummed 'round him. Now he was famished for attention and "pets," mewing plaintively, pawing, kneading "biscuits" for comfort. "Mmmah-whahhJ" he entreated, muzzle under his master's chin.

"Big, timorous baby, yes I know…"

"Signal, sir!" Midshipman Spendlove announced. "Our number from the flag!"

Followed by "What Sort of Lunatic Are You?" I shouldn't wonder, Lewrie told himself with a rueful shrug.

"It's 'Captain Repair on Board,' sir," Spendlove concluded.

"Very well," Lewrie replied, turning to call out to his First Officer, "Mister Knolles? Take us down to Victory and lay us under her lee. Mister Cony? Ready my gig and boat crew. Best turnout, Cox'n Andrews."

"Aye, sah… best rig," his Jamaican coxswain answered. "We'll be ready, sah… as hon'some as Sunday Divisions!"

Handsome they were, half an hour later, when they rowed him over to the flagship, tricked out in clean check shirts, slop-trousers, and brass-buttoned, short, blue shell jackets. Ably competent too, hooking onto the starboard main-chains at the first try, oars tossed upright as one, as Lewrie made the long ascent up boarding battens and man-ropes to the upper deck.

A fresh-scrubbed side-party greeted him with twittering bosun's pipes, the slap of stout shoes on oak planking, horny hands on Brown Bess muskets, and a glittery whirl of swords presented in salute, winking in the wan winter sunset.

"This way, Commander Lewrie, if you please," an officer bade.

Up to the broad quarterdeck, where a group of senior officers stood, hats off and chortling like they'd just left a good comedy back home in Drury Lane and were waiting for their coaches to take them to some even more diverting entertainment: Captain Robert Calder and Captain Grey, Fleet Captain and the Flag Captain of HMS Victory; Rear-Admiral Parker off Prince George; Vice-Admiral The Honourable William Waldegrave off Barfleur -Admiral Hood's old flagship during the Revolution-Vice-Admiral Charles Thompson off Britannia; and Lewrie's recent squadron commander during '94-'95, Commodore Horatio Nelson, cheek-by-jowl with the gruffly gracious Admiral Sir John Jervis, K.B., a dour old tar who (there's a wonder, Alan goggled!) seemed almost congenial for a change. 'Twas a wonder what a victory would do.

"Sir John, gentlemen," the lieutenant announced. "Commander Lewrie of the Jester sloop."

"Lewrie… ah!" Old Jarvy grumped, doffing his large cocked hat as Lewrie did his, his head tilted back a bit to peer (rather dubiously, did Alan imagine?) down his fine-sculpted nose. "Heard some about you, sir. 'Deed I have," he pronounced, most disconcertingly.

That don't sound promisin', Lewrie quailed, not knowing how he might respond. Just how much has he heard? And which bits?

"Your servant, Sir John," he cooed instead, making a "leg."

"Well?" Old Jarvy barked, still holding his hat high over his head though Lewrie had lowered his to his side. "Did you? 'Start your water'? And was that before or after the Santissima Trinidad fired?"

"Oh!" Lewrie brightened instantly, much relieved to hear the chuckle which rose from Sir John, see the puckish grin on his phyz… to receive much the same sort of cheery approbation from the rest, all those senior and august commanders! "I'm certain more'n a few of our people did, Sir John… immediately after. For myself, 'twas a close run thing. I didn't anticipate such a response… certainly not her full attention."

"A fellow who yanks the lion's tail, sir," Admiral Jervis said, with a touch of high-nosed frost, "simply must expect a clawing!" He twinkled, snorted-actually making a jape! Almost but not quite as full of jollity as an affable compatriot and nothing like the flinty, humourless disciplinarian he was reputed to be, who could give anyone a case of the runs by simply glaring at him.

Admiral Jervis clapped his hat back on, stepping closer to take Lewrie's hand and pump away at it quite vigourously for a brief time, as the rest tittered polite appreciation for their commander's jest.

"I'll caution you, Commander Lewrie, about making a career of tomfoolery," Sir John added, pursing his features nigh to an actual admonishment, "but 'twas a splendid gesture nonetheless. You, Captain Troubridge in Culloden… Commodore Nelson… Was it disobedience of my signalled orders…?" he posed, detaching his hand from Lewrie's. Christ, am I for it after all? Lewrie shivered again. Distressingly, now his hand was free again, Admiral Jervis doffed his hat high aloft once more, making Alan twitch in indecision. "… then it was a most forgivable disobedience, hmmm?" "Thankee, Sir John," Lewrie muttered, dumbstruck. That hat…! "Your casualties, sir, your damage?" Admiral Jervis asked more softly, coming closer, and glooming up in grim expectation.

"Why, none, sir," Lewrie declared. "No damage either. They couldn't shoot worth a… they were very poor at long-range firing." "Close-in, though…" One of the senior officers sighed. "But still, slow as 'church-work,' " Little Nelson chortled with glee. "Else we'd never have been able to stand within pistol-shot for as long as we did, sirs. Yank the lion's tail indeed, Sir John. Got Santissima Trinidad to waste a month's worth of shot and powder on his ship… 'stead of mine. My thanks, Commander Lewrie. When he was of my squadron at Genoa, sirs, I found none more expeditious and slyboots than Commander Lewrie when it came to befuddling our foes."