Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

And in the waist, along the ravaged larboard gangway, Marines in slop clothing, and sailors, toiled. Sluicing and holystoning away the bloodstains. Hammering and driving what spare lumber they carried in carpenter's and bosun's stores, to the music of the fiddler and fifer. Not the dirge he expected-they labored to the easy-paced lilts of "The Derry Hornpipe." Soft-joshing each other, faint smiles and some bleak chuckling, now and again. A subdued and fairly somber crew, aye, he thought; but not a broken one.

H M S Jester was still a useful instrument of war.

"And," Lewrie dictated to Mountjoy, who was scribbling away as fast as he could to get a rough draft, "at no time were the three previous captured prize vessels ever actively threatened with recapture… as HMS Ariadne's captain suggests in his report. Therefore, sirs, his claims upon them are… damme, Mountjoy, what's a good legal word for horse turds?"

"I should think 'nugatory' would suit, sir," Mountjoy allowed with a brief grin. "Of little or no consequence."

"Right, then," Lewrie exulted, mopping his sweaty brow with a handkerchief, almost stifling in the great-cabin's enclosed warmth… and "exercised" with sullen ill-humor, to boot. "Therefore Ariadne's claim of shares in the aforesaid three vessels, taken solely by Jester long before her arrival… on the horizon, mind!… are nugatory, and totally without merit."

"Same thing, really, Captain," Mountjoy said dubiously.

"Wrap it in ribbons, plate it in gilt and shit… you read the law, you know the catchphrases." Lewrie snorted impatiently. "Hold him to the coals, and paint him the greedy fool. Trot out your really big guns and hull him, Mr. Mountjoy. The Prize Court 's bought every one of them, and their cargoes, and the settlement's been adjudged at nearly Ј30,000. And the lion's share should be ours. Ariadne didn't even get a scratch. Aye, add this… or something like it-couch it however you will- Jester fought the French national ship, and by her valiant duty reaped the higher honors, the greater glory, so…"

"To the victor belong the spoils, sir? Something like that?"

"Capital!" Lewrie rejoiced. "I'll leave the rest to you, you know the form by now for closure in Navalese. Have it, and a copy, in hand for my signature by tomorrow morning… just into the forenoon."

"Yes, sir," Mountjoy assured him. "I meant to say, 'aye aye, sir.' Sorry."

"Very well, Mister Mountjoy, that should be all. Aspinall?"

"Aye, sir?"

"I'll have that fresh shirt and stock now, for shore."

"Insufferable damn' pinchpenny," Lewrie still fumed, even as he made his way uphill to his town house, sweating that fresh shirt and stock, his waistcoat and breeches, to a pearl-gray rather than white. San Fiorenzo Bay had turned into a roasting pan, the last month or so. Aboard ship, one might snatch a cooling draught of air under awnings, or down a ventilator chute made from a topmast stays'l, but ashore…! The town had grown in size, had spread out along the strand and up over the scraggly hills on either hand, in the blink of an eye. But, a tent city, mostly-for the sick and wounded from the siege of Calvi. More sick than wounded, though. Illness that accompanied a land force slew even more than shot or shell.

That tumbledown osteria at the waterfront, that sprawling, and sleepy little tavern, had become a fresh-painted wonder; had added some patios, tables, and benches, almost doubling in size. The owners bowed to him as he passed, saluting him in the local dialect, as if he were their feudal liege. Osteria Paoli, their large new signboard boasted, replete with a crude portrait of the Corsican patriot leader. British officers (officers only, Lewrie noted!) were its principal patrons who almost filled every seat and table. Them, and their doxies.

" 'Least someone's profiting." Lewrie scowled, begrudging. Soon as the Prize Court had released their judgment, the month before, he'd fought a running battle to keep what he'd captured. Off at sea again, taking another pair of prizes in the meantime-large poleacres, this time. Burning or scuttling at least half-a-dozen more for which he'd been unable to supply prize crews… those new captures were all his. But every return to San Fiorenzo had brought new obfuscations about the convoy! And the share-out of prize money. Admiral Hood and his flag captain, his small staff, had already been awarded their eighth, while both Jester and Ariadne were still waiting for their portions. And Lewrie's two-eighths represented nearly Ј4,500! He suspected the agents and commissioners of the Prize Court were having an enjoyable time, just living off the interest, and their "take" for performing their duties-and those badly. "Probably spinning this out, damn' near till next Epiphany, so they can play with the… hullo?" He had groused under his breath, suddenly stopped short at the corner, having seen his and Phoebe's town house. "What the Devil …?"

There were two fashionable carriages, coach-and-fours, along the curbing, equipages that gleamed in the sun. Teams of decent-looking horses flicked their tails and manes against the ubiquitous flies, and liveried coaches and postilion boys did their duties as their masters prepared to depart. Richly clad civilians, done up in gowns or suits that wouldn't have looked out of place on The Strand, back in London!

And another brace of dray wagons along the side street, laden with heaped picture frames, paintings, chairs, and tables. Had Phoebe moved again, taken cheaper lodgings, been forced to…? No, they'd paid the year in advance. Or had she left him? he shivered.

He crossed the street, ready to lash out at somebody… anybody! But was greeted most jovially, in French or Italian; most of which he couldn't follow, but did get some gist from, something to do with being affiliated with "la contessa," or "vicomtesse." Which association perplexed him even further! Just who the blazes lived here now?

"Phoebe?" he bawled, once past those posturing clowns, and into the cooler air of the courtyard.

Which had turned into a furniture gallery, it seemed. Couches, wine tables, armoires and cabinets, gilded chairs were everywhere, two-a-penny.

"Ah, Alain, mon amour!" a familiar voice called down from the upper floor, and Phoebe appeared in the iron-guarded bedchamber window of the guest room above. "I be down wiz you, immediate, mon chou!"

She was wearing a new sack gown, something suitable for presentation at Court, though her hair was down, informal and unpowdered, as she tripped across the flagstones to embrace him.

"What the bloody hell is all this, I ask you?" he tried to say sternly, just before she threw her arms around his neck and lifted her feet off the ground. "Phoebe, I'm serious, girl. Don't… answer me."

"Oh, Alain, eez merchandise," she replied, waving one hand, to "pooh-pooh" its presence. "I tell you, remembre? Ze йmigrйs royaliste? Zey are sell zer s'ings, bon marchй. I buy from z'em, an' when people come to San Fiorenzo, zen zey buy from moil Non ze bon marchй! 'Ow do you say, ze uhm… profeet, oui?"

"You've gone into trade?" he huffed, scandalized.

"Non, Alain." She smiled, proud of being so clever. "Non trade. I deman' ze cash, on'y, now."

"Phoebe, I thought…" he babbled; not knowing what he thought!

"D'avant, uuhm…" she explained, threading an arm through his to lead him inside, skipping girlishly, "… in beginning, oui, I trade. Zose wiz'ou' furniture, zey 'ave jewelry, an' mus' 'ave beds. Or 'ave gold an' silver plate, si belle ! But, 'ave no monnaie for food, so… ze osteria, zose nice people, an' Signore Buceo 'oo rent to us? Some ozzers, we mak' ze arrangement. Food an' lodgings for trade jewelry, or furnishings. Ooh, Alain, close you' eyes, plais] I s'prise you!"