Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"While the real shipment, I take it…"

"None of your concern, sir!" Twigg snapped. "The less you know, the less you might blab, by accident. Signorina Mastandrea has already reported to her masters, I know it for a fact. Know their orders to her verbatim. She's to come to Leghorn, which she has, confirm reports from local informers anent your ship's state of repair, what orders you might have… and when Jester may be expected to sail, and arrive at Vado Bay."

"Do they know the ports of call, when I could depart to meet the cargo ship at Gibraltar, and when I finish at Vado Bay," Lewrie surmised, "they'd have a rough idea of where we'd be, any given day, assuming seasonal winds and seas. Within fifty miles or so. Two ships patrolling…"

Lewrie rose and went to his chart-space, to fetch a large-scale sea chart. He brought it back to the desk and spread it out for Twigg and Peel to look at.

"I'd expect Choundas to be greedy," Lewrie pondered aloud, using a pair of brass dividers to march off legs of a course. "And clever. A little fillip, sirs… to not only rob the Austrians, but steal the Navy pay chests. Sailors might be used to being one or two years in arrears in their pay, but soldiers usually aren't. Does he take the ship before she reaches San Fiorenzo, both the Army and Navy are cheated. Debts to local chandlers and merchants go unpaid. Troops and ships' crews will be demoralized. Aye, Choundas would like that. And so would his superiors. Might even turn Corsican sentiment against us because of it."

"Very clever," Mister Peel muttered, though speaking more of this sailor's shrewd calculations than of their foe, and sharing a look with his employer, with one brow cocked in reappraisal of all that Twigg had told him of Lewrie's wits. "You would expect him where, sir?"

"West of Corsica, and due south of the Iles d'Hyиres," Lewrie replied slowly, stepping off distances. "Were I Choundas, I'd patrol, standing north-and-south along six degrees east, down to the latitude of the Straits of Bonifacio, around forty degrees north, perhaps as high as forty-three degrees," he told them, sketching out a rough box on the chart with a pencil stub. "A ship from Port Mahon in the Balearics on-passage for San Fiorenzo, or Vado Bay, must pass through this area."

He was unaware of Peel's newfound regard, nor of Twigg's grudging, hooded smile of pleasure; too lost in speculation. And in his own element.

"Two ships, you think, sir? Average-clear days, each could see twelve miles all about from their mast trucks. Ten miles separation… so they could read signals betwixt 'em, say… they could sweep a moving rectangle thirty to thirty-five miles long, north-to-south, and twenty-four miles wide. Even at a slow six knots, they'd scour the area twice over each day. It's too far west of Corsica to expect interference from Hotham's fleet… too far south of France for the escort to expect danger. That's more likely near Corsica's nor'west tip, around Calvi, before they get to San Fiorenzo, just as they enter the fringes of the Ligurian Sea. He may strike sooner, lurk off Minorca, but that's a long way away from his assigned region, sirs," Lewrie said, tossing down divider and rule, looking up at last. "Unless he's been reinforced lately, taking two corvettes, his best most like, will weaken his squadron, and hold up any planned convoys till they're back. He can't roam too far afield."

"Nor for very long, does he wish to keep his head," Twigg said with almost a purr of pleasure. "So Choundas may be best expected here in this rough area. Where, I trust, it will be he who is the biter bit. Where he will get the greatest surprise of his life. And his last."

"A good possibility, sir." Lewrie shrugged, hedging his bets.

"Now, all that's wanting is for the signorina to get in touch," Twigg beamed hungrily, rubbing his hands together, "so we may arrange your tryst with her. I've taken the liberty of engaging shore lodging, Lewrie. Somewhere quiet, refined… where Mister Peel and I may hide ourselves, stand guard. Observe and listen, so we're sure there's no interference. That the bait is properly taken, hmm?"

"Oh, you mean something like this, sir." Lewrie smirked, opening his desk drawer and dropping her note atop the chart.

"Why yess, Lewrie," Twigg drawled, most contented that his scheme was well afoot. "Something very much like that'd do nicely."

It was raining that night in Leghorn, just enough to temper the day's balmy warmth, but not enough to cool the evening in the late October afterglow of the Lion Sun season. A sullen, persistent weak rain that made it feel almost as muggy as high summer; just enough rain to gurgle off the roof tiles, trickle down the tiled eaves into the gutters and sigh down the tile or lead downspouts, or plash on the balconies and window-sills. Which made it almost impossible for Twigg or Peel to hear much of what was said in the adjoining rooms, even with drinking glasses pressed to the thin lath-and-plaster dividing wall, ears against the bases. Twigg heaved another huge sigh of grumpy frustration; that a perfectly good gutta-percha stethoscopic tube had been overpowered by the sluicing of the rain and sough of the wind; that he was too old to be stooping against a wall in such a crabbed position; and that he was far too senior now to still be doing a younger legman agent's duties.

"Ah, something, sir," Peel began to say, perking up.

"Sssst!" Twigg hissed, straining to hear. "Damme, just…"

Even without their improvised devices, they could now hear what transpired in the apartment adjoining theirs. Not the whispery billing and cooing of muttered pillow talk, which might contain the questions a woman spy had been tasked to ask, nor the beginning of Lewrie's replies in which he'd been strictly coached, to be tossed off casually, feigning alcohol-and-lust-inspired carelessness, either.

"My God, man's a bloody stoat!" Peel whispered, rather in awe of the passionate noises coming through the wall. "Both of 'em. Thrice in the last hour, I make it." He sighed enviously as he went to the table to pour himself some wine, putting his listening device to a more prosaic use. Twigg remained, sitting lumpish, twiddling his long thumbs, with a scowl on his face as the carefully placed bedstead next door, up against the wall so they could hear better, began to cry out-slats, side rails, and ropes creaking. He grimaced as names were whined or mewed, between groans and muffled enthusiasms for impending bliss.

"Doesn't have to make a meal of it," Twigg carped. "Get on!"

"What man wouldn't, given the chance…" Peel chuckled to himself, wondering if there would ever come a time in his Duty to Twigg, King, and Country when he was the actor in such a delightful bit of spy-craft-instead of the listener, or the arranger.

"Damn this rain," Twigg muttered, sour. "Damn him …!"

"Following your last advice, he is, sir," Peel commented, a bit tongue-in-cheek, as he discovered a neglected roast-chicken thigh among the supper plates. "Lay back, grit your teeth… and think of England."

"Pahh!" Twigg spat, rueing that cynical parting shot of his.

A soft keening, a frantic yowl of abandon arose, as the headboard began to thump against the wall, in rhythm with audible bull-like pants, and quavery shouts of "God, Claudia darlin', you lovely…!" And those "… si, si, Alan, Dio miу, si!"

"Pahh!" Twigg reiterated, swiveling on a hard dining chair.

"Sounds as if she's beyond thinking of France, and her revolutionary ardor, too, sir," Peel dared to snicker. Twigg's hugely unamused glower was enough to silence him, to chew on the thigh, as a framed picture on their side of the wall went askew with the last triumphant thuddings, and half screams of mutual rapture. Followed by many groans and weepy, shuddery sighs of content.