Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"We escape her," the captain of the tartane crowed to his crew, to his lone passenger the "Brutto Faccia" Francese huddled deep in his warm boat-cloak. "Barge, signore? Pretty barge of a capitano, I say. I see her before. Ah-gah-mem-non," he pronounced carefully in a poor French, mingled with quick native Italian. "She was only Britannici I see off Genoa. And she is slow. Big and slow, signore!"

"You are quite certain?" his passenger demanded, unused to being an idle commodity to be carted about, fretful that he had not been given charge of the saucy yachtlike coaster by Pouzin's cabal of plotters, but was now at the mercy of this filthy, unshaven brute with his dark, liquid eyes, olive complexion, and harsh Arabic face. Mongrels, he thought them all, unwanted Persian, Turkish, Egyptian polluters of the ancient Etruscan, Celtic blood of the first Latins.

"Only Brittanici we see, days and days, signore," the tartane's commander insisted. "Barge, come in today then go back out. Watchers, in fishing boats see ship of this Nel-eh-son-ey go west, meet another, but do not return. We are safe now, signorel" he boasted, thumping his chest. "I sail circle around big, slow ship-of-line! Ecco, we go out to sea. Coast come down to us, at Vado there are Brittanici patrol. We reduce sail, too. No one can catch us."

"No, we should press on," Guillaume Choundas curtly replied. He almost felt a mythic prickling in his thumbs, an unease that would not be stilled until he was ashore, or back aboard his ship. "I order…"

"No one order me," the other barked. "I am capitano, you are the passenger. We reduce sail. It is blowing almost too good. We go out from the coast. We get to Finale before sunrise, we go so quick, and cannot land you on that coast in the dark. Lay still, off Finale, and wait till the dawn, we meet Brittanici patrols, you see? If more wind comes, we are safe out at sea, not on rocky coast. You want to live, signore? We do what I say. Angle out, stand back in, go fast all the time. But not too fast, si? Shut up and drink some wine, signore. I am best capitano in all of Genoa, the senatore, he knows this. Why he hires me to carry his letters to you Francese. I command his yacht if he did not give me so many orders. I do not like orders."

"Whether you like them or not," Choundas protested, "your employer told you to get me to a French-held port. If we're making such good time, then it could be Loano, even Alassio. It doesn't have to be Finale. Stay inshore, keep up your speed, and land me at the port where dawn finds us."

"Too far for us," the captain objected, turning surly. "There is too much risk coming back to Genoa. I do not ever see ships of you Francese to protect me, signore. You are capitano importante, in such a little navy. There are ten of us… one of you. You do not tell us what to do, Capitano grande."

With that, he turned away to shout orders to his crew, to reduce sail, and went to the tiller-bar aft, to direct the helmsman to wear out to sea. The tartane slowed, began to slough and rock. Lateen rigs were horrid when it came to sailing so fine downwind. A square sail, off the wind, would belly full, strain equally from corner to corner, and reduce the excess wallowing motion, which robbed a ship of speed.

Shop clerks, Choundas was forced to fume in silence! Eager for their own beds tomorrow evening, no stomach for a long voyage. Working for the gold, the excitement… but with no sense of discipline, purpose, or loyalty. Mongrels, he added to the list of their sins. Just as bad as those swaggering, cockscomb mercenary privateers; all bluster and brag. Once Genoa was theirs, Choundas vowed, and the guillotines came, to winnow out the "aristos," the usurers, those opposed to the new regime, he would be sure that this captain's name was found in the book of the damned.

Mongrels, he thought, squinting his eyes in fury; so dumb they cling to barbaric Arabian lateens, when even the most famous man of Genoa, Christopher Columbus, knew to change over to square rig! An ignorant, mongrel race!

"I'd not be pressin' closer ashore, sir," Buchanon warned him. "Too dark t'see what we're about. Nor whether we're still chasin' yon tartane."

"There's depth enough, Mister Buchanon?" Lewrie countered. "A nor'east wind to drive us offshore, for once? Not a lee shore…"

"But th' coast trend's southerly, sir," Buchanon insisted. "I suggest we come t' west by south, Captain. E'en does our Chase stand inshore o' us durin' th' night, the coast'll shoulder her out."

"It's the coast he wants, to land on, Mister Buchanon," Lewrie spat, as two bells of the Middle Watch chimed at one a.m.

"Which he'd be a purblind fool t'do, with such a sea runnin," Buchanon countered. "He can't close it till dawn, same'z us, sir."

"Very well, Mister Buchanon. West by south it is. Mister Knolles, we'll haul our wind a mite more, to west by south. Hands aloft, take in sail. First reefs in the main course, mizzen and maintop'sls. I don't wish to shoot past her in the dark. Nor be blown too far loo'rd of the coast by sunrise… by this nor'east wind."

Should there be a wind shift, which usually happened along such a coast, should it moderate or clock northerly, he'd be headed, robbed of power when he needed it most, and badly placed for pursuit.

Assumin' there's somethin' t'see at dawn, he sighed, frustrated. Jester had logged a steady eight knots since espying their Chase around Voltri. Three hours later, and they were almost level with Vado Bay, at that speed. And still had no further sighting of that spectral tartane. He had to admit that Buchanon was right to be cautious. Rocks aplenty inshore, the sea not so boisterous they'd be warned of risk by white foam breaking on them, the moonlight too weak to give them first sight to steer clear. Stout as the wind had blown, he'd expected some rain with it, such a pall of storm cloud overhead that what poor view the lookouts had would be blotted out entirely; but that hadn't come. The solid black of the shore could still be guessed at, if one didn't peer too long or hard at it; whitecaps could be espied all about, by the faint moon. But no sign of that damned tartane!

Jester slowed as her sail was reduced, even with the wind fine on her starboard quarter. Purring now, as three bells chimed, solidly surefooted and ploughing. But to where?

"Sir?" Knolles prompted, a little closer to Lewrie's ear, and giving him a "gentlemanly" nudge. "Sir?"

"I'm awake, sir," Lewrie grumbled, rising from a treacly sleep from his wood-and-canvas deck chair. He fought the constricting folds of his boat cloak, sensing immediately that the weather had changed.

"Wind's died out, sir," Knolles reported, fighting a yawn himself. "The last five minutes, it went scant, then… nothing."

Jester was rocking and heaving, her timbers and yards groaning in protest, and her sails slatting like flapping laundry amidst all the squeaking of parrel blocks and pulleys. Lewrie marveled that he could have slept so soundly through all that. "What's the time?" he asked.

"Two bells of the morning just went, sir," Knolles informed him. "I make it about a quarter-hour to false dawn, sir. Sorry, sir, but as we kept both watches on deck all night, I held off on pumping and swabbing, and let the hands caulk for a bit. Do you wish me to…"

"No, no, you did quite right, Mister Knolles." Lewrie shivered, wrapping himself in the boat cloak again. "Galley fires going? Soup's the thing. Soup and gruel. Cold… but clear."