The King - Dewey Lambdin

"So we could land troops here, at the base of the peninsula," Sir Hugo said, humming to himself. "Set up artillery atop the ridge here, and advance down the beach, and from slightly inland."

"There's a flat place perfect for artillery, sir," Chiswick agreed.

"What about the ships, Mister Hogue? Could their guns interfere with a landing, once they were over the harbor-side of this peninsula?" Lewrie inquired.

"They're moored fore-and-aft, sir. Sterns to the peninsula, starboard beams facing to seaward and the harbor entrance," Hogue went on. "The small brig is a Yankee named Poor. Richard, out of Boston. I think she might be a prize. T'other is French for certain. Stella Moris. I couldn't make out her homeport."

"Gad, what eyes the lad has!" Sir Hugo chuckled.

"They were unloading cargo, sir. Lots of work-lanterns on both ships, and long torches stuck into the sand. A bonfire or two burning ashore as well," Hogue explained. "No Mindanao pirate boats about yet. I heard no English spoken, though, aboard Poor Richard. That's why I think she was a prize. Just French was all I heard."

"You went aboard?" Captain Cheney gasped.

"Well, I swam out as close as I could, sir," Hogue grinned, making a night approach through a shark-infested lagoon sound like nothing much, but secretly pleased with his own fortitude. "As to guns, they've no springs on their cables, sir, none that I could see. There was too much light on the water between ships, so I could not approach Stella Maris, but it didn't look as if she had springs fixed."

"What about artillery ashore?" Sir Hugo pressed.

"They've a log and thatch fort, sir, rectangular, with one long side facing the sea and the beach. There are what look to be storage buildings inside the compound," Chiswick replied. "Where they got the lumber, God knows. Probably from looted ships. They've four guns on that seaward side, and two each on either shorter end. Light stuff, by the look of the platforms they were mounted on. Four-pounders on naval trucks, not field carriages. And there was a lot of drinking going on."

"And I suppose you snuck up to the walls like a Red Indian?" Sir Hugo snorted.

"Well, yes, sir," Chiswick smiled, proud of himself as well.

"Well, then!" Sir Hugo beamed, clapping Chiswick on the shoulder. "That was bravely done, sir! Now, Lieutenant Lewrie. Just what do we do about this?"

"I defer to your military prowess, Colonel Willoughby," Alan said in return. "When would you like to land your troops for an assault?"

"Now," Sir Hugo purred. "Right bloody now, while their attention is elsewhere, and their bellies are full of piss-poor brandy."

"Any lookouts watching to seaward, Burge?" Alan asked.

"None that we found. There's a start on a four-legged tower in the palisaded encampment, but it's too low yet to even see over this peninsula. I don't think they've had this place constructed long."

"Weather's decent," Lewrie pondered. "Captain Cheney, what's the state of the tide around first sparrow-fart? Say at four a.m.?"

"About the middle of the ebb, sir. But surely, you would wait for the stronger ship to arrive from Calcutta," Cheney replied, paling.

"Since I don't know when that will be, sir, and I am here now and ready, I cannot delay," Lewrie stated firmly, not feeling quite as firm inside.

Goddamn my eyes, will you look at these fools, looking at me as if I've Moses' scrolls tucked into my side-pockets! Ayscough surely couldn't have meant this much responsibility for me. I might be going into as big a hornet's nest as that idiot Captain Nelson did back at Turk's Island, and look what a ball's-up that was!

"How long for your troops to assemble on this beach, set up artillery on this flat bench at the base of the peninsula and be ready to advance, Sir Hugo? I assume you prefer a dawn attack."

"First boat-loads on the beach at one a.m. would be better," Sir Hugo sniffed. "Takes time to sway out those guns of ours, get them ashore, mount them on their trails and carriages and man-haul them up this slope, rocky as Captain Chiswick says it is. Sure to be noisy, as well."

"Captain Cheney, could you please be so good as to provide some scrap sans and rope fragments to muffle the noises for them, sir?"

"Aye, Mister Lewrie, but…"

"Do you come to anchor here, about half a mile off-shore, then," Lewrie pressed on, feeling like a toddler having the presumption to purchase a house. "You have twenty fathoms of water there before it begins to shoal: sand, rock and coral bottom. If all else fails, you are in the island's lee, and may fetch-to without drifting too far to the west between waves of boats. Better yet, take all of my ship's boats to help things along. I shall then stand off-and-on without the harbor entrance, and enter harbor at… six a.m.? Will there be enough light for you then, Colonel? Even at low tide, this entrance channel shows a possible five fathoms, and Culverin only draws one and a half. With luck, we shall overawe the French. With none at all, we'll have to close on Stella Maris here and get within two cables to shoot her to pieces with our carronades."

"Who shall fire first, then?" Sir Hugo asked.

"Either way, they're sailors, mostly," Lewrie schemed. "When things go to Hell, they run for their ship first. You open fire at six a.m., or when you see me enter the harbor channel. Captain Cheney, I'd admire if you had Lady Charlotte somewhere well in sight and close astern of me as you are able around that time. You may, at long range, resemble a warship just enough to take the stuffing out of them."

"I shall try, sir, but should I enter harbor?"

"Block the entrance channel if all else fails."

"Aye, sir," Cheney said, looking squeamish enough that Alan knew he'd be nowhere near the harbor entrance at six a.m., for all the best reasons. He'd not risk his thin-sided transport at the behest of some jumped-up junior Navy lieutenant! Well, just as long as he may land the troops and stand seaward where he can be seen, Lewrie sighed, that would be good enough.

"Here's to victory on the morrow, gentlemen," Sir Hugo proposed, as glasses of wine were passed around by Cheney's steward. "Confusion to the French!"

"And clear heads for us!" Lewrie chimed in.

The rest of the night was Hell. Lewrie went back to his ship and went below to sleep. Her former master had had a large berth as big as a double-bed back home built into her stern quarters, widening the transom settee into a solid bedstead. Instead of hay or corn-shucks, the mattress was stuffed with Indian cotton, which wicked up any night sweats one would suffer below decks in the sweltering tropics. He had come to enjoy the berth, with both stern sash-windows open for a sea

breeze to cool him well enough to sleep undisturbed in those hours that a ship's captain could expect to find rest.

But this night would not pass, and he could find no ease. Not even a stiff glass of brandy could numb him into true slumber. And there could be little of that, anyway. Culverin stood off-and-on, reaching across the easterly winds. First north toward the island, until near enough to see the hint of bonfires, then tacking out to sea once more, always clawing in her tacks up to the east to correct drift to leeward. Every two hours, he was summoned to the deck to supervise the maneuver and lay the course he desired.

In between, below decks, he would shuck his clothing and attempt to sleep. But then, "What if?" he would think, and his mind would go galloping off on a flight of frenzied imagining. Had he forseen all that could go wrong? Had he forgotten anything vital? And then those possible disasters would play themselves out in half-nodding nightmares from which he would snap awake, only to slip into another.

"Goddamn, I'm only twenty-two years old!" he muttered aloud. "Who in their right minds'd ever give a twit like me this much to be responsible for?" He might get people killed on the morrow. He knew some people would die. For him. What if they died for nothing?

Like the Battle of The Chesapeake. Like Yorktown. Like Jenkins Neck. The expedition into the barrens of Florida, or trying to retake Turk's Island.

He'd go back over his plan once more, finding gaping flaws in it. Would shiver with chill and bolt upright, suddenly finding need to speak to Lady Charlotte or his father, now ashore, just one last time. But that was impossible. Would pore over his one poor chart searching for omens, for portents of victory or defeat.

They came about for the last time at four a.m., just as the last of eight bells chimed, ending the mid-watch, and the bosun's pipes sang to summon "All Hands" to scrub decks and stow their hammocks in the bulwark nettings for the day.

Time, too, to prepare for what the dawn would bring. Lewrie dressed in one of his Navy uniforms, spurning civilian clothes for the day's bloody work. The coat and waist-coat were badly wrinkled from being pressed to the bottom of his sea-chest, mildewy, and stiff with salt crystals from being so long at sea.

"Ready about, Mister Hogue?" he asked.

"Aye, sir."

"Helm alee!" Lewrie shouted. With nothing aloft but fore-and-aft sails on both masts, there was little of the usual heavy labor involved. Except for the jibs up forward, they almost tacked themselves.

"Should be here, if we maintained an easy four knots during the night," Lewrie said, peering at the chart tacked to the traverse board. "A little east of north would put us here, even with the harbor entrance, by half-past five. Perhaps that would be even better than waiting until six, and full dawn."

"And if we have slipped to leeward that far during the night, we may harden up to the wind and make it good, sir," Hogue added.

"D'you want t' inspect the decks, sir?" Murray asked, coming aft from the waist of the ship.

"White decks are not the greatest thing on our minds this morning, Mister Murray," Lewrie replied, unable to suppress a smile. "Hands to breakfast. Then douse the galley fires soon as they've eaten."

"Aye, sir," Murray replied, knuckling his brow.

"Got some 'ot coffee, sir," Cony offered. "An' wot'll ya be 'avin' fer yer breakfas', sir?"

"Just the coffee, Cony, thankee," Lewrie replied, taking the mug in both hands to savor its warmth and its aroma.

"Land ho!" the lookout called.

"Where away?"

"One point off the starboard bow, sir!"

"That should be the central hill, the highest point above the sea. And a little to the left of a direct line for the entrance," Alan surmised, bending over the chart again, then straightening. "Quartermaster? Larboard your helm, half a point, no more. Pinch us up to windward a mite."

"Aye, sir."

"They should be able to see us by half-past five, sir," Hogue prodded.

"Aye," Lewrie nodded. "Bows on, coming into harbor like we're expected, with no flag flying. Now who, I ask you, would be stupid enough to enter a pirate's lair but another pirate, Mister Hogue? They might go on their guard, but they don't know what a surprise we have ashore already. We shall have to chance it from here on."

"Aye, sir," Hogue shrugged with him.

"You get below and eat if you've a mind. I have the deck," Lewrie said. "Spell me when you get back so I may shave. And then, Mister Hogue, we shall beat to Quarters."

Chapter 6

We're going to be damned early," Lewrie groused. The winds out of the east were beginning to blow more freshly, and Culverin had the bitt in her teeth, cleaving the early morning at a pace he did not like. "Hands to the braces! Ease her sheets!"