By Dewey Lambdin
Alan Lewrie is now commander of HMS Jester, an 18-gun sloop. Lewrie sails into Corsica basically to obtain amazing orders: he needs to entice his archenemy, French commander Guillaume Choundas, into conflict and in my view strike the malevolent spymaster dead. With Horatio Nelson as his squadron commander on one hand and a luscious courtesan who spies for the French at the different, Lewrie needs to pull out all of the stops if he'll reside as much as his personal acceptance and convey glory to the British Royal army.
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Additional resources for A King's Commander: The Alan Lewrie Naval Adventures #7 (Bk. 7)
The wind backing even more, now all but out of the south! Toying with them, backing, then gusting up a touch, as it veered ahead a point or two. Yet still easily manageable winds. Jester would luff up through the gentle gusts, driving closehauled, and was able to maintain a base course of west-sou’west, and a half-hourly cast of the log showed a steady seven and a half knots. By noon sights, Alan was just about ready to start chewing his nails in fretful apprehension. And Mister Knolles and Mister Buchanon, two more who knew what whistling on deck could bring, stalked soft-footed about the quarterdeck as if the slightest misstep might bring the sky down on them like a tumbling house of cards!
Josephs almost yelped like a whipped puppy at the last but one, forcing Cony to stop and shake him by the arm by which he restrained him. “Quiet, lad,” he told him, almost gently. . but real seamen don’t cry out. Else it’ll be six more, see? ” And Josephs did, though in utter misery, as if everything in life had just betrayed and abandoned him, which prompted Rydell to purse his lips and inhale. ” Lewrie warned. ” Rydell all but swooned, half knocked off his feet by a further warning nudge from Mr.
The old problem of leaving England; being driven shoreward by a brisk westerly, right up toward the Lizard or Torbay, or having to tack and beat sou’west toward the hostile coast of France, which was a rock-strewn horror in peacetime, and aswarm with warships now, from the French bases at Brest and St. Malo. By ten of the second morning, Jester was near enough to Torbay to peek inside, with a long-glass from the top of the mainmast. No sign of Admiral Howe’s fleet, though; the westernmost war anchorage was empty, which meant he was still at sea, somewhere out in the Atlantic.