By Dewey Lambdin
Alan Lewrie is now commander of HMS Jester, an 18-gun sloop. Lewrie sails into Corsica in simple terms to obtain miraculous orders: he needs to entice his archenemy, French commander Guillaume Choundas, into conflict and in my opinion 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 the entire stops if he will reside as much as his personal recognition and convey glory to the British Royal army.
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Extra resources for A King's Commander: The Alan Lewrie Naval Adventures #7 (Bk. 7)
Noon sights were educated guesses of how high that diffuse, cloud-covered sun ball was, but the consensus of results on the quarterdeck, except for Mister Spendlove’s, which placed them somewhere on the same latitude as Iceland, showed them weathering the Scillies and Land’s End. And dead reckoning, and the record of the knot log, suggested a position beyond the Scillies— almost one hundred nautical miles west of the Lizard since yesterday noon. And, with the wind backing southerly, Jester could come back to due west again, though only at seven or so knots on a light, tantalizing wind, and stand even farther out into the Atlantic.
Gales and storm that blew out canvas, split reefed and “quick-savered” sails from luff to leech in a twinkling, leaving nothing but braces and boltropes. Never a fade, though, never a dying away. Nor one so rapid. Perhaps tomorrow, Lewrie fretted; comeuppance comes tomorrow! “Sir, we now log eight and one-quarter knots,” Hyde reported at last, sprinkled with spray and damp from the knot log’s line. ” Lewrie nodded, keeping his gaze ahead toward the west. Aye, we had ourselves a rare old thrash to weather, he thought; nigh two hours at ten to eleven knots!
Buchanon lay his hands on the quarterdeck rails at the netting, feeling the shudderings, letting them transmit up his arms like some dowser witching for water. ” Lewrie inquired to press him, or coach him. ” “And no smell of storm rack, either,” Lewrie went on, having done his own inhaling to sample the future. ” Buchanon answered, daring to essay his first tentative smile of agreement. “Grew up in the fisheries outa Blackpool, I did, sir, an’ ’twas promisin’ days we spent mendin’ nets an’ such, when th’ granthers came back in early, not likin’ th’ smells, nor th’ way th’ waves felt on th’ bottom o’ their boats.