"Now, as to the matter of the French knowing our ship movements so quickly, Lewrie…" Twigg snapped, turning brusque once more.
"Easily solved, sir." Lewrie yawned again, recrossing his legs so one foot didn't fall asleep, too. "Every bloody Genoese would sell his mother for a groat. Might as well try to eradicate cockroaches, as dam up the flood of information."
"I expected no less, sir." Twigg glared. " Tis not the first time I've been in this part of the world, d'ye know. What I was about to say… before your blithe dismissal, sir… was that while we cannot hope, indeed, to limit, much less totally eliminate, the many informers along the Riviera, who do it out of spite for our embargo, love of Frog radical Republicanism, money, or a love of intrigue… we may turn it to our advantage. This Midshipman Hainaut, for example, who's to be exchanged. Mister Mountjoy might be quite useful, in planting with that young man some false scents, some superficially convincing truth, along with a hard kernel of falsehood, to confuse them. Feel up to playing a part, Mister Mountjoy?"
"Aye, sir. Sounds intriguing," Mountjoy replied, barely able to contain himself at the prospect of being "useful."
"Mister Drake and I have some… uhm, associates," Twigg said, his death skull of a face creasing in malicious good humor. "We are privy to certain information about the French, as well. For instance, there is to be a convoy, soon. The presence of this squadron has cost the French the ability to supply their army with coasters sailing independently. You'll know it when you hear it, not before, Lewrie. We are told that several small warships of a counterpart French coastal squadron will guard them to their destination. But were the Frogs to believe that our squadron would be off at sea, under the horizon, out to stage another raid such as yours on Bordighera, to descend upon a larger Savoian port, well… there you are, then. A weakening of the convoy escort, a dispersion of force to the wrong place, at the wrong time… yet an important convoy full of supplies taken."
"And the French unable to trust in the complete accuracy of all they hear, in future, I take it, Mister Tw… Silberberg?" Mountjoy exclaimed with a giggle.
"He's smart, Lewrie. Smart as paint, as you sea dogs say." Mister Twigg beamed again. "I will give you the particulars, Mister Mountjoy. Hainaut will carry it to his master. I will arrange for his immediate exchange, to speed things along, since they do need speeding, given…"
"The timing of the convoy's arrival, wherever," Lewrie gathered.
"That, and a few more important items," Twigg agreed.
"I am at your complete disposal, sir," Mountjoy volunteered.
"Then let us repair to yon dining area, for a moment or two," Twig decided. "So I may coach you on what it is you need to say for Hainaut to repeat. And how it might be best discovered to him. May I prevail upon you, Lewrie… to borrow your dining room, and your clerk for a further time?"
"Have at it, sir," Lewrie said, unable to say much opposed. He was certain Twigg had risen considerably in the Foreign Office's secret bureaus since the Far East, and had the ear and patronage of people who could crush a pipsqueak naval commander if Twigg wished it. There was spite enough, of the lingering kind, between them already.
"And I will thank you, on your honor, sir," Twigg cautioned him with a sternly risen finger. "To go aft. There are matters you are not to know yet. Or at the least, be able truthfully to deny knowing."
"You…!" Lewrie spluttered, getting to his feet in anger. "I swear, you're too full of yourself, sir, to row me, in my own cabins…!"
"Our sovereign's writ allows me, sir," Twigg cautioned. Though he showed all signs of relishing Lewrie's embarrassment.
"There, done now?" Lewrie snapped, once Mountjoy had been told what to do, and had departed for his cot. "How dare you, Twigg. There is the matter of respect from my officers and crew that a captain can't allow to be trampled! By a goddamned civilian] An outsider, a…!"
"Oh, do sit down and cease your pious rant, Commander Lewrie." Twigg sighed wearily, making free with Alan's brandy bottle. "I know you of old, sir… perhaps a great deal better than you shall ever, of yourself… one more word, and I might decide, in the King's Name…"
Twigg left his full threat unspoken. But he had invoked enough.
Lewrie shut up. And sat down.
"First of all, sir, you know how impatient I am with the custom and usage of naval or military blockheads."
"You made that perfectly clear in the Pacific. Sir."
"Secondly, sir," Twigg went on, ignoring Lewrie's bile. "Your use of my true name, after I cautioned you to not… and in that rather loud voice, too. Tsk tsk. Were it to result in my death, sir, should one of your crewmen blab inadvertently, well. That is one thing. But the utter confusion of a great many schemes, should the enemy come to know of me, or my involvement, were they to begin to suspect that I'm a spy, would unravel more enterprises than this. And result in death, or torture, for a great many others. So I will instruct you this one last time to keep your wits about you, in spite of your resenting me, and kindly refer to me, even in your dreams, as Simon Silberberg, the harmless bank clerk, too 'gooseberry' ineffectual to be any harm. Can you do that, Lewrie?"
"Aye. Sir." Alan glowered.
"Good. Sir," Twigg mocked. "You may not believe this, Lewrie, but… I rather like you. I have a great admiration for your qualities as a sailor, and a doer. As a commission sea officer."
"Oh, bloody…" Alan groaned. "Pull the other one."
"No, I do!" Twigg smiled cadaverously. "Whatever made you the greedy, grasping opportunist you've become, so much more dangerous and useful than the usual sea dog, I know not. But when you're of a mind to put your mind to a problem, 'stead of loafing, or muddling, through like the rest, you're bloody inspired. Desperation, perhaps? It's no matter. I value you men like you, Lewrie, they're damn' rare. Damme! Bordighera! Caught 'em with their breeches down, and buggered 'em, as deep as a mop stick would reach, my word! And II Briosco? How many of your contemporaries would be that clever, sir? That devious?"
"You're pissing down my back… Mister Silberberg." Lewrie smiled back, a wickedly mirthless smile of ill-humor. "Sounds like I'm set up for something. Know you of old, I do. You use people."
"Aye, I do," Twigg most amiably admitted.
"Now you think you're going to use me, again?"
"Of a certainty." Twigg chuckled. "There's even a possibility you'll enjoy it. This fellow Hainaut will be rejoining soon, his mentor and patron. This French senior officer. Know who he is?"
"Die Narbe… Capt'n Scar," Lewrie shot back, happy to have a bit of knowledge that Twigg perhaps didn't, for once. "Early on, last summer, we heard he also went by 'Ugly Face' or 'Hideous.' Ran convoys to Corsica, too, before it fell."
"And do you know many French naval officers, Lewrie? Personally, I mean. Know any of past acquaintance who might fit those frightening sobriquets?" Twigg posed happily. "Think back, sir, do."
"We don't run to the same clubs, so…" Lewrie began to sneer, then got an icy chill of dread, felt his stomach contract. "Oh bloody…!" Alan gasped, as the shoe finally dropped. He leaned back in utter astonishment, his face paling for a second. "No! Couldn't be! Didn't we do for him? They cashiered him, surely…"
"Guillaume Choundas, his horrible little self," Twigg cackled softly. "Twice as mean… and thanks to your efforts, twice as ugly. Cashiered, yes. Pensioned off as a cripple. Not the sort of face one wishes to see in one's wardroom, hmm? Not handsome enough to wear the uniform of an officer. Always did hate aristocrats, though. Recall… a peasant, father a Breton fisherman, out of Saint Malo? Forever going on about the Veneti, those godlike Celtic sailormen of his? Educated, in a fashion. Jesuits, I learned."
"That'd make him twisted as an Irish walking stick." "Who best to volunteer, to espouse the Revolution?" Twigg asked. "One of the first to the barricades and all that, and deeply, truly in love and league with everything the Revolution in France means. Active service again, as an officer. A chance to shine again. A chance for Choundas to take revenge on every petty Frog who ever even looked sidewise at him. To lop off a hundred aristocratic heads, a thousand…"
"And he's here, in charge against us," Lewrie spat, with weaiy and bitter amusement. "Well, I'm damned. We should have killed him, long ago, when we had the chance. He was damned good. Might have gotten even better."
"You'll soon find out, Lewrie," Twigg informed him with a knowing leer. "Once Hainaut tells him who it was stopped his business at Bordighera… as I intend for Hainaut to do… he'll come looking for you. Personally. I'm counting on it."
Knew I should have become a bloody farmer, Alan thought! Pimp in London… my early aspiration? Safe as houses, that… consid'rin'. "Sir," Lewrie glowered. "Are you trying to get me killed, on purpose, you scheming old…"
"Not at all, Lewrie!" Twigg was quick to assure him; simpering though, which didn't sound like much assurance at all. "As I say, I do like you. Professionally speaking. Your sort aren't worth a tinker's damn for much beyond war, and well you know it. Neither am I, I must confess… but then, my sort of war is eternal. Back home in peacetime I expect I'd find you boringly conceited and unscrupulously smarmy, an idle wastrel and lecher. As I expect you did, too, 'tween commissions, hmm? But that's what makes you so valuable at war. Laze your way into idle foolishness, then shovel your way from 'neath a wagon-load of manure, and come up smelling like a rose. With guineas in your fists. Do it quite ruthlessly, 'cause you're too impatient, or desperate, to play by the rules the proper sorts believe in. I'm counting on that remarkable ability of yours. Should you two actually meet again."
"So you'd sport a small wager on the home side?" Alan snorted. "Stake my last shilling on you, sir… my entire fortune, had I the chance," Twigg snickered for a moment before turning forebodingly dark and somber. "Choundas is clever, but he's much like you, Lewrie. He's ultimately ruled by his heart, not his head, no matter how clever he is. I play my game dispassionately. But oh, Lewrie, what a marvelous diversion it is! A personal involvement that misdirects could be fatal for me. So rarely do I allow personal motives to intrude, or allow a motive, or those who would fulfill it, to become personal."
"Believe me, sir," Lewrie sneered heavily, "I've noticed." "In this instance, though," Twigg said with a frown, "I do not think that I err, in allowing myself to feel, just once. Had I been on that beach with you when you chopped Choundas to flinders, I'd have ordered you to complete the work. Had you not, I'd have broken you, then scragged him myself. Knew the work wasn't done, even though it looked that Spanish officials would hang him as a pirate. Even then, I felt a gnawing suspicion that, ruined as he was, he'd cause us mischief, in future." "So you want me to kill him, personally?" Lewrie blanched. "I most passionately, most eagerly, wish his death, Lewrie," Mister Twigg said with unwonted heat. "Even as a legless cripple, holed up in some noisome Paris cellar, with others to do his bidding, I fear he would still be dangerous. You, personally? More than likely not, sir. I wish to unbalance him, distract him with rage, as I did in Canton, after he had my old partner Thom Wythy murdered. You're my chink into his armor, Lewrie. Knowing you're near, the man who maimed him, he'll be more eager to hunt you than do his duty, his cold and evil logic all confounded and diverted. You'll be the bait… my bait, which…" "Oh, just thankee, so muchl" Lewrie whispered. "… draws him to fatal folly." Twigg pounded on. "And, should he creep to my trap, he will die, at last, no matter who does it. But should he find you… should the chance arise… I count on you being the one who kills him dead. In fact, should you two meet again, then I insist 'pon it. You are to kill him dead!"
