Following the footsteps of Horatio Hornblower and Jack Aubrey, whose ripping adventures capture thousands of new readers each year, comes the heir apparent to the mantle of Forester and O'Brian: Dewey Lambdin, and his acclaimed Alan Lewrie series. In this latest adventure Lewrie is promoted for his quick action in the Battle of Cape St. Vincent, but before he's even had a chance to settle into his new role, a mutiny rages through the fleet, and the sudden reappearance of an old enemy has Lewrie fighting not just for his command, but for his life.< Dewey Lambdin is the author of eight previous Alan Lewrie novels. A member of the U.S. Naval Institute and a Friend of the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich, England, he lives in Nashville, Tennessee.< BOOK ONE  Non equidem invideo; mirror magis; undique totis usque adeo turbatur agris. Well, I grudge you not—rather I marvel; such unrest is there on all sides in the land.—THE ECLOGUES, I, 11–12 VIRGILCHAPTER ONE  It should have been a glad day. Yet to Lewrie it seemed to be one of infinite sadness. Though the harbour waters were sparkling and glittering, the skies were fresh-washed blue, stippled with benign and pristine brush-stroked clouds; the sun was bright; and the day was just warm enough to be mild, yet not hot enough to be oppressive; and gulls and other seabirds swooped and dove and hovered with springtime delight … it was his last day. The morning he surrendered command of HMS Jester.Admiral Sir John Jervis’s Valentine’s Day “present,” following the Battle of Cape Saint Vincent, was a quick dash into Lisbon for two days Out-of-Discipline, an aboard-ship revel with the Portugee whores and something approaching a monumental drunk for all hands. And once the last doxy had been chivvied ashore, the last smuggled wine bottle tipped overside, and the last thick head had returned to normal use, they had stripped Jester of top-masts, stores, and artillery for her first careenage since Leghorn, the middle of ’95. Tons of weed, slime, and barnacles had been sluiced, swabbed, chipped, or fired off her hull; and what little they could do to replace missing copper sheets, or tar over and paint over, had been performed before re-floating her, giving her that long-delayed “lick and a promise” above the waterline, before re-stocking her, re-arming her, and setting her masts up anew.It was only then that Lewrie could announce to his men that they were off for Portsmouth to de-commission; off for Home and England! And Jester’s decks had rung with whooping cheers and tears of joy!He’d wished he’d known sooner; four hands had trickled off from the working parties, entered on ship’s books as “Run.” Had they known earlier that Jester was bound for England, they might have stayed on to see their families again and collect the pay owed them, which was nearly eighteen months overdue, which, given the times and the Navy’s slack accounting system, was actually a little better-than-normal delay.Then again, two of them had been Italian volunteers, or some of those Maltese seamen who’d been hired-out by the Grand Masters of Malta in ’93, after Hood had taken, then lost, the French naval base at Toulon.Lewrie was certain that their “fly” Purser—the young, bespectacled Mr. Giles—was cackling in glee somewhere aft in a stores room over their departure. Not only had they decamped without their meagre pay, but their shares in the prize-money which Jester had accumulated since ’94. Finding a way to make absent men “chew tobacco”—purchase slop-clothing, hats, tinware, and such on a two-year spending spree as profligate as … as drunken sailors—to help make his books balance, Lewrie was mortal-certain! Or sign their pay over to him in total? Forge documents that he was their executor selected to hold any share of prize-money for them? Their only bloody heir? Lewrie had scoffed.There was little he could do to their benefit. And, after all, they’d “Run”; taken “leg-bail” from the Fleet, from shipmates, and from his command. Now they were most-likely dead-broke and desperate for a berth in any merchant ship that’d have them, throwing away sums that for a poor sailorman were damn’-near princely! The Devil with ’em … damn’ fools!So he’d demurred and hadn’t cocked a wary brow at Giles, letting him have his unofficial “ Read Less