H. M. S. Cockerel (36 page)

Right, give 'em a chance to boast; works every time, Alan thought.

“Ah, oui, m'sieur Capitaine Luray,”
the captain beamed slyly, “ze fort,
mais oui,
but . . .” he all but waved an impish finger at him. “Colonel Buonaparte, 'e eez in La Garde, ze inspection,
n'est-ce pas?
An' 'e say 'e realise, at once!”

The dragoon captain snapped his fingers for emphasis, as if he were tweaking Lewrie's nose.

“
Le batterie jeune
. . . new batterie, eez not Saint Margaret, but you' supplies arrive from
la mer,
ze sea,
hein?
Eef eez not Fort Saint Margaret, zen mus' be
le batterie le flotte.
Colonel Buonaparte realise . . . at once! . . . mus' be
near
ze fort, so . . .'ave to be
'ere,
m'sieur,
no ozzer. Near La Garde, ze range?
See
La Garde,
et
ozzer hills
trop haut.
Too high? Ve ride out,
vite,
vis
deux canon.
An' ze flags
des signeaux,
you see. 'E direc' ze
feu.
Ze firing.
Et, voila!
Le colonel
sink you!”

“He has my congratulations for his quick wits, sir,” Lewrie said with another slight bow, feeling sick at heart at how easy it had been. “Though, of course, he does not exactly have my thanks.”

“Ze
colonel
'e eez delight to 'ear eet,
m'sieur
.
Maintenant
. . . ze wind eez cold,
votre hommes, ils sont froid.
Suffer? Ve mus' demand of you
votre
surrender, Capitaine Luray,
vite.
Colonel Buonaparte offer all
officeurs la parole,
you keep
votre
swords. Receive ze treatment
beaux.
”

“I . . .” Lewrie began to say, fingers twitching on his scabbard. There was no more shilly-shally, no more delays he could think of, and most especially, not even the slightest hope of an escape attempt could he devise that wouldn't get a lot more of his men killed.

“And what will happen to my men,
m'sieur?
” he posed instead. “To my . . .
matrosen,
my sailors?”

“Zey be tak' away,” the dragoon captain shrugged, as if concern about the fate of enemy sailors didn't signify. He looked them over with scorn, like a remount officer deciding to herd off a pack of old nags to the knacker's yard. “Zey go to
un fort,
under guard. Or ze prisoner 'ulks . . . w'en we take Toulon.”

“And should I give you my parole, I'd be forced to swear, upon mine honour, that I would no longer engage in combat with France, long as the war lasts? Even if I was exchanged?” Lewrie pressed, hem-hawing for time, just a minute of freedom more.

“Zat is
le convention, m'sieur,
” the fellow said, growing testy and impatient once more. “
Vite,
your response?”

Lewrie turned to look around at the hang-dog faces of his men, faces still creased in pain and shock, some mildly perplexed by the conversation their captain was holding with a foeman. Saw the vacant and weary, defeated gapings of men without another ounce to give. Men he'd vowed to defend, to cosset, to husband . . . or to die with, if needs must.

Should he give his parole, he'd be almost free, in some inland French garrison town, sleeping in clean linen, bathing and shaving regularly, eating and swilling as well as any French civilian. Receive a packet of half-pay through the cartels, letters from Caroline, arrange for extra funds to be sent him. Sleep late, dawdle, ride (under guard) with a sword on his hip, the gentleman still. Hire whores, if he felt the itch.

And all the while, these men would be in chains, fettered in a loathsome fortress cellar, chained like a coffle of slaves aboard some fetid, reeking condemned ship of the line like felons awaiting transportation for life, eating slops and mushes, and thinking themselves lucky if they only slept two to a blanket, flea-ridden, lice-crusted . . .

“Je regrette . . .”
he sighed, dreading those prisoner-of-war gaols just as much as his men would. But he could not do that to them, could not abandon them without a backward glance. Dear as he wished he might toddle off and call it the fortunes of war, he could not. Nor end his naval career, miss out on the blazing finale to a short-lived war, as a mildly inconvenienced . . . idler!

He lifted his hanger from the belt frog, held the sparkling hilt up to the wan sunshine, in front of his face. Saw the seashells wink as it turned in his grasp. He kissed the handguard and held it out.

“
Je regrette, messieurs,
I cannot give you my parole.”

The dragoon captain made to take it from him, but Colonel Buonaparte shouldered him aside and reached out for it. Somberly, he seized the scabbard at the midpoint, his arm level. With a sad gravity, the young French officer brought it to his own face, cradling it like one might a child, to bestow his own kiss upon the bright silver chase, and nod at Lewrie with those large, penetrating eyes of his, glowing watery.

“Sir,” Spendlove said, stepping to Lewrie's side and offering up his midshipman's dirk. “I cannot give you my parole, either.”

“Mon braves,”
Buonaparte smiled.
“Vous avez du poil au culs.”

“Et vous, m'sieur?”
the dragoon captain asked de Crillart.

Oh, shit, Alan shuddered! They learn he's Royalist, they'll be havin' his head off 'fore dinner! And all his gunners, by sundown!

“He has no sword to surrender, sir, he lost it. M . . . Mister Scott, he lost his sword when the ship went down,” Lewrie extemporised quickly, speaking loud enough for all his men to hear. “Permit me to introduce Mister Barnaby Scott, our . . .”

Bloody Hell, what is he, he flummoxed?

“Our purser.
Le commissaire de marine?
Vin,
brandy, clothing?
Le vêtements? La cuisine,
the pay . . .
le rente?
Purser. Bursar?”

Buonaparte raised one eyebrow and spoke to the dragoon.

“M'sieur,
ze
colonel
say
votre . . .
purser,
'e wear
le culottes rouge
. . . ze breeches red?
Marine de France, aussi, culottes rouge.”
The captain posed suspiciously.
“Officeur de la marine de France.
'E s'ink
votre
. . . Scott? . . . eez
peut-être ze traitre
. . . traitor,
un officeur Royaliste de Toulon!”

“Mister Scott? French?” Lewrie gawped, hands on his hips and forcing himself to laugh. “Lord, that's a good'un, that is. Lads, do ya hear that? This
soldier
thinks our purser, Mister Scott here, is a French officer!” He clapped a hand on Crillart's shoulder as if to lay claim to him.

“Haw, that's a good'un, Mister Lewrie, sir,” Cony barked with his own feigned amusement, catching his drift, and nudging the others to play along. “'Oy, lads . . . ‘Old Nip-Cheese' a Froggie?” They began to titter.

“We
do
have men among us whom you might consider French, sir,” Lewrie confessed, ignoring Spendlove's startled gasp at his elbow. “We recruited in the Channel Islands. Guernsey, Alderney. Some of our best sailors come from there. The
British
Channel Islands, mind. Aye, they
parlez-vous,
some. But they're British tars. Well, we've four Spanish survivors with us. But the Royalists at Toulon are all soldiers. All the seamen left, weeks ago.”

“Je ne sais pas . . . votre
bursars wear
rouge?”

“Any damn' thing they want, they're not really Navy officers,” Lewrie lied, striking a breezy air. “Aye, red's their colour. Waistcoat's red, too. Plain blue coat, with cloth-covered buttons . . .”

“Say somezing . . . M'sieur Bursar Scott,” the dragoon demanded.
“Parlez-vous français?”

Crillart shook his head in the negative, shrugging, with a hopeless grin at the dragoon officer.

“Somezing in English,
m'sieur?
”

“Yes, Mister Scott,” Lewrie prompted as well, turning to him in desperation. “Say something in
Royal Navy,
Mister Scott.”

Crillart frowned, cocking his head to one side. It was his life he held in his hands, and the lives of his gunners, as well. And Alan's . . . once they found he'd been lying like a rug, and resented it.

“Arrh, matey,” Charles pronounced carefully. “Aye-aye, cap'm.”

Alan stifled such a monumental snort of stupefaction, he felt his sinuses were about to burst. Where the hell'd he learn
that,
he wondered? And why'd he dredge it up
now?
God, what a horrid choice!

“You may have a bit of bother understanding him, you see,” Alan sped to explain, trying to keep a straight face, no matter how hellish dangerous it was. “Mr. Scott is a real
Scot.
A
Highland
Scot. Can't understand him meself, half the time, all his ‘arrrhhin' and ‘burrin.'”

“God-Damn-r'right, cap'm,” Crillart added. “Blud-dy.”

Oh, God,
don't
gild the lily, not when . . . ! Alan winced.

He was interrupted by the most wondrous sound he'd ever heard in his entire life—the sudden spatter of musketry! Everyone jerked their heads to the source, to espy a rank of shakoed heads on the tall bluff above the beach, on the coast road. Lance tips winked beyond on the hill, bared sabres flashed, and a trumpet sounded. They wore goldish yellow jackets with white facings. Spanish cavalry, by God!

Bullets spanged off the shingle, sparks erupted crisp as struck gunflints, horses reared and neighed, and men cried out in alarm, to arm themselves or to mount quickly.

Buonaparte and his aides mounted. Lewrie looked longingly for his sword; the bastard still had it. The dragoon captain reached for the hilt of his sabre. Lewrie shoved him, punching him in the face.

“Runnforritt!”
he screamed, bolting away, dragging Spendlove by the elbow.
“This wayy!”
as he headed for shelter under the bluffs up the cove, under the guns of the cavalrymen. His unshod right foot took terrible punishment on sharp-edged stones and gravel, every lumpy rock he stubbed on made him wince. But it was better than a bullet in the back, or a sword cut. “Run, damn yer eyes! Run!” he panted.

There were shrieks, as a lancer got his tip into the back of a fleeing sailor, another piteous cry of
“Madre de Dios, noo, ahhh! . . .”
that ended in a rabbity screech as a Spanish bombardier was hewn down by a dragoon's sword, cut open from belly to breastbone. And French cries, music to Lewrie's ears, as men were spilled from their saddles by ball, or stirrup-dragged by panicked chargers over the rough beach.

They reached the cliffs, gasping with effort. Lewrie turned to see the French cantering south, in fairly good order, heading for the far side of the arrow-shaped bluff below the beach, where there was a way up and off; steeper than the one they'd descended. He spotted Lieutenant Colonel Buonaparte on his dapple-gray, patiently waiting as his lancers thundered up the draw past him, braving long-range musket fire as his dragoons formed an open-order vedette to screen the retreat.

Buonaparte made his gray rear, stuck his arm in the air to wave the captured sword. He was smiling, damn his eyes!

“I'll get it back, you bastard!” Lewrie howled in his loudest quarterdeck voice, jabbing a finger at the sword.
“Je prendre mon
. . . ! One day, I'll find you!
Je trouvez-vous! Je prendre de vous, mon . . .”

Damme,
what's Frog for “sword”?

“Espèce de salaud!”
he roared instead, his voice echoing off rocks and hills.
“Va te faire foutre!”

Scabbarded, Buonaparte flipped the sword so the hilt was in his fist—raised it to his face in mock salute, laughed as his horse did another impressive rear. He may have had no English, and Lewrie might not have had anything close to fluent French—but he thought he understood well enough. With a saw at the reins, the colonel was gone in a moment, up the draw and out of sight.

“Señores, pronto!”
a Spanish cavalry officer directed, skidding his mount to a sand-strewing halt near them. “
Inglés?
We go!
Muy pronto! Darse!
Hurry up!”