H. M. S. Cockerel (38 page)

That was another ominous portent to Lewrie's mind—that men in the enclave no longer had coin or time enough to waste on the whores of Toulon—too wrapped up in fears for their safety, too concerned about plotting their escapes with their whole skins to rattle? He'd expected the opposite would be true, that they'd be kicking her door down. Rantipoling always seemed to increase in the face of impending disaster, took men's minds off doom for awhile. Like that old adage, “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die?”

“I waz 'ope you be 'ere,
encore,
M'sieur Luray,” Phoebe told him quickly, taking his arm and sounding insistent.

“Me? Whatever for?” he scoffed, albeit gently, though he thought he knew already. Phoebe needed money, and a new gentleman-protector.

“
Après votre navire a coulée
. . . you' ship sink?” she explained. “An' you tell me,
si chrétien
. . . so gently,
concernant Barnaby
, zen
j'sai
. . . I know
vous est le homme, si prévenant et bienviellant.
You 'ave ze kin' . . . considerate 'eart?
D'avance,
you waz
toujours bonté avec moi,
M'sieur Luray, ver' gentle an' kin'.
Non
speak
sévère
to me, as
putain. Toujours
as
la jeune dame,
ze young lady!
Si charmant et amusant!
” She brightened, sounding almost wisftul, but sobered quickly as she sped on with what Alan was certain was a tale of woe.

“Now I am . . . in ze trouble?” the girl coaxed. “Oh,
merde alors,
ze trouble
terrible,
m'sieur!
D'abord,
I s'ink of
you
,
seulement
. . . on'y? I come 'ere, '
ope
you are 'ere, you
le plus,
of all ze Anglais Navy? You, mos' of all.” Phoebe fought a flood of tears, snuffling again, wiping her nose on her mitten. “Eef you do
non
help me,
m'sieur,
I am los'!
Mais .
. . I
know,
you 'ave pity
vers moi!
I know you 'elp me!”

“Phoebe, uhm . . .” Lewrie sighed. “Look, it's so cold out here.
Si froid?
Let's go over there, through the dockyard gate, out of the wind.” He picked up her traps, already beginning to regret it. Once in the lee of a stout stone wall, in more privacy, he turned to her. “Now, what sort of trouble are you in,
petite
Phoebe?”

“I am so
effrayant,
M'sieur Luray,
”
she began, shivering with more than cold, stepping closer to him. “I mus' 'ave
votre
protection!
Plais, mon Dieu,
you weel protec'
moi, plais?
” the tiny mort entreated, her soft brown eyes huge in a pinched little gamine face.
“Les Républicains, les sans culottes . . . ”
she sneered for a moment, almost spit upon the pavement despite her fear,
“les paysans
connardes, wan zey
reprendront
. . . zey tak' Toulon, I die.
Mais oui,
I
know
zis!
Merde alors,
zey
keel
me! On
ma mures et ma porte
. . . walls an' door?
Les sales
patriotes, zey write: 'ere
reside
une peau de vache degueulasse, la sale putain des les ennemies Brittaniques cracrà!
Zat I am ze traitresse?” She weakened and began to wail helplessly, though still with an undercurrent of anger and resentment.
“La sale putain de l'aristos, hein?”

“Whoa, slowly,” Alan said, trying to translate her rushed words. Cow's hide? Bitch of a hide, disgusting . . .
with
puke, or merely filthy?

She reached for his hands and took them in hers, drawing him near for safety, imploring, jerking at them as a petulant child might in punctuation. “Zey
regardant,
zey watch me? Leave me lettres, oh, les lettres ça pue la fauve! Avec tableaux
. . . peekt'r of ze
guillotine,
m'sieur! Oh, plais! Je ne comprend pas
. . . I 'urt no one, I am
pauvre petite fille de joie seulement,
I geeve no offence. Concierge, she t'row me out,
ce soir
she fin' 'er . . .
patriotisme!
I 'ave
nulle autre part .
. . now'ere else to be safe. An' I am
si effrayant, m'sieur! J'suis dans la merde!
”

“You need a place to stay,” he replied, “to hide?
Cacher?
”

“Ah, oui!”
Phoebe insisted, brightening at once, almost bouncing on her toes.
“Et aussi . . .”
she posed, taking on a shy but coy mien, all but biting her lip as she continued to gaze upward trustfully.

Here it comes, he sighed to himself, the hand on my purse.

“Wan you
partez,
you leave Toulon . . . ?” she dared to whisper up at him, head cocked most fetchingly. “You weel take
pauvre
Phoebe?”

That wasn't
quite
the request he'd expected from her.

She stepped closer, insinuating her arms inside his cloak round his waist, claiming shelter and warmth, with her thin young face turned up to his. “You tak' me
aller de Toulon?
Away?
Aides-moi
to . . . flee? You are in Navy, you 'ave
les
ships! Wan ze time come, ze
Royalistes
. . . zey run? But zey will 'ave no room for me.
‘Elle est la putain cracra seulement,'
zey will say.” She began to weep at the injustice of it all. “On'y ze dirty little whore? An' ze Républicains . . . zey
accusants, aussi,
an' chop off
ma tête!
I beg you,
m'sieur,
let me stay viz you? You protec' me? An'
tu mettes-moi
. . . put me on ship?”

“Uhm,” he softened, slipping his arms around her instinctively, though dubious of “adopting” her. “Keep you, and all?”

“Ah, oui, s'il vous plait, M'sieur Alain!”
she pleaded, looking up at him, her chin resting on his breastbone, her waif's eyes pleading as beguilingly as an orphaned kitten's.

“Je regrette, ma petite Phoebe . . .”
he muttered, thinking of his few coins, and how far yet they might have to stretch. “
Je suis pauvre, aussi. Un peu monnai? Après
our ship . . . sank? Went down? I have so little money, now.”

“Je m'en fiche,”
she declared, her little face solemn. “Do not care? You 'ave
la salle chaud,
ze warr-um room?
Un peu vin, et pain?
A little
monnai, c'est beau. Non monnai, c'est beau, aussi.
You are ze
homme seul, et moi,
I am ze
jeune fille,
'lone,
aussi.
Be kin' an'
généreux
to me, on'y
un peu, et moi
. . . I am
généreux à vous, hein? Quand, je serai
votre
jeune fille.
Zan, I am
your
. . .”

Damme, the price sounds right, he thought; and she
is
a pretty little thing. Cundums! Well, my new'uns ain't Mother Green's Finest—they're Frog. But I s'pose they know what they're about when it comes to amour. The others, though, Cony and all . . . they'll see her go up with me, and what'll they think . . . and just who
gives
a bloody damn any longer?

He looked down into her face searchingly. Though her belly was pressed against his in promise, her gaze was so forlorn, yet hopeful, her eyes aswim with tears. For fear of his rejection, and her Fate if he did turn her away. He felt his resolves slipping. Again.

“God save me,” he whispered in surrender. “Know what your name means, Pheobe?”

“Je ne sais pas, m'sieur,”
she replied softly, putting all her kitteny fondness into her voice, sensing his agreement at last.

“It means ‘sunshine' in Latin,” he chuckled, giving in to her neediness. And his own. “Like a happy sun?
Comme le soleil heureux.
”

She tittered, smiled at last, and took a moment to wipe her nose and eyes on her mittens, then threw her arms around his neck. “
D'accord, m'sieur Alain?
You protec' me?
Vous demeuront
. . . reside,
ensemble?
”

“Oui,”
he nodded, with a sheepish grin. “We
demeuront, ensemble.
”

“Ooh!” she cried suddenly, bouncing on her toes to hug him and giggle with relief. “You are
le homme très sympathetique,
so good, so
gentil, si magnifique! Je suis si heureux
. . . so 'appy! An' I mak'
you
so 'appy,
aussi, quand
. . . wan ve . . .
coucherons, ensemble,
” Phoebe vowed suggestively.
“Aimes-tu la coucher, Alain?”

“Oui,”
he chuckled.
“Mais oui, beaucoup!”

“An' wan you leave Toulon,” she paused, inquiring of him more closely for an instant, leaning back warily to see if all particulars of their bargain were sure, like any level-headed woman of business. “
Et
. . . ve sail way,
ensemble, aussi,
Alain?”

“
Oui,
I swear. I'll get you on a ship, when the time comes,
ma petite jolie Phoebe.
Swear? Promise? Uh,
croyez-vous.
Believe me.”

He gathered up her bags, those two items bearing all her worldly goods. He led her into the courtyard of the guardhouse, past a sentry who first gaped, then averted his eyes. Up the stairs past the few men idling and yarning in the guardroom, daring them to gawp at him. Into his room, where he shut the door on all outside distraction and curiosity.

He lit a candle as she doffed her cloak and mittens and thawed herself at the small fireplace's grate. There was a bottle of cognac on the scarred, rickety night stand by the bed. Only one glass, which he filled for her, which she accepted eagerly. He drank from the neck, listening to the rising winds as they rattled the shutters. Someone—Cony perhaps—had been thoughtful enough to obtain a warming pan for the bed, and had set out a covered dish; a quarter-loaf of bread with a hank of sausage. She devoured it ravenously, child-cheerful, as he put the warming pan back on the grate and removed coat and waistcoat.

They hung their clothing on wall pegs, suddenly sombre and shy with each other, after she was done eating. She smiled at him as she pinched out the candle, and shooed him to turn around so she could undress completely.

“M . . . maintenant, mon cheri,”
she said at last, faint and shaky.

“Bloody . . .” he gasped as he turned about to look at her.

She stood nude on her knees in the middle of the bed, whore-bold. Yet as shy, as nervous and giggly as a virgin might on her first night of marriage, totally feckless and artless at that moment, without a jot of a whore's weariness, pouting boredom or experience.

Her light olive skin was dark against the pale sheets, caressed by flickers of firelight, her hair a long, curling, dark-brown cascade down her back to her waist, over her shoulders, half-concealing breasts small but well formed, almost perky. So slim and neat, so girlish and tiny she looked, almost thin . . .

“Je suis si
froid,
mon cheri,”
she shuddered in a wee voice as she hugged herself for a moment, her eyes huge with want.
“Tu vas à moi
. . . come to me?
Dépêches, vite?”
she implored, stretching out her arms for him.

He rushed to the bed to embrace her, to kneel close to her, run his hands hungrily over her velvety firm young flesh, feeling her goosepimple at his touch.
“Si belle, tu es si belle, si petite, si . . . !”
he praised. “Such a beautiful little pretty!”

“You mak' me warr-um, Alain?” she shivered, somewhere between a nervous laugh and a helpless plea. “You keep me safe an' warr-um,
mon gentilhomme fantastique?
” She leaned back from his kisses to take his face in her little hands to regard him, to force him to regard her, for a serious instant.
“Alors, à tu, je donne ma tout, mon coeur.
Zen my
all
. . . I give to you?
Mon corps . . . mon coeur, moi-même!”
she whispered in touching tears that scalded as they splashed on his cheeks as they kissed again.