H. M. S. Cockerel (39 page)

They fell into the warmed bed, hurling the covers up to their chins, burrowing eagerly into the welcome warmth of press-hot sheets, grasping to clasp their warming flesh together, beginning to chuckle and sigh, to simper and giggle like goosegirl and stableboy.

When did she learn my given name, he idly wondered, too busy for much real thought as they rolled and interlaced, limbs twining as sinuous as snakes, mouths pressed together, stroking and exploring . . . Scott? Must have told her. She was always friendly enough . . . amusing and anxious to please. To fit in. Hang everything, he decided. Just all of it—hands, the war, the siege, all of it! Just a few nights, for the love of Heaven.

“Ma belle,”
he sighed in her ear, lost once more, humours ablaze as he nuzzled and savoured, afire for her and nothing else but a few precious moments of sweet, tumbling oblivion. “
Ma petite. Oui,
I'll keep you warm.
Je fais tu chaud
. . .
and
safe.”

“Oh, mon cheri,”
she swore, going breathless.
“Mon coeur . . . mon amour! Aime moi!”

To seal her bargain, to coax him or cajole him, to winnow her way into his sympathy and affection to hold him to it, she repaid him in the only coin she had left, or perhaps understood. But with passion so intense, so open and eager, so far beyond a coquette's artful practice, that he could not believe her giving of herself so completely was totally feigned, toward the end especially. Panting on his shoulder, tears in her eyes, kisses deep and searing, softly lingering and full of gentleness and seeming affection. As if, for a time at least, the girl could shut the door on her own very real fears for her future. Phoebe had as much need as anyone to abandon herself, deny the terrifying world outside, and sink mindlessly and carefree into a sweet oblivion of her own, surrender time and time again to pleasures so imperative that life beyond her body's sensations had no terrors which could even compare.

And sleep, at last, draped half over him, her head resting on his chest, clinging in her sleep as doggedly as he had to his raft, so light and sweet, so soft and toasty warm, with her hair spilled like a quilt over them. Sleeping peacefully, purring gentle and slow, twined about him. Completely spent yet happy.

Dreaming perhaps? he wondered as he drowzed alongside, his arms cocooning her. What did whores dream about, anyway? Her world was so narrow, so limited, and she such a willow branch to any wind that blew . . . did she dream of safety, new gowns, a little place to call her own? Of surviving long enough to continue her same narrow life?

He glanced at his new watch on the night stand by the firelight. Another cheap piece o' work. Just gone eleven, he yawned, completely, utterly spent himself. Yet happy as well, in his own way.

Whatever it'd been—a young whore's practiced arts to earn her passage, or a frightened girl's exquisite gratitude, some small measure of true affection and desire at last awakened—who knew, he asked the ceiling. It had been bestial, magnificent . . . tender. And grand.

He slept himself, then. As the skies opened and a cold sullen rain began to fall, slashing at the besieged port, driven by a half- gale of wind. Pattering and rattling on the shutters, drumming on the roof slates, making him glad he wasn't at sea on such a fearsome night.

He slept at last as real, natural thunder growled and rumbled, forcing him to nestle closer to Phoebe, to clasp her tighter and feel her reply with a snugger hug of her own as he rolled nearer. As a far-off storm voice marched closer and mingled itself with the dolorous drumming of the guns.

C H A P T E R 2

V
ery
far off, someone was shouting something incomprehensible, which sort of sounded like
“Allez, allez, vite . . .”
mumble-mumble
“le blah-blah-blah . . . perdu.”
Dull thuds somewhere. Something Froggish, Lewrie half-decided, and snuggled closer to the warmth of his girl.

“ . . . les Républicains sont arrivant!”

Bad dream; bugger it. Sweet, soft, warm, smooth shoulder . . .

More thunderings; up the stairs this time? Or the storm still rumbling . . . guns still rumbling? What else was new?

“Merde alors,”
Phoebe muttered crossly in his ear, waking first, leaning across him to listen. Her long tresses tickled his nose, half smothering him, but drew him most unwillingly nearer the surface of his pleasant stupor. He opened one eye, beheld a perky young breast, dark aureola and pinkish nipple staring back, an inch from his lips. Alan gave it a little flick with his tongue, thinking that a marvelous way to be awakened.

“Oohn,” she groaned, in spite of herself, with a chuckle deep in her throat.

More bloody bangings on the door, hard and insistent.

“Alain, someone eez . . .” Phoebe prompted sleepily.

“Hmmphff?” he grumbled, rolling on his back.
“What?”

“Alain!” a voice shouted as the door burst open with a bang.

At the sight of a man in uniform, a
French
naval uniform, with a brace of pistols in his belt, Phoebe gave out with a loud scream of pure Royalist terror as she sat bolt upright!

Lewrie felt his hair go on end for a second, until the dim light filtering through the shutters revealed the man to be Charles de Crillart.

“Sacre . . .”
Charles gawped, his face suffusing.

“Christ, Charles, can't you
knock,
or something?” Alan carped.

“Alain, I . . . uhh . . .” Lieutenant de Crillart stuttered, his eyes swiveling from Lewrie's puffy face to Phoebe's bare charms, then back.
“Mon Dieu, pardonnez moi, mon ami . . .”

Lewrie sat up, claiming the top sheet to shroud his groin as he put his torso between Phoebe and de Crillart. She dragged the coverlet to her chin, huddling tiny in a corner of the bed by the headboard.

“Alain, ze Républicains,” Charles explained, stepping out onto the small landing and half-closing the door. “Fort Mulgrave . . .
c'est perdu.
Lost!”

“What?” he barked, leaping from the bed for stockings and slop trousers. “Lost! How?”

“Ze storm? Early zis morn, zey
avant
vis ze bayonet, wan most of
notre
powder waz wet,
hein?
Zey rout ze
Espagnoles,
an' ze British could not 'old out.
Une heure
ago, zey at las' retreat, into Balaguer. Ze Républicains now 'ave Mulgrave, all ze
canon
. . . ze heights overlook L'Eguillette an' Balaguer.”

“Christ,
that's
the end, isn't it?” he fumed, stomping into his boots, tearing his shirt from a wall peg to slip over his head.

“Zat ees
non
all ze worse,
mon ami,
” Lieutenant de Crillart said in a funereal tone. “Ze sam' time zey . . . coordinate? Général Lapoype, 'is soldiers . . . zey march up s'rough Argeliers, an' zey tak' all ze posts on ze mountain of Pharon. Zey 'ave ze
canon
zere, too.”

“Bloody hell.” Lewrie paused, rubbing his face. He turned to share a look with Phoebe, who was white and blanched with fear. “Ah . . . any orders for us yet, Charles?” He hurried to button up his waistcoat and don his stock.

“Non,”
de Crillart sighed. “Eet eez still rain hard, an' ver' foggy. No one know anys'ing. Or see anys'ing.”

Lewrie stepped out to join Charles now he was decent, and shut the door so Phoebe could spring from the bed and dress herself.

“Damme, Pharon gone,” Alan fretted, chewing on a thumbnail for a moment. “Heated shot, and the whole place in range, far as Fort Mandrier, so we aren't safe even in the Great Road any longer. And Balaguer and L'Eguillette under their guns, too . . .”

“Oui,”
Charles replied sadly. “Wan ze powder is dry, an' zey 'ave good view? Phfft.
Tous c'est perdu.
All eez los'.”

“Your gunners, Charles . . . they've families in Toulon?”

“
Oui,
some of zem.”

“Best tell them to fetch 'em. Here to the guardhouse, for the nonce,” Alan decided. “Your family, too. And warn them . . . don't try to carry away
too
much of their belongings . . . do you get my meaning?”

“D'accord,”
de Crillart nodded firmly.

“I'll go up to headquarters; you take care of your own, for now,” Lewrie offered. “We may not have long before the weather breaks, then not much time to arrange shipping. Surely, though, we'll try to get the troops away. And as many Royalists as want to go. I'll try for a ship.”

“I will go now,” Charles agreed, turning to descend the stairs.

“Charles, the girl . . .” Lewrie called softly to hold him. “While I'm at headquarters . . . do you return first? She was Mr. Scott's, uhm . . . girl? Do you keep her safe with the other families. I promised her I would get her on a ship, when the time came. Just didn't know it'd be
this
bloody soon.”

“
Oui,
I remember 'er, Alain. She eez
putain,
but . . .”

“Aye, she is,” Lewrie stiffened.

“
Alain, mon ami
. . . even
les putains
'ave right to live. I keep her safe, until you return.”

“Thankee, mate.
Merci bien.
”

Admiral Lord Hood, Major General Dundas, Admiral de Langara, Lieutenant General Valdez, Forteguerri the Neapolitan, Rear Admiral Gravina, Sir Hyde Parker, Prince Pignatelli, Chevalier de Revel and Sir Gilbert Elliot held a quick counsel of war, as the sounds of battle and barrage faded away to nothing. For the moment, the Republicans were as spent as anyone else. Except for a few spatters of musketry as patrols in Toulon discouraged looting or
sans
culottes
acts of patriotism, there was little to indicate a crisis had come.

Except for the people in the streets, the handcarts laden with household goods and valuables. Wagons streamed downhill from the outlying districts to the quays, piled up in confusion. Rain continued to fall, a chilly, drizzling misty rain that shrouded the Heights of Pharon and the surrounding mountains, almost cut off any view of de Grasse peninsula. Frightened as they were, the Royalists endured with a stoic calm, waiting for news, waiting for evacuation. Waiting for a ship to board.

It was the foreign troops who were the most unruly, those routed from the heights, the peninsula, those who should have still garrisoned the remaining posts, but who drifted back into town, looking for ships of their own. Neapolitan soldiers were already filtering aboard their line-of-battle ships,
Tancredi
and
Guiscardo.
British troops remained disciplined, as did the Spanish. It was they who maintained order in the ranks. Even if they had to threaten the Neapolitans with cannon to make them march out of their positions, turning their own guns on them. There had already been some shooting in Neapolitan lines, where terrified men had panicked and fired off their muskets at any affright, killing or wounding dozens of innocent civilians who'd streamed past on their way to the harbour, thinking them a French advance out of the fog.

Headquarters was not very informative. It was a beehive of men dashing about, of stacks of papers being sorted, of piles of rejects on pyres, and chests and campaign trunks being packed and slammed closed. The sight almost made Lewrie glad he had so little by way of possessions to worry about. He felt more mobile—and quicker when it came time to flee. It made him faintly sour, too, to see the many valuables being carted off. Silver plate, gold ornaments, clocks, an entire crystal chandelier, crates and barrels of rare-vintage wine, cognac . . . Toulon had been a very rich city, and it now appeared that it was being looted by the defeated, to deny the victors their proper spoils.

“Anything for me and my men to do?” he asked once more of a junior officer.

“For God's sake, sir, no!” the man shouted back, over his shoulder in passing. “How many times do I have to tell you, I have no orders for anyone in the Navy at this time!”

They
had
had orders, all contradictory. First, he'd been warned to ready his boats to aid in the evacuation of Balaguer, but before he could get that in writing, they were cancelled. Then it had been word to prepare to evacuate the batteries at Cape Brun and Fort Saint Margaret . . . but others thought that a bad idea, for it would expose every ship in the Great Road to enemy fire, were they not held to the end.

“Does
anyone
have a clue what's happening?” a frustrated post-captain shouted after the Army aide-de-camp in exasperation. There'd been a constant stream of officers from the ships in harbour, captains and commanders, first lieutenants coming and going—mostly with word to shift their anchorages to the Great Road or the Bay of Toulon, wait for further orders, to prepare all their boats. But mostly, to wait.

“Christ, not in
this
raree show, there ain't,” Lewrie muttered.

“Anything but indecision,” a post-captain near Lewrie agreed in some heat. “Anything but delay. High as I esteem Admiral Lord Hood . . . but perhaps the situation requires deliberate action. Careful thought and planning, else the evacuation will be a disaster.”

“Can't imagine why they'd start thinking now!” Lewrie sneered softly, his face bearing a sardonic grin. “A bit late, that.”

“They are still our superior officers, sir,” the little fellow stiffened. Christ, it was Captain Nelson! “In our hour of travail they deserve our unstinting support, sir. I know you, do I, sir?”

“Alan Lewrie, Captain Nelson,” he replied, stiffening himself in sudden wariness. “Of the
Cockerel
frigate. Currently . . .”

“Naples!” Nelson smiled of a sudden. “I heard of you from the Hamiltons. My predecessor to that delightful port.”

You get stuck into Lady Emma too, did you? Lewrie thought.

“Before that, sir, during the Revolution.”

“God, yes. Off Cape François?” Nelson enthused, recalling.

“Turk's Island, Captain Nelson, just a few weeks before the end of hostilities.”

“Uhm, yes, Turk's Island . . .” Nelson frowned. He'd come a rare cropper over that one, trying to retake the island from the Frogs, who'd garrisoned it with more men than Nelson had in his entire ad-hoc squadron. A squadron he had no right to assemble or lead. “Brig o' war . . .
Shrike,
was it not, sir? And your captain was grievously wounded.”

“Aye, sir, still in the Navy, though. All thanks to your speaking to Lord Hood on his behalf. Captain Lilycrop? Lost the leg, but he's in the Impress Service, made ‘post.' I never did get the opportunity to express my undying thanks for your kind deed, sir. I do so now, sir.” He threw in a bow, leg extended, his hat upon his breast.

And maybe he'll forget the strip he was about to tear off mine arse for mouthing off, Alan hoped to himself.

“And mine to you, Lieutenant Lewrie; for preparing the ground, so to speak, in Naples, with His Majesty King Ferdinand,” Nelson replied with an equal bow. He stepped closer and took Lewrie's hand. “Sir William, Lady Emma, Acton, His Majesty—all spoke highly of you.”

“They are all well, sir, and thriving? Including Queen Maria Carolina? I did not have the opportunity to meet her, but . . .”

“Delivered of a healthy heir, sir, I am quite happy to relate, soon after your departure. Aye, well and thriving. Personally, that is! Though our impending defeat here will be no cause for delight with the Neapolitans. Enthusiastic allies . . . perhaps too enthusiastic to be firm, or
steady,
allies,” Nelson gloomed. “Like many Mediterraneans, possessed of the ability to elate or despair, in equal measure.”

“Do we get their troops away with no further losses, sir, then I am certain Sir William Hamilton and Lady Emma may buck their enthusiasms up again,” Lewrie grinned.

“Aye, I dare say!” Nelson chuckled, lifting on the balls of his feet with an enthusiasm of his own. “An amazing woman, Lady Emma. So many-faceted, like a precious gem.”

He
did
get the leg over, Lewrie speculated.