H. M. S. Cockerel (43 page)

“I'm sorry, Phoebe,” Alan softened, knowing it wouldn't work— couldn't work, for very long, but . . . “I didn't mean to sound angry with you. Forgive
me.
Truth? Uhm,
en verité?
I
was
just as worried about what people would say about us. About
me.
Can't help that. God save me, I'm a horrid beast of a man. A poor excuse. God save me, again . . . with a gun to my head, this instant, I couldn't walk away from you.”

“B'lief
moi,
Alain,” she snorted in gentle self-mockery. “I know 'ow beas'ly men can be. You are
non une
of zem.
Tu, je t'adore.
”

“Tu, je t'adore, aussi,”
he whispered, knowing he was throwing his mind away, and caring not one whit. “Long as no one gets hurt.”

“Bien!”
she laughed, suddenly girlish again, bouncing on her toes as if she wanted to fling her arms around his neck and kiss him in front of the entire world.
“
An' now I 'ave
ma grand amoureux, comme amant tu crée partout,
back,
encore!
An'
monté comme un âne. Comme le Fran-chouillard, mais le plus formidable!”

“I'm what?” he chuckled.
“Comment? Je ne comprend pas tous . . .”

She cut her eyes about the deck before stepping close to whisper, blushing with her daring. “I say,
vous est
ze mos' creative lover, like ze Frenchman, but more
formidable, mon amour merveilleux.
An ze, uhm . . .
mon Dieu,
so easy to say
en français, mais
. . .” She tittered into her hands, red as a beet, stifling a howl of laughter.
“Equipé le plus, comme l'âne?
Ze . . . donkey?
La, mon Dieu, pardon . . . !”

“Ah?” he coughed sternly, though pleased beyond all measure. “Well, hmm . . . mean t'say!”

She coughed as well, flipped up her hood to partially hide her amusement and her embarrassment. “I be good now, Alain
mon coeur,
I
promesse. Jusqu'a ce soir.
Until tonight,
n'est-ce pas?
Au revoir, mon amour. Au revoir.
”

“I would be most honoured, should you be able to dine with me,
mademoiselle,
” he said, on public show once more, doffing his hat to her and bowing her away. She dropped him a rather good curtsy, then fled.

“Bloody Hell, until tonight, then,” he crowed in a secret mutter, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Bank on
that, ma cherie.
”

C H A P T E R 4

T
he
last diners had been served, the last families had slowly shuffled forward to the galley on the mess deck, with poor pewter or wood messware, soldier's issue tin plates and cups, or aristocratic china with sterling silver. Where they'd eaten had been their problem to solve, since there were too many for wardroom, midshipmen and great-cabin tables, or for the petty officers' messes. But they had all gotten a full belly of boiled potatoes, a quarter-loaf of crusty dry bread, a slice of cheese, and a portion of salt beef carved off hard joints. And a half-pint of
vin ordinaire.

So much shipping had mustered round Fort Saint Louis that they had moved
Radical
in the late afternoon to a new anchorage close by the Cape Sepet peninsula, just under the battery named “The Brothers,” waiting for the signal to sortie. Waiting for Capt. Sir William Sidney Smith and his party, and the Spanish under Adm. Don Juan de Langara, to begin the destruction of the French fleet.

There was not another inch of room in the Great Road. Seventeen Spanish sail of the line, and God knew how many lesser warships in attendance. Twenty-one British, plus frigates, sloops and brigs of war . . . and French warships taken from the basin.

Commerce-de-Marseille,
the magnificent 120-gunned 1st Rate, the
Pompée
74, and
Scipion.
The frigates
Arethuse
-AO,
Topaze
-4Q
, Perle-
36,
Aurore-
36,
Lutine
-36,
Alceste-
36,
Poulette
and
Belette,
28s;
Proselyte
-24
, Mozelle-
20,
Mulet
and
Sincère,
both 18-gunned corvettes, and the 14-gunned
Tarleton
brig-sloop. All crammed together in the Great Road, with a fingernail's grasp upon France, an anchor's flukes binding them to the ground. So many ships left behind, but certain to be destroyed; there simply weren't enough men in Admiral Hood's fleet to man them all, to provision them or overhaul them in time.

Crammed, too, those French prizes were, with French Royalists in their thousands. Over 14,000, Alan had heard from the flag lieutenant who'd come 'round just before dusk, repeating the orders to be ready to weigh anchor once the fires were lit. And over 16,000 troops they had had. All off now but a handful, a rear guard at Fort La Malgue, soon to scurry down to Saint Louis at the base of the bluffs and take boats.

Lewrie and de Crillart stood on the quarterdeck apart from the other officers allowed on that hallowed ground; serving officers from Royalist units or the 18th Foot, a sprinkling of aristocrats or rich men who'd snuck up anyway.

“Beggin' yer pardon, sir,” Will Cony muttered, coming to their side. “Uh, me an' th' bosun need t'speak with you an' Mister de Crillart, sir.” Short-handed as they were, Alan had been able to promote Cony to a position as acting-bosun's mate. Porter came forward, hat in hand, knuckling his brow in salute.

“Yes, Mister Porter?”

“Ah, Cap'm,” Porter frowned. “Ya know that foot o' seep-water we pumped out'n 'er yesterd'y, right after we come aboard 'er? Well, sirs . . . h'it's back . . . some o' h'it.”

“Good Christ, we have a bottom left at all?” Lewrie asked, dumb-founded. “How big a hole would that take, I ask you?”

“Not a 'ole, sir,” Cony volunteered. “Maybe lotsa litl'uns. We sounded th' well 'bout half-hour ago, Mr. Lewrie, an' she come up wet. 'Bout three, four inch . . . deep'z a rum cup.”

“Cony, she makes three inches in eighteen hours, why hadn't she already sunk at her moorings?” Lewrie gaped.

“Well, sir, my guess be,” Porter stuck in, “'long as she's light-draughted, she'd be fine. Suck in slowlike. But this many folks an' tonnage aboard, full casks and all, she's back on 'er proper waterline . . . maybe an inch'r two over h'it. We laded 'er deep, sir.”

“I see,” Lewrie fumed, clasping his hands in the small of his back again and pacing off his sudden fretfulness. “Nothing much we may do about it. Can't go back to the basin and swap for another, can we, now? Is she wormed? And how badly?”

“Aye, sir,” Porter confided. “First time we pumped her dry, we checked, and they's some soft patches, sure, but she was
mostly
sound. 'At Froggie bosun, 'e told us she'd been careened, breamed, an' copper redone in May.
Thought
she'd weeded too fast, but I took that for sittin' idle, 'stead o' sailin' h'it off. An' then, we found 'ese. Show th' cap'm, Cony.”

Cony offered them a handful of nails to look over. By the light of the binnacle lantern, Alan could see that some were copper and some were iron. Some were bent, as if they'd been driven badly, and pulled.

“Oh, Christ,” Lewrie said.

“Sacre bleu,”
de Crillart moaned.

“'As right, sirs,” Cony agreed, with a disgusted expression over shoddy workmanship. “Aye, they recoppered 'er, but we foun' these all mixed t'gether, so we
think . . .
they got sloppy an' used iron nails, to drive through copper platin', when they laid on fresh stuff, sirs.”

“But ev'ryone
know,
copper an' iron
ensemble,
in sea water, zey
eat
each ozzer,” de Crillart cried. “
Merde alors,
I know ze peegs are lazy,
mais non . . . non
stupeed!
Paysans connardes, cons comme la lune! Zut!
An' now some of ze copper fall away,
oui?
Expose ze cloth, an'ze caulking? Zat eez ware ve leak,
hein? Ils sont débiles!
”

“Uh, yessir, I guess that'd be h'it, Mister de Crillart,” the bosun nodded with an uncomprehending shrug to Charles's stream of invectives. “Uhm, 'bout th' caulkin', Mister Lewrie, sir? Been probin' down below. Like I say, ain't got no big leaks, just seepin', so slow we can't spot it. But some o' th' lowest down, 'long th' keel members . . . looks like h'it wuz a dirty job o' work, an' they didn' put much effort to h'it.”

“Scrimped on oakum and tar, paying the seams, Mister Porter?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Damn my eyes,” Lewrie spat, putting a hand on his hip, staring aloft. Then realised how foolish he looked. “Right, then, we made four inches of seepage in . . . well, no, yesterday noon 'til noon today . . . and it's almost . . .” He pulled out his cheap replacement watch to add up the hours. But it had stopped. “Buggery, damned clock,” he grunted, giving it a shake. “
French,
I ask you—oh, sorry, Charles.”

The forecastle watch bell chimed; six bells of the second dog— half-past seven in the evening.

“Let's say, thirty-two hours to make four inches, that's an inch in every eight hours. Do we work the chain pumps for, say . . . one hour every eight, and should the seepage not get worse, pray God . . . we may be alright.”

“The hands, though, sir . . .” Porter winced.

“I know, they've enough on their plates as it is. But we do have all this idle soldiery aboard. The Royal Irish, the French . . . ? Put it to 'em nicely, and we could use them on the pump levers. Charles, you're so much more
diplomatique
than I, especially with your fellow Frenchmen. Mm, perhaps you might be the one to spread the word? Quietly?”

“D'accord, mon capitaine,”
de Crillart said with a wry look.

“Might let 'em drill a bit, too,” Lewrie decided on a whim. “Get organised. That Major de Mariel in overall command, Lieutenant Kennedy and your brother as his captains? It might keep them out of mischief. And make 'em feel as if they're earning their passage. Appoint some as masters-at-arms, too. Sentries, like Marines. Especially on the magazine and such. Found children dashing in and out of there this afternoon, wild as red Indians. That'll spare our ordinary and able seamen, French or British, and our experienced landsmen too much work.”

“Aye, sir,” Porter agreed.

“I weel tell zem,
mon ami,
” de Crillart agreed.

“Damme, leaks or no, I'll tell you all, it feels almighty good to be aboard a ship again,” Lewrie smiled, revealing too much, being too open for a proper captain. But knowing that they felt the same way and would forgive his lack of august aloofness, for he said no more than any of them might, and thus spoke for them all.

Eight o'clock came and went. Full darkness. The skies were now clearer, the winds dryer, though still cold. They should be starting to burn the French ships, he thought, but there was no sign of that. Some brief firefly glitters on the hills around Malbousquet, from L'Eguillette and Balaguer, bright, brief little yellow sparks. Musketry, Alan imagined. A fire or two in Toulon proper . . .
sans culottes'
looting and revenge? Abandoned Royalists' homes being trashed? There were redder, longer-lasting sparks now, appearing to come from Dubrun or Millaud . . . a faint drumming. Light artillery, what the Republicans could man-haul to the shore. Musketry sweeping slowly forward like a grass fire toward the arsenals, the warehouses and the dockyards, downhill from Malbousquet and Missicy. From the heights above Toulon.

Nine o'clock, and still no signal to weigh anchors. Brisk little exchanges of fire, even closer to the dockyards. More light artillery winking amber from the shores.

“Ze end,” de Crillart moaned at his side, suddenly. “
Ma belle France. Pauvre France.
I see 'er no more.”

“We'll be back, Charles,” Lewrie insisted grimly. “A year. We'll beat 'em, and then you can go back. The Vendée, up in arms . . . ”

“Ah, a year . . .” Charles grinned sadly. “
C'est dommage.
I 'ave nozzing zere anymore. Ze France I know, she eez gone fo'ever. An' ze one een 'er place, I do not weesh to know. She be destroyed,
beaucoup
poverty, sadness.
D'abord,
we lose
notre
titles . . .
ensuite,
we lose our land. Our
monnaie,
phfft,
perdu,
mos' of eet. Now, we lose our country.”

“There's still the Royalist French Squadron, Charles,” Alan reminded him. “They'll need officers, captains . . .”

“Zere be no squadron,
mon ami,
” de Crillart countered. “
Votre roi Georges,
'e 'ave no need for
nous.
'E 'ave eez own Marine Royale, an 'e canno' pay for bo'z. Englan', she pay
monnaie
pour soldats
. . . for armies, not anozzer Navy.
Non.
An' no place for
officeur français
in you' Navy. I s'ink I am done viz
mon
service.
”

“Any plans, then?”

“I s'ink I like to go to America,” Charles chuckled. “
Oui,
America, Alain! Wan I serve een Chesapeake, ware ve battle you an' I . . . I see
beaucoup
fin' land. Empty, America. Room for many. Maryland, I adore, mos' of all. We 'ave
la monnaie, un peu, encore.
Passage, an' ze bit of land. Work 'ard, save . . . mak' crops? Grow riche,
encore . . . peut-être.
”

“Didn't think the Rebels cared for royalty, Charles,” Alan warned. “Sure you're doing the right thing? And how would Louis feel about it? No one to call him Chevalier, over there, honour his bloodlines.”

“Louis,
oui,
” de Crillart heaved a heavy sigh, pulling his nose in Gallic fashion. “'E may not care for America. So eager to fight . . . regain eez title? America may not care for eem,
oui. Mon Dieu
. . . ze
famille!
We may not chose zem, on'y abide? As 'ead of
famille,
I mus' do ze best for zem. But, Louis eez not boy, 'e mus' mak' eez own way, eef 'e disagree.
C'est dommage!
”

“You could come to England,” Lewrie suggested.

“Pardon, Alain,”
Charles objected. “Nevair fit, zere. Live on ze
charité,
tolerated? Scorned?
Nous sommes les Catholiques, et enemy ancien.
Toujours,
we be . . . suspect. An' remember, Alain . . . ze Comandante de Esquevarre, 'ow 'e say Toulonese are cold an' . . . ‘tight-arses'? Not like eez
Espagnole?
Bien,
I am French. To me,
l'anglais
are tight-arses. You, non,
pardon, mon ami.
You are not like ze ozzer
anglais
I 'ave meet. I sometime s'ink you 'ave made ze
grand gentilhomme français!
Sometime, I talk vis you, I am so amaze you are
anglais, les bras m'en tombent,
uhm . . . so amaze, my arms fall off!”