H. M. S. Cockerel (46 page)

Deep below decks, though, the French gunners had discovered some shot for the eighteen-pounders which had been neglected when
Radical
had been stripped, then abandoned; Chain-shot, elongating bar-shot, and multiple bar-shot, designed to take down masts and rigging. The French were more fond of it than the Royal Navy, it was their standard tactic; to cripple a foe at long-range first, destroying his motive power, and the ability to maneuvre or flee. Lewrie thought it a waste of time, and precious powder.

The results of the drills didn't enthuse him much, either. They worked without firing, since they had so little powder to waste, and it was a shambles. People tripping over ring-bolts in the deck, tripping over tackles, standing cunny-thumbed and unknowing in the bights which in action, when guns recoiled, would have had their feet off. Standing
behind
the guns, so please you, totally ignorant of recoil at all! One hour they'd drill, then rest for half of the next, whilst earnest gunners tried to explain, over and over again, how to do it safely and with the least confusion. Then, back to the guns once more, for another hour of drill, trying to cram three months' experience into their heads in a single day!

The soldiers were easier to deal with. They understood crouching behind bulwarks and letting fly by-volley, the bayonet, the mêlée. Few, however, were anywhere near marksmen. Their common practice was to line up shoulder to shoulder, three or four ranks deep, level their muskets in the general direction of the enemy, aim for the breastplates, close their eyes, fire . . . and hope for the best. To work in small teams aloft in the fighting-tops, firing at single targets, was too much to hope for. Thankfully, there were young aristocrats, too well bred to stand in the line (unless they were officers) who were also sportsmen, who took pride in their marksmanship with single-shot hunting guns or fowling pieces on a chase over their ancestral lands, and who could, with a few commoners who'd worked as gamekeepers, go aloft as sharpshooters and pick off a man in an officer's uniform. But they were painfully few.

They drilled for another hour, took another tutorial rest period, and then it was time to break and pump the bilges. Then serve dinner to all. They had two more spells of drill in the afternoon. Until it was time to pump the bilges once more.

Christ, it'll be hopeless, Lewrie thought, watching them traipse away for a lie-down or a sit-down, trailing their muskets or swords, more like walking sticks than weapons. They were beginning to get an inkling—but only the
barest
inkling—of what might be demanded of them. Like a brand-new warship just fitting-out, her crew as raw as a side of beef, nowhere near ready to up-anchor for weeks, engaging in a first day of sail-handling training—in the first hour of “river discipline.” He crossed his fingers, hoping against hope that they'd not come afoul of an enemy ship. Their best would be pathetic, nowhere near enough.

Lewrie put his head down on his crossed arms, swaying against the quarterdeck rails over the waist, bone-weary. His little enthusiasm had cost him two spells off-watch, and it was properly de Crillart's turn to go below. It would be eight that night, end of the second dog, before he could let himself rest, or even close both eyes longer than a blink. Sure enough, eight bells chimed forward—four o'clock, and the end of the day watch.

He thought of staging one more drill before supper, but no . . . his “volunteers” were by then too tired themselves, too full of strange and new concepts not yet half-absorbed. More drill would put experienced, impatient sailors too much on edge, and the “volunteers” would rankle at the abuse which was sure to come, then. They'd learn nothing more this day. Might even bridle so stiffly, some of the aristocratic ones, that they'd have no more to do with it tomorrow. Or blithely “forget” the lessons of today. Let 'em rest, he thought. And dear God, let me!

C H A P T E R 6

A
lain,”
a soft voice crooned in his ear. He smacked his lips, trying to ignore it, sunk so deep in a well of turgid blackness, echoing, swirling fever-dream deepness, both unable and unwilling to move a single limb.
“Alain, mon cerf formidable.
Arise,
mon coeur.”

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “What's the time?”

“Almos' six?” Phoebe cajoled softly but insistently. “Ze
aspirant,
M'sieur Spenloov, 'e sen' down
pour vous.
”

“God,” Lewrie reiterated, flat on his back, rubbing his eyes to pry them open. “There trouble, did he say?”

“Non, mon amour,”
Phoebe assured him, with a gentle kiss on his lips. “'E say, eet eez ze ten minute
après l'aurore.
Ze dawn?”

“Uhmm,” Lewrie sighed, trying to will himself to rise. Once he had come below, he'd fallen into an exhausted sleep, almost face down in his soup, gone back on deck at midnight, and had left orders to be wakened around dawn, no matter. He'd barely gotten his shoes and coat off before tumbling, giddy-headed, onto the bed cot, putting his arms about her an instant before total, dreamless sleep had claimed him.

“
Maintenant,
ze
cinq
minute 'ave pass.”

“Right, then,” he grunted, letting a leg fall toward the deck. He swung to a sitting position, head hung in weariness that a sleep of an entire night and day couldn't cure.

“I 'ave ze café!
Très chaud, et noir,
” Phoebe said, perkily.

I
know
she's bein' affectionate, supportive an' all, he thought, but
damme,
it's too bloody much cheerful, too early, for me!

She put the mug under his nose. His nostrils twitched, his eyes were, like a purloined letter, steamed open. He took the mug and took a sip.

“Bon matin, mon cheri,”
she said fondly.

“Bon matin à tu, aussi, ma cherie,”
he replied, trying to crack a matching grin. Damme, she call me a
serf,
just then? No,
cerf.
A stag?
“Bon matin, ma biche,”
he added. “My little doe.”

“Chatons,
zey say
‘bon matin,' aussi,”
Phoebe crooned, pointing to the black-and-white he'd ended up adopting after all—though just how that had come about, he still wasn't certain. The little bugger was just
there,
playing on the bedcot when he'd come off watch the day before. As was one of his whiter, lighter-marked sisters, whom Phoebe had also claimed. They were tumbling and pouncing each other all over the map table at that moment, too busy to say
“bon matin.”
Scattering rulers and dividers, almost upsetting the inkwell . . .

“Uhm, thanks for the coffee, Phoebe,” he said, as his thoughts began to trickle through his brain. “You must have gone forward, up to the galley? Very kind of you.
Merci bien.
”

“
Pauvre
Alain, eez . . . leas' I do
pour vous?
” She sat beside him almost prim, though swinging her heels girlishly as they hung above the deck. “Ver'
beau jour
. . . nice day, I am s'ink. I weel
non
'ave to worry
concernant vous
visou' you' cloak.
Non
as cloudy?”

“Good,” Lewrie hurried to finish his coffee. “I'm sorry, Phoebe, but I have to go. They'll need me on deck. Thank you, though.”

“
Moi,
need you,
aussi,
” she chirped, full of good cheer, almost maternal. Yet seductive. “Wan we
arrivons à
Geebraltar, z'ough . . . Now, go. Speed oos zere. I let you' navire 'ave you, until zen.”

With an offer like that, he could not depart without rewarding her with a passionate kiss and a grateful embrace. A moment's dally with the kittens, and he was off.

“Morning, sir,” Mister Midshipman Spendlove reported crisply. “The dawn was at . . . half-past five, sir. Horizon clear. We logged six and a quarter knots, the last two hours, sir. Wind's veered more southerly, too, so it doesn't feel like a Levanter . . . I think, sir.”

“And you let me sleep twenty minutes past dawn, when I left orders to be summoned at that time, Mister Spendlove?” Lewrie glowered, still too testy to be approached.

“Uhm, sir . . . we
tried
to wake you, me and the, uhm . . . Mademoiselle Aretino both, sir,” Spendlove blushed.

Who the Hell's
that,
Alan wondered? Damme, never even took time to discover her last name! Oh, well.

“My apologies for biting your head off, then, Mister Spendlove,” Alan sighed. “Bad as one of Hercules's Twelve Labours, was it?”

“No error, sir,” Spendlove grinned shyly.

“Where away, the other ships?” Lewrie asked, turning back to business.

“One ahead, sir, she's tops'ls down now. The horse transport down to loo'rd must have hauled her wind during the night, a point or so. She's about another two miles off,
almost
hull down. The pair astern are about where they were last night, sir.
Might
have lost some ground on us.”

“Very well, Mister Spendlove. I'll—”

“SAIL HO!”

“Christ!” he said instead, wishing his bladder wasn't full.

“Deck, there! Two sail astern! Two points off th' larb'rd quarter! Hull down! T'gallants, all I see!”

“You and the bosun have the deck, Mister Spendlove?” Lewrie enquired. “Pray, do you keep it a few minutes longer.” He took a telescope and went aloft the mizzen shrouds as high as the catharpings, to peer astern.

“Three sail! Deck, there, three sail astern!” the mainmast lookout shouted down. “Three sail, all three-masters! Two points off the larb'rd quarter!”

He could barely make them out, three sets of three t'gallants on the horizon, grayish-white sails bellied full of wind.
Radical
rose on a wave, giving him a slightly better view, then dipped once more, rising the horizon like a stage curtain. The strange ships rose and fell also. Too far off to determine their identity. But he could hazard a morbid guess. The ships around him had been at sea long enough for pale white canvas to go mildewed and tan. Royal Navy ships, wearing their working suit of sails, were usually amber or tan. These ships, though, had not been at sea much, hadn't exposed their t'gallants to the weather. They were nearly new, and pale. Weather nowhere near boisterous enough for the heavy-weather suit to be hoisted aloft, too gusty for the tropical suit . . . these were ships which hadn't been out of harbour in a while. And three, close together, travelling in a pack. Or a squadron.

He feared they were French.

“Bloody Hell,” he sighed to himself. “
Now
what to do?”

He snapped the telescope shut, descended the ratlines, to land with a final short jump to the quarterdeck.

“Mister Spendlove, we'll err on the side of caution. Dig into the taffrail lockers and prepare a flag signal for the other ships,” he directed. “First, Number Ten, followed by ‘Make All Sail,' whatever that is, this month's book. There're Sea Officers aboard to read 'em.”

“Number
Ten,
sir?” Spendlove gasped, eyes wide.

“Aye, Mister Spendlove. ‘Enemy In Sight.'”

Short, bluff-bowed, undersparred . . . and terrified, the merchant-men and transports
tried
to make more sail. More than likely, they had one poor, overworked Royal Navy officer aboard, assigned to a civilian master, who possessed as few crewmen as he could scrimp and still work his ship, under Admiralty contract. They had guns, of course; no ship put to sea unarmed. But to work them, to really fight back . . . always sailing in large convoys or under close escort, they were there merely as afterthoughts for most merchant ships in European water.
Supposed
to man to something close to Admiralty standards,
paid
to, yet . . .

A prudent man would have let fall every reef, let fall every top-gallant, and sail off and leave them to their own devices. Yet those ships were so jam-packed, elbow-to-elbow with helpless civilians. Alan could not abandon them. There was precious little he could do
for
them, either. He couldn't fight
one
enemy vessel, really, and certainly not three.
Radical
didn't have the well-drilled crew to allow him freedom of maneuvre, to dance with the approaching foes. And, he observed most bitterly, even had he
attempted
to run away, he couldn't.
Radical
wallowed! She couldn't pass seven knots in a full gale. And the ships astern were gaining.

Within an hour the three ships had sailed their tops'ls above the horizon; within another hour, the first sight of their courses as well. Stuns'ls (which
Radical
lacked) spread snowy to either beam of their masts, stay'ls between topmasts glittered fresh as new-boiled bed sheets. The transports astern had caught up by perhaps no more'n a single mile, strain as they might, their own topmasts appearing to bend forward under the pressure of t'gallants and unreefed tops'ls. The horse transport down to leeward had made better progress, now head-reaching ahead of
Radical
's
bows.

“Sail Ho!”

“God, not another one,” Alan groused. “Where away?”

“Fine on th' starb'd bows!” came the wail. “Three-master! 'Er t'gallants only, f'r now!”

A fine trap they laid, Lewrie thought, massaging his brow in concentrated thought and fidgety frustration. Three to herd us, one downwind to beat back, and cut us off? Horse shit! Didn't even know where we were 'til
dawn,
when they spotted us ahead of 'em.

“Horse transport's hoistin' an ensign, sir!” Spendlove cried in wonder. “And a private signal!”

“Of course, she's closer to the new'un. Maybe . . .”

“Deck, there! Strange ship t' loo'rd . . .” the lookout shouted with sudden glee. “Answerin' . . . private signal . . . !” He called off a string of code flags, that month's secret recognition between ships of the Royal Navy! Lewrie flipped through his slim signals book. They were correct! “Deck, there! White ensign! Royal Navy . . . frigate!”

White ensign . . . a ship of Admiral Lord Hood's fleet would show it, since he was a full admiral of the most senior squadron. Or a frigate on independent service would fly it, instead of the blue or the red of a lesser admiral.

“Mister Spendlove! Hoist our own ensign.
And
Number Ten,” he roared, filled with immense relief. Help was at hand. If the strange frigate's presence didn't cow the French, then at least, should he be forced to engage, he would have more even odds.

“Number Ten, two-blocked, yonder!” the lookout bellowed. “She reads us, sir! D'ye hear, there?”

“Right, then,” Lewrie dared smile and clap Spendlove's shoulder, glance at de Crillart and the rest of the military men who'd gathered together on the quarterdeck. “I think we're going to be fine.”

“'Nother hoist, sir!” the lookout yelled, calling off a string of flags. “Private signal!”

Spendlove opened his book, thumbing through the many entries. He had a short list of those vessels known to be in the Mediterranean, those further separated into Rates. Scanning 5th Rates took another fumbling moment to find the right hand-lettered page he'd diligently copied out.

“
Cockerel,
sir!” Spendlove informed them at last. “H.M.S.
Cockerel
frigate. Come to
save
us, sirs!”

A cheer went up from
Cockerel
's
detached tars when that news was quickly circulated along the gangways, down to the waist and magazines. And for once, it didn't sound the slightest bit derisive. Close-hauled though she laboured, within another hour, she could be up to them, with her thirty-two guns primed, loaded and run out. Just about the time the French squadron overhauled the fleeing merchantmen.

Lewrie began to consider coming about, then, to offer battle. He already flew a borrowed Royal Navy ensign, and
Radical was
a frigate, by God. At range-of-random shot, who was to say that she wasn't a frigate in full commission, proper-manned and armed? And spoiling for a fight!

“Quartermaster, helm up a point, no more,” he ordered. “Give us a point free to leeward. Mister Spendlove, a signal to the ships astern of us. Direct them to pinch up aweather. We will interpose our vessel between them and the French.”