by Jay Worrall
Lincoln did not object. Instead, he said, “It would be useful to have someone who speaks French.”
“I may be helpful,” Penny said. “I have studied it.”
“You have?” Charles said. “I had no idea.”
“There are many things thou dost not know,” she said mysteriously, then turned to follow the surgeon.
Keswick approached to report that the damage to Louisa’s upper works was extensive, especially to halyards and lines. He had no suitable spar to jury-rig the upper mast sections but hoped something might be found on the French ship. When pressed, he allowed that if they worked without a break, they might be fit enough to sail by morning, especially if they had some assistance from Pylades.
“I’ll see if that can be arranged,” Charles said.
The gig arrived alongside, and Charles went to the entryport to meet the corvette’s commander as he came aboard. Winchester climbed up over the side first, followed by a scowling, hard-looking man of medium height and broad shoulders. The Frenchman surveyed the damage to Louisa’s masts with satisfaction but, aside from a quick glance, avoided looking at the savaged frigate lying forlornly in the water off the opposite beam. Charles struggled to summon some remnant of his energy. He had to concentrate.
“May I have the honor to present Capitaine de Frégate Jean Louis Baptiste,” Winchester said formally. “Captain Edgemont.”
Charles stepped forward and extended his hand. The Frenchman ignored it. “Ask if he would like some refreshment,” he said.
The corvette’s captain replied in a tone that could only be interpreted as disdainful. “The captain says he does not drink with the English,” Winchester translated judiciously. Charles, who spoke a little of the language, had distinctly made out the words “merde” and “cochon.”
“Fine,” Charles said with a tight-lipped smile. “Please inform Captain Whoreson Sodomite that I will permit him to take the crew off the frigate, if he wishes it, before I burn her.”
Winchester suppressed a grin and translated an expurgated version. The French captain responded more briefly. “He asks what we will do if he refuses.”
Charles stared at the French captain. He found the man’s manner irritating in the extreme. Two can play at this game, he thought. “Tell him it is a matter of indifference to me. With the crew aboard or not, I’m still burning her.”
“You wouldn’t,” Winchester said.
“Just translate,” Charles answered, then did his best to chuckle menacingly. “Add that I am only making the offer because my officers have requested it. You might hint that I would just as soon watch them burn.” He would not give the Frenchman the satisfaction of any concessions.
Winchester did as he was asked. The Frenchman gave a lengthy and heated reply. “He says how does he know you won’t attack him? He wants us to move out of cannon range first.”
“Tell him he has my word of honor as a British naval officer. If that is not satisfactory, then there is no arrangement. You may also tell him that if there is no arrangement, we will attack the corvette the moment he is back on board. The decision is his.”
Charles watched the French captain’s face darken as Winchester translated. Capitaine Baptiste asked a question in which Charles heard the word “honneur” mentioned twice, which Winchester answered. Then the captain gave a lengthy speech. Charles could guess what it was about from the few words he’d understood and the way the man gestured with his hands.
“He says he’ll do it,” Winchester said. “He has three conditions—”
Charles shook his head dismissively. “I’m not offering any conditions,” he said. “This is what I will allow. He will take one of my officers on board his ship; Beechum, I should think. Beechum will remain on the side rail by the entryport, where I can see him at all times. The corvette is to approach with her gunports closed and guns unmanned. Pylades will follow directly behind him. The corvette will proceed to tie up with the frigate and take off her crew and the wounded, nothing more. He will leave Beechum on the frigate and return to Egypt. If, at any time during the approach, Beechum signals that something is amiss, we will engage and, if successful, will burn both his ship and the frigate. Make sure he understands this.”
Winchester launched into a lengthy monologue while Charles watched. The French captain was not pleased by what he heard. Charles began to feel sympathy for him. It must be difficult to take orders from an enemy, but he didn’t know what else the man could do.
Winchester and the Frenchman talked back and forth before Winchester said, “It’s no good. He’s afraid it’s a trap.”
Charles made a show of stifling a yawn. In a barely interested voice, he said, “Argue with him. Tell him Bevan’s an experienced commander who has outfought larger ships than his. Tell him that although Louisa is damaged, she can still sail well enough to cut off his retreat. When you’re finished, look at me as though you want me to change my mind.” He fished in his pocket and came up with a piece of paper.
Winchester spoke in imploring tones. At the mention of Bevan’s ship, the French captain’s eyes narrowed, but he gave nothing away. Finally, Winchester turned back to Charles with a pleading expression.
Charles smiled broadly at the Frenchman. He bent to take up a length of smoking slow match kept by the guns in case the flintlocks failed, and blew on the tip until it burned cherry red. Then he lit the paper. He held the burning scrap up where they could all see it. When it threatened to burn his fingers, he dropped it over the side. “Bonne chance, Monsieur Capitaine,” he said, extending his hand once more. “Au revoir.”
Capitaine Baptiste did not shake the offered hand, but he did not turn to leave, either. Instead, he spoke to Winchester with harsh, angry words, a torrent of words, gesturing and pointing several times at Charles in disgust. After two or three minutes, he stopped. Winchester bowed with his hand over his heart and spoke a single sentence in which Charles heard the word “honneur.”
“He’ll do it,” Winchester said.
“That’s all he said?” Charles asked.
“Well, no,” Winchester answered, “he said he thinks you’re a mad-man. He asked if I would guarantee on my sacred honor that you would keep your word. Really, he thinks you’re crazy.”
Beechum was called and his duties explained to him. As Capitaine Baptiste and the young acting lieutenant went over the side into the gig to make the trip back to the corvette, Charles said, “That man is one tough son of a bitch. Bevan got off easy.”
It wasn’t until sometime later that he realized he’d burnt the list of French warships that Jones had given him in Acre.
EIGHT
“YOU JUST CAN’T MANAGE TO STAY OUT OF TROUBLE, CAN you?” Daniel Bevan said, climbing up through Louisa’s entryport. “And yes, before you ask, Pylades’s boatswain and his crew will be over presently to show you how to put your ship back into order. It’s shocking the state you allow her to fall into.”
Charles, who had been determined to maintain a firm scowl, broke into a grin. “And you have a quaint notion that orders are something akin to polite suggestions.”
The French corvette, having taken off Félicité’s crew without incident, lay just visible hull down on the southern horizon. Mrs. Daniel Bevan swung up from the cutter alongside to be set gently on the deck.
“What orders?” Bevan said, the very portrait of innocence.
“To go to Syracuse. I signaled you to sail for Syracuse. Twice,” Charles said as sternly as he could.
“Oh, that,” Bevan answered. “I appreciated your concern, but there’s nothing particularly interesting in Syracuse.”
Penny came forward from Charles’s cabin. She had returned from the frigate with Lincoln and most of the others of Louisa’s crew as soon as the wounded had been taken off. Charles had noted an unhappy expression on her face and bloodstains on her dress when she came aboard, but he hadn’t had an opportunity to talk with her. She appeared now in fresh clothing and a smile on seeing Molly. The
two women embraced and went aft.
“The information we have on the destination of the French fleet must be conveyed to the consul in Syracuse,” Charles continued. “My instructions were for you to do that.”
Bevan turned serious. “I know,” he said. “I also know why you turned Louisa to engage the French frigate. As noble as that was, I couldn’t let you face the both of them alone.”
“Next time …” Charles began.
Bevan looked at Félicité wallowing in the water nearby. She lay deserted and empty except for Louisa’s boats occasionally plying back and forth with any useful items that could be taken off. “Yes, next time,” he said. “What do you plan to do with her?”
“Set fire to her, sink her. I can’t tow her all the way to Syracuse,” Charles said. “We’re taking everything useful off. Attwater’s over there now, looking through the captain’s stores. God knows what he’ll bring back.”
“Goose liver,” Bevan said confidently. “French captains are crazy for goose liver, I’m told. They call it patty. Revolting stuff.”
“I was planning on going over myself,” Charles said, “to see if I can find the ship’s papers: orders, signal books, charts, the log, that sort of thing. I know Jervis would appreciate having them. Perhaps you would be so good as to join me.”
“Be my pleasure,” Bevan answered. “Nothing I’d like better than crawling around in the dark, airless hold of a ship that carries a lot of garlic.”
The two men went across in Pylades’s gig, which still lay alongside. Climbing up Félicité’s side ladder, Charles surveyed the eerily empty deck, with its battered sides and broken gun carriages. The dead— including, he had been informed, her captain and all of her three lieutenants—had been put overboard. There were bloodstains on the deck boards and all manner of splintered wood, pieces of clothing, broken lines, and cables scattered at random. As the ship had been cleared for action, he could see the length of the gundeck from the bow all the way to the broken stern under the quarterdeck. Where the French captain’s cabin would have been was now open space lined by overturned guns.
“His things will have been taken below,” Bevan said. “We’ll have to find them.”
Charles nodded. It was not pleasant walking through the shattered hulk of another captain’s ship. He found it unnerving, a little like standing on a fresh grave. For a moment he had a picture in his mind of a French captain passing through Louisa’s battered remains. It made him shiver. They went down the after ladderway to the lower deck, still lit by isolated lanterns hung from the beams. If it were his ship, Charles reasoned, they would have brought the captain’s furnishings somewhere convenient, thinking that everything would have to go back up again when the battle was over. He soon spotted a hasty pile of furniture off to the side. Bevan found two sea chests and dragged them into the middle of the room while Charles forced the locks on a desk with his pocket-knife. Inside, he found what he was looking for: the captain’s log, the muster book, some volumes of naval instructions and regulations, and a collection of envelopes and loose papers. Since he could read little of it, he put them in a pile on top of the chests. He would send someone to collect them later.
“Attwater should be around here somewhere,” he said. “The gig was still alongside.”
“The captain’s pantry would be aft, wouldn’t it?” Bevan said. “Attwater,” he shouted. The sound reverberated in the hollow space.
“Maybe he went down into the hold,” Charles said. “He could have been looking for anything.” He took a lantern from overhead, and they started down the ladderway into the cavernous space below.
“Attwater!” Charles shouted.
“ ’Ere, sir. Forward,” Attwater’s reedy voice reached them. Charles looked and saw a faint circle of light near the bow.
“Christ,” Charles muttered. “Come aft to the hatchway.”
“Wouldn’t it be best if you didn’t come forward, sir. You’ll see.”
Charles muttered some more but started forward along the narrow walkway between the stowed water casks and barrels of the ship’s stores, holding the lantern in front with Bevan close behind. The space was close and humid and stank like a cesspool.
“What have you found that is so important you couldn’t come to the ladderway?” he asked as he neared the light.
“ ’Ere, sir,” Attwater said. He was sitting cross-legged on the deck, holding a bundle of loose clothing against his chest. Then Charles saw that it wasn’t a bundle of clothing. Two large brown eyes stared at him from beneath a disheveled mop of curly dark hair.
“Oh my God,” Bevan breathed.
There, in Attwater’s lap, sat a very frightened child, a girl, Charles guessed, of about four years old, clutching at his servant’s coat lapels.
Charles knelt and stroked the child’s hair. “There, there,” he said softly. “It will be all right. No one will hurt you.” To Attwater, he said, “Where did you find her?”
“Down ’ere in the ’old. I thought I saw something from the ’atchway and came down to look. I caught up with ’er up ’ere. I wasn’t never so surprised. Do you think she’s a stowaway?”
“No,” Charles said, “I think it’s more likely she’s someone’s child, an officer’s, probably. She was placed down here for safety during the battle.” He ran the back of his fingers gently across the girl’s cheek. “Hello, my little one,” he said, smiling reassuringly. “ Jeth Charles. Et vous?” The girl hid her face against Attwater’s chest.
“Christ, Charlie,” Bevan said, “you call that French?”
“Can you do better?”
When Bevan refrained from answering, Charles tried again. “Charles,” he said, poking his chest. “Daniel.” He pointed upward at Bevan. “Attwater.” Finally, he touched her hand. “Vous?”
“Claudette.” It came in a whisper so tiny he had to bend close to catch it.
“Well, Claudette,” Charles said, “we can’t leave you here.” To Attwater, he said, “Can you carry her?”
“She don’t weigh next to nothing,” he answered.
“Let’s go, then.” Charles stood. He and Bevan helped Attwater to his feet, still clutching the bundle. As they were making their way forward, Bevan asked, “What are you going to do with her?”
“Haven’t a notion,” Charles said. “I’m going to give her to Penny. She’ll know.”
Claudette was handed down into Pylades’s cutter, which excited much conversation among the boat’s crew, and back up onto Louisa. Winchester stared in surprise as Charles led the little girl, her grip firmly around his finger, toward his cabin. “What’s this?” the lieutenant asked.
“Claudette,” Charles answered. “She’s come to visit us.” He bent in front of the child and pointed to Winchester. “Stephen,” he said.
“Stepen,” she repeated.
He touched his own chest again. “Charles.”
“Charle,” Claudette said with the very smallest of smiles, softening the C and rolling the R so that it came out as “Sharrle.”
The marine sentry at the door to Charles’s cabin snapped to attention with wide eyes. “Claudette, this is Private Thomas,” Charles said. “Private Thomas, Claudette.” The marine took the liberty of chucking the girl under her chin, for which he received a cautious upturning of the corners of her mouth.
Charles entered first. He found Penny and Molly seated together on the bench under the stern windows.
“Charlie,” Penny said, rising, “I have something to tell thee.”
“In a minute,” he answered. Opening the door wider, he said, “May I introduce Mademoiselle Claudette. She has come to stay with us for a time.” To be complete, he added, “She’s French.”
The girl clung shyly to Charles’s leg, but her eyes widened at the sight of the two women. Penny and Molly crossed the cabin quickly, Penny dropping to her knees, taking the child into her arms, and holding her against her chest.
“Where did you find her?” she asked.
&nb
sp; “In the hold of Félicité,” Charles said. “Attwater spotted her.”
“Where are her parents?” Penny stroked the child’s hair and picked her up as she rose to her feet.
“Her father, probably,” Charles said. “Killed, taken off with the injured. I don’t know.”
“Poor little girl,” Penny cooed, hugging her closer. “You must be starving.” Then she said something in French to which Claudette nodded. To Charles, Penny said, “Get her some food. Something soft and hot; none of your salted meat.”
“The galley should be relit by now,” Charles said. “Attwater, see what you can arrange. Bring some ship’s biscuit in the meantime.”
“And some boiling water, please,” Penny said. To Molly: “Would thou bring the remainder of our chocolate?” To Charles: “Have we any milk?”
“Goat’s milk,” Charles answered. “Someone will have to convince the goat to give it up.”
“See to it,” she said. “Have it heated. Not too hot. And find the rest of her clothing, it must still be on board the French ship. Get me some fresh water so that we can bathe her, and see that it is heated also.”
Charles nodded and, with Bevan, left the cabin to find one of his lieutenants. Beechum was closest.
“Send Sykes and a half-dozen seamen across to the frigate,” Charles said, pulling on his ear. “Have them search her from stem to stern, especially the hold. I want to be certain there is no one of any age, size, or description left on board.” He also told Beechum of the chests and papers on the lower deck and requested that they be brought back to his cabin.
“Yes, sir,” Beechum answered, touching his hat. “Will there be anything else?”
“Oh, yes, have someone milk the goat. Have it heated, not too hot, and sent to my cabin.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said, and left.
Charles remembered that Penny had said she had something to tell him. It would have to wait, he decided. She had something else to occupy her now. Anyway, how important could it be? He went forward to find Keswick and see how the repairs to Louisa’s rigging were progressing.
