Though they tried to be affable and gracious to their guest, Alan caught a few flurries of rapid French tossed between them like grenades now and then, not meant for his ears. Poor his French might be, but he did catch enough of their gist to realise that Charles' declaration for the Republic, which had saved their lives from the guillotine, and his first enthusiastic support of the Assembly, was a black betrayal to Louis, the intensest sort of Royalist firebrand. Looking at him as he spoke, his eyes glaring, darting under his dark brows, the quick, impatient way he tossed his loose-gathered hair away from his face, Lewrie could imagine him the same sort of fanatic as the ones who'd launched the Terror-a fanatic equally dedicated to his bright, shining cause-on the opposing side.
Charles, without his uniform coat and hat, at ease at the table with a glass of wine in his hand and a fund of stories about shipboard life in the French Navy, seemed much the same charming fellow he had in the Caribbean after Lewrie's ship Desperate had taken Caprkieuse, and they'd dined together so often on the sail back to Antigua, with Lewrie rated midshipman and master's mate, in charge of the prize, and Charles on his parole. Not like a baron at all, then or now, Lewrie thought.
Charles appeared more like a member of the petit-bourgeoisie, a chap more comfortable in furry slippers after a long day at a clerking desk. He was distinguished-looking, about Lewrie's age; nothing to write home about, though. Regular features, average height and all the usual forgettable bumf.
The intriguing member of the family was the younger female cousin, Sophie de Maubeuge. Her story was more tragic. Whilst Charles' presence in the Estates-General had saved his family, her father and all her relations had been too well-to-do, too resistant to change-too well known and powerful. She'd fled her convent school to hide in Normandy with the de Crillarts, whilst the tumbrils and the mobs had claimed most of her kin, including her immediate family. She was now the sole survivor, the last Vicomtesse de Maubeuge.
It was a heady title for such a sylph-like, shy, soft-spoken girl. Sophie was only fifteen, slim and petite, the sort who softly whispered when she spoke, and that, rarely. Though graced with the innate, bred-in-the-bone polish of aristocracy, the tutoring in social arts and such, she was as meek as a scullery maid, and smiled or laughed seldom; though Lewrie considered her recent horrible history a damned good reason for her gravity. That, and a proper convent, sergeant-major nun upbringing.
She was of middling height, a bit less than five and a half feet tall, between seven and eight stone in weight. Sophie's features were bewitchingly gamine. High cheekbones, a pertly tapering face, full and wide lips, and crowned by overly large, slightly almond-shaped eyes of a startling green hue, brilliant as cat's eyes, and set like glittering gems in a flawless, "peaches-an'-cream" complexion. Her hair, which she still wore long and simple in girlish fashion, was a fascinating reddish auburn hue, more russet or red chestnut than anything else Alan could think to compare it to. And the very idea that some bloody-eyed peasants, gutter sweepings and mobocracy could even begin to think of chopping the head off such an entrancing and harmless young thing set his blood boiling. Quite apart from being covertly besotted, he found his heart going out to her in sympathy.
There was trouble there, too, he'd noted, when he tried to be his most charming and amusing self, to cosset her into a better mood with songs or japes. Chevalier Louis had left off berating Republicans to glare at him for being amusing, for monopolising her attention. And, Lewrie also noted, when tender young Sophie de Maubeuge had sheep's eyes, or laughed at last, she directed her gaze and encouragement towards Charles, her saviour, as if to share with him!
It had been his family fortune, what little of it was left after selling their estates and most-prized possessions to gimlet-eyed agents or hateful neighbours, that had supported her, had brought her down to Toulon and safety. And, Alan learned, it had taken more than Charles' declaration of support and allegiance to the Republic-it had taken hefty bribes to keep her off the local committee's lists of those who deserved their necks stretched below the blade of a guillotine.
Supper with the family-a hearty and creamy soup, laced with onions and a few dubious shreds of chicken. Scads of crusty bread and butter, a runny omelet served with well-seasoned sliced and fried potatoes, and a small veal cutlet nestled at the side of his plate, aswim in a thin wine gravy, with an abundance of mushrooms, disguising what a tiny cutlet it was, ladled atop. And a marvelous St. Emilion Bordeaux, several bottles in fact, to wash it all down. Enough wine to at last mellow even the sulkiest to a semblance of good cheer, and put
a dimple in Sophie's cheek.
* * *
"I must be going, Charles," Lewrie said at last, after mangling a tune on a borrowed recorder and returning it to Sophie's care.
"Back to your ship," Crillart shrugged. "I walk viz you to ze quays, Alain."
"Permettez-moi, maman?" Sophie said quickly, sounding more like a regular girl, eager to go out, at last, as she fetched Lewrie's hat; like the daughter of a middUng-common family might, instead of waiting for some servant to do it.
"Oui," Maman allowed grudgingly, with a stern expression. Her lips flattened over her long teeth and gums, making her look even more horse-faced, and Lewrie caught another subtle undertone, as Madame de Crillart darted her glances to both Sophie and Charles, then at Louis.
Alan made his most courtly goodbye, bowed low in conge, expressed how much he'd enjoyed himself, and promised to repay their generous hospitality. Maman replied in kind, though she sounded doubtful.
It was a lovely time for a stroll. Close to sundown, with cool breezes ruffling the waters of the basin and the farther Little Road, the street lamps being lit, and the apartments and shops aglow with a candle or lantern in every window. The sun was quite low, and it was a gold and orange sunset, dusky rose-reddish grey to the south and east. Louis, thankfully, did not accompany them, so Charles and Alan strode to either side of the shorter Sophie. But it was upon Charles' genteelly extended arm that she rested her fine, white hand.
"Such a lovely evening," Lewrie commented as they strolled downhill. "All the ships, outlined against the setting sun."
"Ze Dauphin-Royal" Charles pointed out, indicating the massive 120-gunned ship on the east side of the basin. "Ze Republicains, zey vill change 'er name. Ze ozzer, Commerce-de-Marseilles. An' ze quatre-vingts canon… ze eighty guns; Tonnant, Triomphant, Couronne."
He reeled off the majestic names of the seventy-four-gunned ships, those the Royal Navy would term 3rd Rates: Apollon, Centaure, Lys (now named Tricolor), Scipion, Destin, Dicta-teur, Duquesne, Hews, Heurewc, Pompee, Commerce-de-Bordeaux, Censeur, Mercure, Alcide, Conquerant, Guerrier and Puissant, Suffisant and Souverain, now called with levelling, Egalitarian logic Souvemin-Peuple; Genereux, Orion,Entreprenant, Patriote, Duguay-Trouin, Languedoc and Trajan.
All as harmless now as a pack of dead otters, their powder away in warehouses ashore, small arms taken off and locked up, though seamen still thronged their decks, for lack of a better place to house them. Strangely silent ships, too, with none of the usual dog-watch music or humumm to be heard, their yards still properly squared and crossed and rigging taut, spider-mazed black against the sunset. Few lights showed, even through lower-deck gunports opened for ventilation. Glims at the belfries and wheels, from wardroom or great-cabin windows, perhaps, but little else; their taffrail lanterns for night-running dark. And flying no flags of any kind.
"An' Alceste" Charles muttered gravely, gazing with a spurned lover's sadness at his ship, his beloved frigate, squeezed in so snug between others on the eastern quay that she looked as forlorn as some barge abandoned in a weeded ship-breaker's yard. "Peut-Stre…"
"Soon, Charles," Lewrie assured him. "With enough loyal seamen, surely it's in the coalition's interests to raise a Royalist squadron, to show the world. And encourage the other maritime provinces, such'z the Vendee, Corsica… perhaps… peut-etre, hey?… they'd promote a loyal lieutenant to, how do you say?… capitaine de fregate?"<
br />
"Capitaine," Charles mused with a slight smile. "Zat soun' tres bon. Oui… peut-etre, mon ami."
"Capitaine de fregate, Charles Auguste, Baron de Crillart," the girl tasted, in a slightly bolder voice than her meek, kittenish tone, and beamed a hopeful smile at both of them. "Oui, zat soun' magnifique! An' 'e vin beaucoup de fame, as 'e conquer."
Poor little mort's head over heels in love with the man, Lewrie laughed to himself. And all he looks is… modest? What a twit! Take what you may, fool! And the best of luck to you. Oh, give her three'r so more years, o' course, but then… make sure I dance at yer weddin'.
"Why not admiral, mademoiselle Sophie?" Lewrie teased slyly, to see what her response might be. "Once the revolution-aries've been beat, and France is herself again, well… sky's the limit."
"Sky… eez ze leemeet?" she frowned. "Oh! Le del! Ah, oui, m'sieur Lewrie! Zen 'e 'ave… recover eez estate… all ze estates…"
"He settles down as a duke. A most eligible duke," Lewrie coaxed. "Charles, I'm amazed, all this time, you haven't married?"
"Ah, you see, mon ami," Charles stammered, turning as mottled as the sunset clouds, and Lewrie was rewarded by a sly, and thankful, look of near adoration from the girl, a gratitude which warmed him right down to his toes. "Ze marine royale, uhm… ze marry officeur, 'e eez… zey s'ink 'e eez lack le dedication…?"
"Lieutenant Lewrie, tu es marie'… you are married, n'est-ce pas? Encore, marine royale de la 'bif-tecs'… oh, pardon!" she cried, using an insulting (for the French, anyway) colloquialism. Blushing to the roots of her hair under her stylish little hat, she struggled with her most important point. "Votre… Royal Navy, yet zey do not…"
"Oui, mademoiselle, je suis marie," Lewrie replied, with a wink to her, though it cut a bit rough to declare such to a girl as desirable as she, no matter her age. Damme, but that makes me feel ancient, he cringed! "With three children," he went on, feeling even more ancient. "I wed in '86. And Caroline sailed with me to the Bahamas. Where we had our eldest son." Cruel it might be, but he delighted in encouraging her fantasies; and perhaps in opening Charles' eyes. "And the Royal Navy doesn't think any the less of me," he lied, and that most arrantly, too.
Merci, m'sieur! She mouthed at him in silence, with her back to her intended (whether he knew it or not yet), almost bouncing in her glee.
"Well, I must leave you now, Charles… mademoiselle. Pardon, Vicomtesse de Maubeuge… Baron de Crillart. My undying thanks for…"
They bowed their last departure, and Lewrie watched them with a wry eye as they began another long stroll home.
Cousin or not-and he still wasn't sure how close their consanguinity was-she'd be a fine catch, no error. He'd be a fine catch, too.
Lewrie whistled for a passing boat, and the coxswain lifted his arm and put his tiller over in reply.
It struck Lewrie that he'd thoroughly enjoyed his brief stint of domesticity, of being, even for a few precious hours, more intent upon civilian, familial concerns, instead of Cockerel's sea of troubles.
He'd quite enjoyed being avuncular with the young girl, even if he had turned out to be a mischievous, meddlesome sort of uncle. "Better Charles than Louis, that's for certain," Alan muttered to himself as his boat approached the landing steps. And he was sure Maman Hortense would agree with him. Louis… there was a lad needed shunning, fast! He might be closer to Sophie's age, might be half-seas-over about her, whilst Charles was blind as a bat, but… there was too much anger to him, too much sulkiness. Too much of the fanatical young fire-eater about him. Alan didn't think that portended a long life for the young chevalier, not in these times.
With another of his sudden chills, Alan recalled another time in another revolution when he'd encountered such dedicated hatred, and such fanaticism for a cause. Just after they'd escaped Yorktown and the surrender, down on Guinea Neck with Governour and Burgess Chiswick and their remaining handful of North Carolina Loyalist riflemen. That meaningless last skirmish before their escape cross the Chesapeake that'd slain so many people. And that despicable young lad who'd led the French to them, the one Governour'd gut-shot after, and left to die in writhing agony.
And after Yorktown, where'd I go, he asked himself? To Wilmington to help evacuate the Cape Fear Loyalists. Where I first met Caroline and the rest of the Chiswicks. Loyalists. And the de Crillarts… Royalists.
"Same bloody thing," he growled. "Nice people caught up in the worst of circumstances, and everyone out for their blood, same as… damme!"
He shivered at the appalling coincidences. And hoped that this time things might turn out different.
Chapter 4
"Ship's comp'ny, off hats, and… salute!" Lewrie ordained as Captain Braxton scaled Cockerel's side, to appear in the entry port to take his due honours, and doff his own hat briefly. Lewrie hoped that he was in a good mood for a change. They'd swung idle to a best bower and kedge anchor for a whole dispiriting week with nothing to do, and the crew's behaviour, never of the best, had gotten surlier, no matter how much make-work they'd laid on.
"Mister Lewrie," Braxton appeared to smile for an instant.
"Sir," Lewrie replied with a hopeful nod, and thinking that his captain must have gotten a glass or two of something welcoming ashore, during his interview with Rear-Admiral Charles Goodall, the appointed military governor of Toulon. He seemed positively mellowed, for once.
"Dismiss the hands, Mister Lewrie," Braxton drawled, then bestowed upon his first lieutenant another mystifying smile.
"Aye, aye, sir."
Two in a week, that's damn near… fright'nin'l Alan thought.
"Then join me in my cabins, sir," Braxton prosed on. And then smiled one more time before descending to the gun deck.
Three? Lewrie noted. Three? Dear Lord, what's he know that I don't? Alan shuddered.
"Just had a long chat with Goodall," Braxton began to explain. He left Lewrie standing before his desk without offer of a seat, as he took his own ease in his chair. He did not offer Alan a drink, though he was sipping a coolish glass of Rhenish. "Quite a conundrum we have here, Mister Lewrie."
"Sir?" Alan said warily.
"Half our line-of-battle ships off at sea, doin' God knows what Lord Hood wishes 'em to do," Braxton speculated as he undid his stock. "We've stripped the larger vessels of hands and Marines, to flesh out the garrison and man the artillery before our reinforcements arrive. And still have need of men ashore. Beginning to get my drift, are you, Mister Lewrie?"
"I believe so, sir," Alan said with a sick nod.
"Hirin' Maltese seamen, would you believe it?" Braxton cackled, somewhere between real mirth and sour surprise. "The Grand Master of Malta will sell us the services of 1,500 of the bastards, for a hefty fee, I'd wager. Then we have to pay 'em able seamen's wages, to boot!"
They'll starve to death on that, Lewrie thought.
"That way, Mister Lewrie, more experienced British tars… and their officers may be spared for land service."
"Aha, sir."
"Quite the protege of Lord Hood, aren't you, now, sir?" Braxton all but simpered. " Yorktown and all that, I'm told? Some work ashore in the Far East before, with troops and guns? Oh, Admiral Goodall was all ears, perky as anything, when I told him your sterlin' qualities. 'Have to have a stout fellow like him,' he told me, Lewrie! And so he will. I volunteered you. Told him you were eager as anything to get at the Frogs. I don't misrepresent you, do I, sir? You wouldn't get cold feet, would you, now? No, that wouldn't look good in your record. Nor to Lord Hood, either. Bein' called a coward, who'd…"
"I will pack my sea-chest, sir," Lewrie sighed.
"Thought you might," Braxton relished.
"Will Cockerel be giving up any hands to assist me, sir?"
"I'll give you Mister Scott and Mister Midshipman Spendlove. Your man Cony off the foremast. And twenty more hands. Only half of 'em able seamen, mind. Can't spare much beyond them. Idlers and waisters off the gangways."
"Any of the Marine complement, sir?"
/>
"Can't spare a one, Mister Lewrie," Braxton sighed, almost making himself sound sad. "With Maltese newcomes aboard, I'll have need of Marines more'n ever. That's where Cockerel's bound, don't ye know, sir. Malta." Braxton rose from his chair to shuffle round his desk. "Where I'll get myself a crew, at last, with all dross weeded out, with willing Dago riffraff to take their place. Men who'll work chearly for me, and toe my line to the very inch, Mister Lewrie! To the very inch!"
"It would seem so, sir," Alan sulked. And you'll get your son as first, your nephew as acting lieutenant. And then you can do as you damned well please! Or so you think.
"And, I'm shot of you at last, Mister Lewrie," Braxton muttered. "Believe me when I tell you, once you're gone from us, I can find an hundred ways to make sure you never return. I don't care if you make 'post' overnight, I don't care if you earn yourself a bloody knighthood ashore! I'm shot of you, and I'll sing your praises to Heaven itself, if that'll keep you gone. Enjoy your duties ashore, Mister Lewrie. Take joy of 'em. Whilst I'm at sea, beyond the reach of your obstructions! You are free to leave now, Mister Lewrie. Dismiss!"
"Aye, aye, sir," Lewrie huffed, though secretly happy to be free, no matter how outmaneuvered he felt at that moment, how stupid he'd been, to have not seen the chance of this coming. "Uhm, sir… about the men."
"What about 'em?"
"You will pick the… uhm, our 'volunteers,' sir?"
"Picked 'em already, sir," Braxton grinned malevolently. "Weeks ago. Months ago, I made my list. Ev'ry bad apple we have is yours."
What Captain Braxton termed "bad apples" turned out to be a fair pack of men; Bosun's Mate Porter for the senior hand, though Braxton thought him too young and soft-handed. Able Seamen Lisney and Gracey, Landsman Preston, Able Seaman Sadler, Ordinary Seamen Gittons and Gold… his least-favourite men, those who'd scowled too darkly after their floggings, or had shown too much independence of spirit. His least-favourite midshipman, Spendlove, most importantly not "family"… a gunner's mate who hadn't licked his boots, a quarter-gunner and four gun captains, along with enough landsmen to pulley-hauley, serve as rammers and loaders for captured French guns. And a few of the truly criminal and bootless, a few of the weaker, spindlier types who'd never had any business going aboard a ship of war, a few of the tomnoddies with which every military or naval establishment was cursed-those too dense to come in from out of a driving rain, but whose backs and sinews were stout.
H.M.S. COCKEREL l-6 Page 24
