Her bottom, they could see, was weeded, but she'd been careened and breamed in May, and her coppering had supposedly been redone. The uppr works were filthy and shabby, her bold paint faded and peeling so badly that she looked more like a merchant ship than a frigate, browned and seared, stained and grey. Her standing rigging was still sound, in need of slush and fresh tar, some hauling at the deadeye blocks to set her taut once more. Running rigging had stretched or shrunk, rope gone stiff and brittle, but a quick re-roving with fresh from the warehouses could renew that. Once they set to, British sailors made half a day's labour of what might have taken her French owners a week.
The important thing was that, once swept fore and aft, swabbed out, and vinegared, all the accumulated rat droppings, spider webs and dust, piles of trash and detritus overboard, she would be roomy. She would have bags of space on that long, beamy mass deck to accommodate hundreds of refugees or soldiers for the short voyage to Gibraltar. Should the winds turn perverse, she had the waterline to make a goodly way close-hauled, the beam to survive rough seas, especially as short-handed as they'd be forced to man her. And there was depth enough on the orlop to store salt-meats, water casks, wine and biscuit to feed a multitude for an entire month, if need be. And those salt-rations already aboard were still fairly fresh, so provisioning took less time on her than it would have aboard another ship.
Guns? Lewrie was a bit worried about that aspect, though being in a convoy with warships near at hand shouldn't present too much danger. Radical's former owners had been in the process of rearming, with eighteen-pounders to replace the twelve-pounders frigates usually bore. Some guns had come aboard before work had ceased in August, and she'd been robbed of artillery since, to augment the firepower of Coalition strongpoints ashore. As a consequence, she had only four eight-pounders on her quarterdeck and two long eight-pounders on her forecastle as chase guns. Her main deck carried only a dozen pieces of artillery, a pair of her original twelve-pounders forward, one to either beam, and a matching pair aft, beneath the quarterdeck-and eight eighteen-pounders, four per beam, fore and aft of the main-mast, all spaced out so far apart they appeared as afterthoughts. She was technically en flute, a warship stripped of artillery to make room for the transfer of troops. Were her gunports to be opened, the empty ones would resemble the ringer holes in a piccolo. But that was Alan's intent in the first place; another reason she was more suitable.
They could have taken others. There were even larger forty-four-gunned frigates, 3rd Rate 74's with even more space aboard-but they'd demand a much larger crew to work them properly. And some of those others had been in even poorer material state, so emptied of guns and rations that it would have taken a week to prepare them for sea, or were so weeded to the bottom of the basin, so neglected, it was a wonder they hadn't sunk at their moorings.
They chose her by midday on 17 December. And by dawn of the 18th, had her ready to warp out of her berth, set scraps of sail and work her out past the bomb-proof jetties, carefully keeping east'rd of the shoal which ran from the west jetty to the narrow channel through the log boom. By dinner, they were anchored close to the water-fort of St. Louis, beneath the protective shelter of Fort La Malgue. They'd simmered up supper for their refugees the night before, and had served a cold breakfast and dinner by then. Though nothing they could do by way of hospitality could really cheer those refugees.
Chevalier Louis de Crillart had come aboard, a lieutenant in command of a remnant of his Royalist light-cavalry troop, about a dozen men all told, and their families. There was a Major de Mariel, whose vineyards and estate lay just a little east of Fort St. Catherine, an infantryman with wife and three children, servants and their families, and perhaps twenty of his remaining soldiers and their families. Charles de Crillart's gunners-half of them had wives, girlfriends or kids. Some of Lewrie's own British Jacks had made the acquaintances of girls of their own, and had snuck out to fetch them to the guardhouse, onto Radical before she even left the quays. And they'd brought their parents and children or their friends, as well. After the great-cabins had been parcelled out to down-at-the-heels aristocrats and Royalist officers with families, the wardroom dog boxes going to families, and the warrant and mate's quarters assigned to people with children, he threw up his hands, and let refugees simply hang blankets from overhead beams, tack canvas to carline posts to partition off small areas of mess deck. As cold and drizzly as it was, Lewrie might have to assign people to the gun deck, with old sails stretched taut over the boat beams in the waist, and let people doss down between the guns.
Madame de Crillart and Sophie de Maubeuge already had his sleeping coach. Louis and Charles, with two other single officers, shared a stack of straw mattresses in the dining space, and the day cabins were awash in once wealthy or once titled humanity; mattresses, luggage and children everywhere one looked. He was crammed into the chart space.
Finally, after receiving two more miserable boatloads of Royalists (though not their piles of possessions) and a reduced company of the 18th Regiment of Foot, the Royal Irish, he had to beg off. There were nearly 300 people aboard, excluding crew, and he didn't have room or food for a jot more.
"Where do I quarter my men, sir?" the officer of the 18th asked.
"We've space below, on the orlop, sir," Lewrie informed him. "A stores deck, Lieutenant, uhm…? between kegs and such, but…"
"Kennedy, sir," the wiry infantry officer beamed, one of those fellows, Lewrie could see at a glance, who was able to abide almost anything with a smile upon his lips. "Stephen Kennedy," he added, shaking hands jovially. "Yes, the orlop. We discovered all we wished to know, and more, 'bout the orlop, on our bloody passage here. Bloody hate a sea voyage. Now we're whittled down so, well… more room for the men below. Hoped to have the whole regiment t'gether, what's left of us, but… any port in a storm, hey, Captain Lewrie?"
"Indeed, sir," Alan smiled in reply. "Heard any more? How are things…?" he asked, waving towards shore.
"Buggerin' awful, if you ask me, sir," Lieutenant Kennedy grumbled with a scowl. "Bloody damned Dons, bloody damned Dagoes. Cut an' run, they did. We were at Mulgrave, night o' the sixteenth? Frogs broke through the Spanish. Our Captain Connolly, he rained us, and a prettier set-to a man's never seen, sir. Held as long as we could, but had to retire… down to the shore, and creep to Balaguer. An' would ya believe, when we got there, the buggerin' Dons that'd run into the place took God's own sweet time to let us in, sir?"
"So I gathered," Lewrie nodded.
"Latest now, sir," Kennedy went on, blowing his nose on a calico handkerchief. "We lost Fort Malbousquet and Missicy. Damme," he griped as a pack of children came tearing along the gun deck, hallooing and yelping, around and between them. "We were in town by then. That Artigues, and the St. Catherine abandoned? Town, Malgue, and western forts was the new line. Well, the buggerin' Neapolitans, sir… just up an' ran! Nobody firm' at 'em yet, just didn't want to be last into a boat, I s'pose, but by all that's Holy, off they went, shootin' in the very air… at their own shadows, more'n like… yelpin' like hounds on a scent. Up and left Missicy. And 'thout Missicy held, the Frogs could march on it, and cut Malbousquet off. Get into the town, too, I s'pose. So, out we had to march. 'Least I'm told we toppled the guns before we decamped, them on the town sides. Could have held another day… 'cept for our… allies."
"So the French have the western forts, the powder mills, Fort Millaud and all, by now?" Lewrie speculated, thinking that anyone in mind to burn the French fleet was going to have a very hot time of it, with French guns and sharpshooters that close to the basin.
"Far as I know, they do, Captain Lewrie. But I doubt the Frogs will be that active," Kennedy chuckled. "Bless me, sir, but they've an eye, they see the writin' on the wall. Us packin' our traps, and away? All they have to do is sit back and cheer. No sense in killin' their own troops assaultin' Toulon, when it'll fall in their laps by tomorrow. And there's few soldiers I know who'll wish t'be the last man to die, just as the victory's w
on, d'ye see."
"So at least the fleet gets away safe." "Aye, Captain Lewrie," Kennedy honked again into his handkerchief. "See you're only a leftenant, but I learned to call the skipper of a boat captain. Brevet promotion, hey?" he cajoled, getting chummy. "Now sir, when do we eat? I'm fair famished, an' so are me lads. Where's the officer's mess? And more important, what do we eat, sir?"
"Where, sir?" Lewrie had to smile. "Catch as catch can, sir. As for an officer's mess, we've not one. The great-cabins and wardroom are bung up with refugees. As for what, Lieutenant Kennedy… I sincerely hope the 18th Royal Irish is fond of salt-beef, sir."
"You just won't set a good table, willya now, sir?" Lieutenant Kennedy boomed heartily. "No port? No biscuit nor cheese, ah well. Oh, dear God, now… there's a pair o: rare'uns. Oh, tell me I've a cabin, man! One tiny shred o' privacy!" Kennedy sighed, looking with longing over Lewrie's shoulder.
Alan turned. It was Sophie de Maubeuge with, of all people, the young Phoebe, on the quarterdeck above them, chatting amiably, almost in each other's pockets, peeking into a basket they bore between them.
"I hate to further disabuse you, sir…" Alan grinned. "But the red-haired one is a vicomtesse, and under the protection of her two male cousins. Meanest pair o' blackguards ever you did see. T'other… she is, hmm… mine."
"Oh, buggeration," Kennedy sighed again. "Told you I bloody hate sea voyages." He stomped off, bawling for his sergeant, Rufoote, honking into his rag again, looking for a dry, empty spot.
Alan took time to ascend to the quarterdeck to join them, doffing his hat and making a formal leg. "Bonjour, mademoiselles… might I say des plus belles mademoiselles."
"M'sieur Lieutenant Luray, enchantee," Sophie beamed, dropping a graceful curtsy, though sharing an impish smile with Phoebe.
"M'sieur Alain, enchantee," Phoebe said, miming Sophie's graces. But laying subtle claim to him by using his first name. That tweaked one of Sophie's eyebrows in puzzlement. Lewrie compared the two, side by side. Sophie was fifteen, he knew, and Phoebe couldn't be any more than three or four years her senior, he thought, now that he had someone to compare her against. He cocked a brow as well, as if to caution Phoebe to mind her manners round Sophie, who probably was in total ignorance of her newfound friend's "profession."
"M'sieur Luray, nous sommes sur meesion of merci," Sophie said, sounding more excited and happy than she had when last he'd seen her. "You be so kin' a Phoebe, main-tenant, I 'ope you be kin' a moi? Ve 'ave ze grand need. Voila!"
She pulled the lid of the basket back to reveal kittens. Four kittens, about two months old, he estimated; blinking and mewing when the wan sunlight struck them.
"You mus'… espouse une chaton pour nous," Sophie giggled.
"Mademoiselle la vicomtesse, she tell me, wan you dine viz 'er famille, you say you 'ave le chat, le garconnet. Guillaume Peefi Mais, you read 'e nous a quitte?" Phoebe teased. "Pardon, eef zat mak' you sad mais… Mademoiselle Sophie, she 'ave les chatons. An' le chaton new, peut-gtre, 'e mak' you 'appy, n'est-ce pas?"
"Well, I'll be…" Lewrie said softly, kneeling down to look at them, knowing his face had gone all soft and goose-silly. But he could not help himself. "Oui, I love cats. J'adore les chats."
He stuck a tentative hand into the basket, wiggled his fingers at them. Two of the kittens were girls, he discovered as he toyed with them, mostly white, with pale tannish stripes or blotches. They shrank back to a corner, behind each other, little tails so very erect, and blue kitten-coloured eyes wide in fright. There was a male, mostly grey-tan tabby, just as scared. And there was the black one. There was white on paws and chest, white whiskers on his brows and chops. His chops were white, though his nose and under-chin were black. And a white blaze tapering upwards along the bridge of his nose to terminate between his bright yellow eyes. He was the only one intent on Lewrie's fingers, shifting his eyes and head back and forth faster and faster to follow, until with a manly little mew of delight, he pounced, tiny teeth and claws sinking in, holding on as Lewrie rolled him on his side, so he could break away and awkwardly pounce back.
"Ow, you little bugger!" Lewrie chuckled. "I dare you to do it again. Like the finger? Want a wood shaving to play with, hey?"
The kitten sat back on his haunches, front legs splayed clumsily, and licked his mouth, glancing up into Lewrie's face.
"D ne vous comprend pas, Alain," Phoebe chuckled, kneeling down with him, as did Sophie. "Eez le bon chaton francais. 'E ne parle pas d'anglais."
"Oui, you 'ave to teach eem," Sophie laughed.
"You adore les chatons," Phoebe coaxed. "Quels chatons pre"ferez-vous?"
Lewrie gently lifted the kitten from the basket and sat him on his upraised knee, atop his cloak, and began to stroke him, which elicited another tiny mew, as the kitten began to scale his cloak, up to bat at a corner of his cocked hat, almost fall off, dig in, and make another swat at it, from Alan's shoulder. He lost interest in that quickly, to nuzzle and prod under Lewrie's hair, to sniff at his neck, and go for an ear lobe as if it might be one of his mother's teats.
"I really can't," Alan sighed wistfully. "Once I rejoin my old ship, my captain… I shouldn't be tempted."
"Notre vielle chatte, ze mozzer cat?" Sophie de Maubeuge told him as the kitten leaned far out to rub noses with him as he turned his head. "Elle 'ave 'er portee, uhm… comment, Phoebe? Merci bien, mon amie… 'er litter, deux mont ' ago? An' maintenant, ve 'ave ze families to fin' for zem. Plais, M'sieur Luray? Vous espouse eem? You see? 'E eez deja tres affectueux a vous. 'E… like' you!"
Alan almost relented, as the kitten rubbed his little chops on his chin and nose, pressed his side against his cheek and began a purr. "Well, we'll see. If he…"
The kitten slipped and fell, catching himself by one paw, deep-sunk claws into the rough wool of the cloak, turning a somersault.
"For now, I think he's best back with his brother and sisters," Alan laughed, prying him off his cloak and putting him back in the basket.
"Le garconnet, 'e choose you, I save eem pour vous," Sophie promised as they all stood again. " 'E weel be you's."
"Oui, Alain, you mak' Sophie 'appy, mak' vous-meme 'appy," Phoebe insisted. "An' mak' le chaton 'appy 'e 'ave ze 'ome. Votre capitaine, phfft! You are un capitaine, now, you canno' 'ave le chat eef you desire?" Her teasing pout took on more suggestiveness as she concluded in a softer voice. "Le capitaine 'ave quelque chose… anys'ing 'e desire, n'est-ce pas?"
"Ahum…" Lewrie frowned, clearing his throat, hands clasped behind his back, quarter-deck fashion, with edginess. Sophie, by this time, had tumbled to his secret and was turning crimson to the roots of her hair, unable to look either one of them in the eyes.
"Pardon, mon amie Phoebe," Sophie said, with infinite inborn and noble grace, striving for a gay air. "Ve 'ave un chaton pour M'sieur Luray mais… trois bebes de plus." Switching to French only, she swore she could explore the lower decks and find some families who might wish to adopt the rest. Graciously, she excused herself, insisting that it would be a matter of minutes only, and that she would catch up with Phoebe later. They curtsied to each other and Sophie departed.
Phoebe tossed back the hood of her cloak to bare her head, and leaned on the starboard bulwark, arms widespread along the rails, to gaze off at the brooding, shrouded northern hills, taking a deep taste of harbour air, her head cocked back in pleasure, all unknowing.
"Uhm, mademoiselle la vicomtesse…" Lewrie began to explain.
"Oh, oui, Alain!" Phoebe bobbed as she laughed with delight. "La vicomtesse! She eez la ver' sweet jeune fille. Ver' charmante. Speak vis me avec beaucoup de bonte… as eef I am bien eleve, uhm… well-born as 'er? Ver' gracieuse, mon chou. Avant, I nevair be connais vis someone si grande, vis pareil… to know someone so well-manner. Figurez-vous!"
"Aye, she is," he replied, stepping closer to her at the bulwark to speak more guardedly. She took his right hand under her left. "One hopes, though, Phoebe… Sophie is a very young girl, fifteen? Out of her convent
barely six months, and that… forced out. Taken from the oven before she was fully baked, if you will."
He didn't think he was doing a very good job of this; Phoebe was chuckling at his statement.
"Innocent, Phoebe," he scowled. "Eager to think the best of anyone. A few moments ago, when you were so familiar with me, calling me Alan, 'stead of… well… she got an inkling of our relationship. And that's why she lit out, d'ye see. Off on her own. Embarrassed."
"Mon dieu, j'ai marche dans le merde," Phoebe sighed, looking more and more stricken as she gathered his import. "Quel con, ma!"
"Maybe it's not as bad as that, Phoebe," he comforted, squeezing her hand on the rail. "Perhaps I took her wrong, and…"
"Non, I mak' ze emmerdement, encore," she groaned, near to crying. "I am ze paysanne… un cul terreux. Wan' to be somebody, someday, an' 'ave non ze manners. Ze village girl! Laputain, oui? An' now, you talk a moi, comme la putain. Tell me I do wrong."
"Phoebe…" he groaned, wondering if it was really worth it.
"Mademoiselle Sophie 'as tell me beaucoup concernant vous, mon cheri," Phoebe said in a flat voice, her face set against her misery. She turned to cock a brow at him and chuckle sardonically. "Zat you are marry? Zat en Angleterre, you 'ave le wife an' trois enfants?"
"Uhm, ah…" he groaned once more, gut-punched. Two nights in a row, now, they'd bedded together, and their one night aboard ship, crammed into the chart room and a nar-rowish fold-down bed cot, had been as maddening, as heavenly as the first, as inspiringly passionate and tender. No matter that he'd fulfilled his obligation, gotten her into a ship, and she could walk away as free as larks, her "debt" paid, too. He was sure he was going to miss that, painfully. "Aye, I do," Lewrie was forced to confess, slumping moodily against the bulwarks. "Phoebe, I know I have no right to rail at you, I'm sorry. I simply wished you might… for your own sake… be careful who knows about us. It hurt Sophie, I think. And it hurt you, if you wish to be her friend…"
H.M.S. COCKEREL l-6 Page 34
