Dewey Lambdin - H.M.S. COCKEREL

• Название: H.M.S. COCKEREL
• Автор: Dewey Lambdin
• Жанр: Морские приключения

Alan Lewrie works to get a leg over on Emma Hamilton, and comes face to face with the rising star in France, a guy called Napoleon, as well as the infamous Captain Bligh. Not a small feat!

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After a long babble in Frog, and some chuckles among Marmot and Junot, and a look on young Colonel Buonaparte's face like the cat that ate the canary, the cavalryman began to translate. The colonel crossed his arms over his chest, pouting chin-high in triumph. Posing!

Right, give 'em a chance to boast; works every time, Alan thought.

"Ah, oui, m'sieur Capitain Luray," the captain beamed slyly, "ze fort, mais oui, but…" he all but waved an impish finger at him. "Colonel Buonaparte, 'e eez in La Garde, ze inspection, n'est-ce pas? An' 'e say 'e realise, at once!"

The dragoon captain snapped his fingers for emphasis, as if he were tweaking Lewrie's nose.

"Labatterie jeune… new batterie, eez not St. Margaret, but you' supplies arrive from la mer, ze sea, hein? Eef eez not Fort St. Margaret, zen mus' be la batterie de flotte. Colonel Buonaparte realise… at once!… mus' be near ze fort, so 'ave to be 'ere, m'sieur, no ozzer. Near La Garde, ze range? See La Garde, et ozzer hills trop hautes. Too high? Ve ride out, vite, vis deux canon. An' ze flags de signaux, you see. 'E direc' ze feu. Ze firing. Et, voilа! Le colonel sink you!"

"He has my congratulations for his quick wits, sir," Lewrie said with another slight bow, feeling sick at heart at how easy it had been. "Though, of course, he does not exactly have my thanks."

"Ze colonel 'e eez delight to 'ear eet, m'sieur. Maintenant… ze wind eez cold, vos hommes, ils ont froid. Suffer? Ve mus' demand of you votre surrender, Capitaine Luray, vite. Colonel Buonaparte offer all officeurs la parole, you keep vos swords. Receive ze treatment beau."

"I…" Lewrie began to say, fingers twitching on his scabbard. There was no more shilly-shally, no more delays he could think of, and most especially, not even the slightest hope of an escape attempt could he devise that wouldn't get a lot more of his men killed.

"And what will happen to my men, m'sieur?" he posed instead. 'To my… matelots, my sailors?"

"Zey be tak' away," the dragoon captain shrugged, as if concern about the fate of enemy sailors didn't signify. He looked them over with scorn, like a remount officer deciding to herd off a pack of old nags to the knacker's yard. "Zey go to un fort, under guard. Or ze prisoner 'ulks… w'en we take Toulon."

"And should I give you my parole, I'd be forced to swear, upon mine honour, that I would no longer engage in combat with France, long as the war lasts? Even if I was exchanged?" Lewrie pressed, hem-hawing for time, just a minute of freedom more.

"Zat is la convention, m'sieur," the fellow said, growing testy and impatient once more. "Vite, your response?"

Lewrie turned to look around at the hang-dog faces of his men, faces still creased in pain and shock, some mildly perplexed by the conversation their captain was holding with a foeman. Saw the vacant and weary, defeated gapings of men without another ounce to give. Men he'd vowed to defend, to cosset, to husband… or to die with, if needs must.

Should he give his parole, he'd be almost free, in some inland French garrison town, sleeping in clean linen, bathing and shaving regularly, eating and swilling as well as any French civilian. Receive a packet of half-pay through the cartels, letters from Caroline, arrange for extra funds to be sent him. Sleep late, dawdle, ride (under guard) with a sword on his hip, the gentleman still. Hire whores, if he felt the itch.

And all the while, these men would be in chains, fettered in a loathsome fortress cellar, chained like a coffle of slaves aboard some foetid, reeking condemned ship of the line like felons awaiting transportation for life, eating slops and mushes, and thinking themselves lucky if they only slept two to a blanket, flea-ridden, lice-crusted…

"Je regrette…" he sighed, dreading those prisoner-of-war gaols just as much as his men would. But he could not do that to them, could not abandon them without a backward glance. Dear as he wished he might toddle off and call it the fortunes of war, he could not. Nor end his naval career, miss out on the blazing finale to a short-lived war, as a mildly inconvenienced…idler!

He lifted his hanger from the belt frog, held the sparkling hilt up to the wan sunshine, in front of his face. Saw the seashells wink as it turned in his grasp. He kissed the handguard and held it out.

"Je regrette, messieurs, I cannot give you my parole."

The dragoon captain made to take it from him, but Colonel Buonaparte shouldered him aside and reached out for it. Somberly, he seized the scabbard at the midpoint, his arm level. With a sad gravity, the young French officer brought it to his own face, cradling it like one might a child, to bestow his own kiss upon the bright silver chase, and nod at Lewrie with those large, penetrating eyes of his, glowing watery.

"Sir," Spendlove said, stepping to Lewrie's side and offering up his midshipman's dirk. "I cannot give you my parole, either."

"Mes braves," Buonaparte smiled. "Vous avez du poil au culs."

"Et vous, m'sieur?" the dragoon captain asked de Crillart.

Oh, shit, Alan shuddered! They learn he's Royalist, they'll be havin' his head off 'fore dinner! And all his gunners, by sundown!

"He has no sword to surrender, sir, he lost it. M… Mister Scott, he lost his sword when the ship went down," Lewrie extemporised quickly, speaking loud enough for all his men to hear. "Permit me to introduce Mister Barnaby Scott, our…"

Bloody Hell, what is he, he flummoxed?

"Our purser. Le commissaire de marine? Vin, brandy, clothing? Les vetements? La cuisine, the pay… le rente? Purser. Bursar?"

Buonaparte raised one eyebrow and spoke to the dragoon.

"M'sieur, ze colonel say vote… purser, 'e wear les culottes rouges… ze breeches red? Marine de France, aussi, culottes rouges." The captain posed suspiciously. "Officeur de la marine de France. 'E s'ink votre… Scott?… eez peut-etre ze traitre… traitor, un officeur royaliste de Toulon!"

"Mister Scott? French?" Lewrie gawped, hands on his hips and forcing himself to laugh. "Lord, that's a good'un, that is. Lads, do ya hear that? This soldier thinks our purser, Mister Scott here, is a French officer!" He clapped a hand on de Crillart's shoulder as if to lay claim to him.

"Haw, that's is a good'un, Mister Lewrie, sir," Cony barked with his own feigned amusement, catching his drift, and nudging the others to play along. " 'Oy, lads… 'Old Nip-Cheese' a Froggie?" They began to titter.

"We do have men among us whom you might consider French, sir," Lewrie confessed, ignoring Spendlove's startled gasp at his elbow. "We recruited in the Channel Islands. Guernsey, Alderney. Some of our best sailors come from there. The British Channel Islands, mind. Aye, they parlez-vous, some. But they're British tars. Well, we've four Spanish survivors with us. But the Royalists at Toulon are all soldiers. All the seamen left, weeks ago."

"Je ne sais pas… vos bursars wear rouge?"

"Any damn' thing they want, they're not really Navy officers," Lewrie lied, striking a breezy air. "Aye, red's their colour. Waist-coat's red, too. Plain blue coat, with cloth-covered buttons…"

"Say somezing… M'sieur Bursar Scott," the dragoon demanded. "Parlez-vous francais?"

De Crillart shook his head in the negative, shrugging, with a hopeless grin at the dragoon officer.

"Somezing in English, m'sieur?"

"Yes, Mister Scott," Lewrie prompted as well, turning to him in desperation. "Say something in Royal Navy, Mister Scott."

De Crillart frowned, cocking his head to one side. It was his life he held in his hands, and the lives of his gunners, as well. And Alan's… once they found he'd been lying like a rug, and resented it.

"Arrh, matey," Charles pronounced carefully. "Aye, aye, cap'um."

Alan stifled such a monumental snort of stupefaction, he felt his sinuses were about to burst Where the hell'd he learn that, he wondered? And why'd he dredge it up now1? God, what a

honid choice!

"You may have a bit of bother understanding him, you see," Alan sped to explain, trying to keep a straight face, no matter how hellish dangerous it was. "Mister Scott is a real Scot. A Highland Scot. Can't understand him meself, half the time, all his 'arrrhhin' and 'burrin.' "

"God-damn-r'right, cap'um," de Crillart added. "Blud-dy." Oh, God, don't gild the lily, not when…! Alan winced. He was interrupted by the most wondrous sound he'd ever heard in his entire life-the sudden spatter of musketry! Everyone jerked their heads to the source, to espy a rank of shakoed heads on the tall bluff above the beach, on the coast road. Lance tips winked beyond on the hill, bared sabres flashed, and a trumpet sounded. They wore goldish yellow jackets with white facings. Spanish cavalry, by God!

Bullets spanged off the shingle, sparks erupted crisp as struck gun-flints, horses reared and neighed, and men cried out in alarm, to arm themselves or to mount quickly.

Buonaparte and his aides mounted. Lewrie looked longingly for his sword; the bastard still had it. The dragoon captain reached for the hilt of his sabre. Lewrie shoved him, punching him in the face.

"Runnforritt!" he screamed, bolting away, dragging Spend-love by the elbow. "This wayy!" as he headed for shelter under the bluffs up the cove, under the guns of the cavalrymen. His unshod right foot took terrible punishment on sharp-edged stones and gravel, every lumpy rock he stubbed on made him wince. But it was better than a bullet in the back, or a sword cut. "Run, damn yer eyes! Run!" he panted.

There were shrieks, as a lancer got his tip into the back of a fleeing sailor, another piteous cry of " Madre de Dios, noo, ahhhl…." that ended in a rabbity screech as a Spanish bombardier was hewn down by a dragoon's sword, cut open from belly to breastbone. And French cries, music to Lewrie's ears, as men were spilled from their saddles by ball, or stirrup-dragged by panicked chargers over the rough beach.

They reached the cliffs, gasping with effort. Lewrie turned to see the French cantering south, in fairly good order, heading for the far side of the arrow-shaped bluff below the beach, where there was a way up and off; steeper than the one they'd descended. He spotted Lieutenant Colonel Buonaparte on his dapple-grey, patiently waiting as his lancers thundered up the draw past him, braving long-range musket fire as his dragoons formed an open-order vedette to screen the retreat.

Buonaparte made his grey rear, stuck his arm in the air to wave the captured sword. He was smiling, damn his eyes!

"I'll get it back, you bastard!" Lewrie howled in his loudest quarter-deck voice, jabbing a finger at the sword. "Je prendre mon…! One day, I'll find you! Je trouvez-vous! Je prendre de vous, mon…"

Damme, what's Frog for "sword"?

"Espece de salaud!" he roared instead, his voice echoing off rocks and hills. "Va te faire foutre!"

Scabbarded, Buonaparte flipped the sword so the hilt was in his fist-raised it to his face in mock salute, laughed as his horse did another impressive rear. He may have had no English, and Lewrie might not have had anything close to fluent French-but he thought he understood well enough. With a saw at the reins, the colonel was gone in a moment, up the draw and out of sight.

"Seflores, pronto!" a Spanish cavalry officer directed, skidding his mount to a sand-strewing halt near them. "Ingles? We go! Muy pronto! Darse! Hurry up!"

Not another language lesson, not two in one day, Lewrie sighed. The officer kicked an elegantly booted foot out of the near-side stirrup, reached down to offer him a hand as his men trotted up to aid the rest with spare French mounts, whose owners lay crumpled on the sands, or the mounts of Spanish soldiers who'd been spilled trying to rescue them. Alan hoisted his foot, reached for the saddlehorn, and hung on as the officer spurred his charger back up the draw to the Hieres road.

"A minute sooner," he muttered ungraciously beside his saviour. "Just a bloody minute sooner, thankee very much!"

Nothing could have spared him the shame of losing his ship, of course. But to see that swaggerin' little bastard ride off with his sword in his hands…

His very honour!

VI

Hic portus inquit mihi territat hostis has

aeies sub nocte refert, haec versa Pelasgum

terga vides, meus hic ratibus qui pascitur

ignis

.

Lo! Here the enemy is affrighting our

harbour, and here beneath the cover of

night he renews the battle, and here,

see! the backs of the Pelasgians in rout;

this fire that devours the rafts is mine.

– Valerius Flaccus

Argonautica, Book II, 656-59

Chapter 1

He dined alone, dispiritedly, picking at his supper and pushing it about his plate more than he ate. As thoroughly blockaded by land as Toulon now was, there wasn't that much food any longer, and prices had gone through the roof. At least the wine was still good, and cheap.

There were few other diners in the restaurant, half of them officers in strange uniforms, proud with gold or silver lace, sprigged in ornate, gewgawy appurtenances which, no matter their martial gaudiness, still made their wearers look like scared shopkeepers. Sardinians, Neapolitans, Redmontese, Spanish… Lewrie was one of the rare British officers not out on the outposts. Bleak as his mood was, the others seemed even more morose. Large liquid Don and Dago eyes, aswim with fear or self-pity, hesitant gestures, where before they chopped at the air or waved their arms in braggadocio. Soft, sibilant mutterings of defeated conversation, much shrugging and sighing… stopping occasionally, as the drumfire of the artillery barrages increased in tempo or volume. Or a shell crashed into the town itself.

They'd been doing that a lot lately, the Frogs; lofting mortars into their own city, five or six rounds a day. Now they had the range. Kettledrums pounded, the candle flames wavered on his table, and glassware softly tinkled as siege guns tore loose upon Fort Malbousquet, and Fort Malbousquet responded. Worried looks were shared among the foreign officers, bleak little giggles in attempts at gallows humour.

And the French… pausing for a moment, stoic faces frozen in what they called sang-froid. Damnit, but the French always had le mot juste, the perfect word or phrase, he sneered. Alan chewed on a slice of goose and swirled the cabernet sauvignon in his large wine glass, studying his wine through the stuck-in-a-bottle candle flame. Studying the Frogs, the other diners. Pere et maman, with their children. Old aristocrats still clinging to silks and satins, successful merchants in well-cut wool coats and waist-coats, the very image of moderate wealth and the latest styles. And so few of them still wearing their Bourbon-white cockades. The last few weeks they'd slowly shed them, like oak trees giving up their final leaves to the winter winds. On the outskirts of Toulon, it was said, the new style was red-white-and-blue Republican colours. And in the middle of town, there were hastily chalked or painted threats on walls, fresh each morning, no matter the patrols. Long, red-wool stocking caps were seen now in public, sported by sour-faced, hard-eyed commoner "patriots"… the sans culottes. Swaggering bullies who dared show the Tricolour, and glared at those who didn't, as if memorising faces and names. Later, they seemed to forebode. We'll know who you are… later.