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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"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…"

"Pauvre Alain, mon chou," she laughed softly, half-turning towards him, taking his hand with both of her tiny ones. "You mak' amour comme 1'homme francais mais… in you' 'ead, you are anglais. You are marry?" she said fondly, studying his sea-roughened hand, lifting her gaze to his face, her brown eyes huge once more, mesmerising and besotting. "Zen you are marry. J'comprend mais, je m'en fous… do not care. Ze jeune fille comme moi, she be viz beaucoup d'hommes 'oo are… marry. I do wrong. Merci bien, you correc' me. En public, ne pas encore emmerdements pour vous. Forgive me, I say you talk a moi comme putain, zat ees wrong. You correc' me, parce que… because you s'ink of 'er embarrassment. An' my embarrassment. Not on'y you' embarrassment."

"Well…" he sighed. That wasn't exactly what he'd intended, but… if she wanted to take it that way, he'd be more than willing.

"You are good an' kin', tres affectueux vis me. I feel aussi a vous, Alain," she sighed, turning his hand over to peer into his palm. Then she laid his hand down firmly on the railing, slid half a step to the side, and crossed her arms on the bulwark to peer out, peeking at him from time to time, behaving with seemingly public decorum.

"I do nozzing encore mak' you feel… honteux? Shame? But you mus' tell me. En private," she twinkled briefly. "Wan I be viz pauvre Barnaby… forgive, plais, mais… 'e waz not le bon homme. I mak' eem anger, I ask concernant vous. Forgive, j'sais 'e waz votre ami, mais… eez vrai… true? An' toujours I weesh I be vis you, zat ees you wan' me, non eem. You seulement talk a moi, si gentil. You laugh, so easy? Mak' me laugh, aussi, an' 'appy wan you are zere. Now we are lovers, I know ze amitie an' affection I feel au milieu… uhm, nous…" Phoebe paused, waving a hand to grasp the right word.

"Between us?" Lewrie supplied.

"Oui, between us, merci bien," she nodded quickly, rewarding him with another of her radiant smiles. "Zat eez so rare, en ze life I know. Avant you retournes a votre ship, avant I retourne a mes affaires," she sobered. "Am 'appy, now. 'Ow long ve 'ave, Alain mon chou? Une week, deux… ze mont ', une annee? Encore, je m'en fous. Long as you are mon cher ami. My loving frien'. An' I am votre jeune Me, an' votre amour. I demande nozzing more. I do nozzing more, mak' you be shame a moi, promesse! You weesh ze jeune dame, zan I be. En public," she concluded with a softly muttered leer and a shift of her hips.

"I'm sorry, Phoebe," Alan softened, knowing it wouldn't work-couldn't work, for very long, but… "I didn't mean to sound angry with you. Forgive me. Truth? Uhm, en verite? I was just as worried about what people would say about us. About me. Can't help that. God save me, I'm a horrid beast of a man. A poor excuse. God save me, again… with a gun to my head, this instant, I couldn't walk away from you."

"B'lief moi, Alain," she snorted in gentle self-mockery. "I know 'ow beas'ly men can be. You are not one of zem. Toi, je t'adore."

"Toi, je t'adore, aussi," he whispered, knowing he was throwing his mind away, and caring not one whit. "Long as no one gets hurt."

"Bien!" she laughed, suddenly girlish again, bouncing on her toes as if she wanted to fling her arms around his neck and kiss him in front of the entire world. "An' now I 'ave ma grand amoureux, comme amant tu crйe partout, back, encore! An' monte comme un ane. Comme le Franchouillard, mais le plus formidable!"

"I'm what?" he chuckled. "Comment? Je ne comprend pas tous…"

She cut her eyes about the deck before stepping closer to whisper, blushing with her daring. "I say, vous est ze mos' creative lover, like ze Frenchman, but more formidable, mon amour merveilleux. An ze, uhm… mon Dieu, so easy to say en franзais, mais…" She tittered into her hands, red as a beet, stifling a howl of laughter. "Equipй le plus, comme l'вne? Ze… donkey? La, mon Dieu, pardon…!"

"Ah?" he coughed sternly, though pleased beyond all measure. "Well, hmm… mean t'say!"

She coughed as well, flipped up her hood to partially hide her amusement and her embarrassment. "I be good now, Alain mon coeur, I promesse. Jusqu' а ce soir. Until tonight, n'est-ce pas? Au revoir, mon amour. Au revoir."

"I would be most honoured, should you be able to dine with me, mademoiselle," he said, on public show once more, doffing his hat to her and bowing her away. She dropped him a rather good curtsy, then fled.

"Bloody Hell, until tonight, then," he crowed in a secret mutter, rocking on the balls of his feet. "Bank on that, ma chйrie."

Chapter 4

The last diners had been served, the last families had slowly shuffled forward to the galley on the mess deck, with poor pewter or wood messware, soldier's issue tin plates and cups, or aristocratic china with sterling silver. Where they'd eaten had been their problem to solve, since there were too many for wardroom, midshipmen and great-cabin tables, for the petty-officers' messes. But they had all gotten a full belly of boiled potatoes, a quarter-loaf of crusty dry bread, a slice of cheese, and a portion of salt-beef carved off hard joints. And a half-pint of vin ordinaire.