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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"That's us, by God," he muttered.

"Pardon?" Lieutenant de Crillart asked, now his task was done, and he reported back to his temporary captain.

"Charles, I've been a fool. I've been remiss," Lewrie grimaced.

Feelin' too sorry for myself, he scathed himself, too defeated. Too busy bein' a ferryman, worried about leaks and weed to… damme, I'd more thought for another tumble with Phoebe than I had for being a King's Sea Officer! Countin' seconds 'til I can sleep again!

"Charles, does a Republican ship come across this miserable lot of barges, we're done for. They'd have us, sure as Fate, and take us as easy as a pack of sheep. We should be doing some drilling at the guns, organising volunteers, getting ready for a fight. Putting together at least some means of resistance."

"But, to offer bataille, mon ami…" de Crillart shrugged. "Ve are so weak. An', vis beaucoup de femmes et d'enfants aboard, zey weel die uhm… during?… ze bataille, an'…"

"They stand a better chance fighting for their lives than they do surrendering and being taken back to Toulon to the guillotines, Charles," Alan said firmly. "Men, women and children… chop! Resist, though, well enough, and we might only lose a tenth. Not all. And get away. These other ships… easy meat. But us… too tough to chew!"

"Mmm, per'aps, mon ami," de Crillart nodded slowly, understanding coming to him.

"Look, we've Major de Mariel and what… about sixty soldiers?" Alan enthused. "They could be our Marines and sharpshooters. Gunners, yours and mine. Not enough hands to serve the guns and tend sail. But, we've all these civilian men. Work as landsmen at the braces and such. They're already doing that, some of 'em. Heave on the gun tackles, too, like landsmen in naval service. Run 'em out, overhaul. It only takes one gun-captain, one experienced rammerman and loader per gun, the rest are strong backs, anyway. Bittfield and his yeomen below in charge of the magazine, plenty of boys aboard, to be powder-monkeys and shot-fetchers. We put out a hot-enough fire, a foe might sheer away from us. And between Louis' men, de Mariel's, and the Royal Irish… and the rest of the male civilians with guns… should it come to a close-aboard fight…"

"Ze veapons, z'ough," Charles countered. "Ozzer zan ze troops, ve 'ave on'y un peu. Fusils… ze mooskets? I know beaucoup d'hommes 'ave pistolets, fusils de chasse. For 'unting? An' on'y les gentilhommes, ze bien йlevйs, 'ave йpйes."

"God helps those who help themselves, Charles. Ventй?" Alan chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. "Most especial, He helps them who got ready beforehand. Just in case He was short on miracles."

"Oui," Charles grinned. "An', eet tak' zeyr min' off 'aving ze mal de mer. D'accord."

"Mister Spendlove! Mister Porter! Cony!" Lewrie bawled suddenly. "Come to the quarterdeck, if you please."

God, but it was disheartening. They had, beyond the muskets and infantry hangers, light-cavalry sabres and such brought aboard by the soldiers, barely enough cutlasses for the French gunners and his British Jacks. There were no boarding pikes at all. Civilians owned light hangers, hunting swords, aristocratic and elegant smallswords, some older heirlooms among the elderly-rapiers and poignards, or a fencing master's stock of foils and true йpйes doled out to others.

There were few French.69 caliber St. Etienne muskets, British Tower.75 caliber Brown Besses, a handful of Mod. 1777 Cavalry musketoons which fired a lighter ball. As for pistols, there were as many types and calibers aboard as there were adult males. Most gentlemen, though, had one or two pair, and those were allotted to those without.

Boys to serve as powder-monkeys; that was no problem. Teens in plenty volunteered, treating the whole thing like a lark. Men without any personal weapons, commoners and shopkeepers, the poorer class who had never hunted, served in the army, or dared aspire to fencing skill-they went to serve the guns. Mild and fubsy tailors, chefs, cobblers and domestic servants ended up with run-out tackles, train-tackles and swabs in their soft hands. Or were taken over by experienced able seamen, "pressed" as landsmen on gangways or in the waist.

There was eight-pounder shot and twelve-pounder shot in plenty for the quarter-deck, foc's'le and fore-and-aft guns. There were several casks of powder below, but few made-up cartridges. There were several bolts of serge for cartridge-making, but "impressed" silk shirts and gowns were commandeered as well. Bittfield and his yeomen were delighted to be in charge of a pack of women to aid them. Milliners, dressmakers, housemaids and seamstresses, with a few elderly, near-sighted males who had tailored for the Quality. Giggling, tittering, chattering as gay as magpies, sewing neat, fine stitches-but taking as long with each cartridge bag as if they were running up a new gown for some very particular lady patron.

For the heaviest armament, though, the massive eighteen-pounders amidships, there was only enough solid-shot for about twenty rounds per gun, shooting to one side only, before they were exhausted. Grape-shot was almost nonexistent; they could double-shot the eighteens four times at the most. Musket-shot and pistol ball was short, so they had to satisfy themselves with scrap iron, bent nails (both copper and iron) and the shards of broken bottles and stone crocks, tied up in spare stockings, in the eight-pounders only. Radical had no swivel guns, much to Lewrie's great disappointment. As the organisation wore on, he felt like kicking his own arse, time and again, for those things which had slipped his mind when they'd hurriedly outfitted. Or those things which he had thought of by way of armaments, but had consciously decided to forego.

Deep below decks, though, the French gunners had discovered some shot for the eighteen-pounders which had been neglected when Radical had been stripped, then abandoned; Chain-shot, elongating bar-shot, and multiple bar-shot, designed to take down masts and rigging. The French were more fond of it than the Royal Navy, it was their standard tactic; to cripple a foe at long-range first, destroying his motive power, and the ability to maneuver or flee. Lewrie thought it was a waste of time, and precious powder.

The results of the drills didn't enthuse him much, either. They worked without firing, since they had so little powder to waste, and it was a shambles. People tripping over ring-bolts in the deck, tripping over tackles, standing cunny-thumbed and unknowing in the bights which in action, when guns recoiled, would have had their feet off. Standing behind the guns, so please you, totally ignorant of recoil at all! One hour they'd drill, then rest for half of the next, whilst earnest gunners tried to explain, over and over again, how to do it safely and with the least confusion. Then, back to the guns once more, for another hour of drill, trying to cram three months' experience into their heads in a single day!

The soldiers were easier to deal with. They understood crouching behind bulwarks and letting fly by-volley, the bayonet, the mкlйe. Few, however, were anywhere near marksmen. Their common practice was to line up shoulder to shoulder, three or four ranks deep, level their muskets in the general direction of the enemy, aim for the breastplates, close their eyes, fire… and hope for the best. To work jn small teams aloft in the fighting-tops, firing at single targets, was too much to hope for. Thankfully, there were young aristocrats, too well bred to stand in the line (unless they were officers), who were also sportsmen, who took pride in their marksmanship with single-shot hunting guns or fowling pieces on a chase over their ancestral lands, and who could, with a few commoners who'd worked as gamekeepers, go aloft as sharpshooters and pick off a man in an officer's uniform. But they were painfully few.

They drilled for another hour, took another tutorial rest period, and then it was time to break and pump the bilges. Then serve dinner to all. They had two more spells of drill in the afternoon. Until it was time to pump the bilges once more.

Christ, it'll be hopeless, Lewrie thought, watching them traipse away for a lie-down or a sit-down, trailing their muskets or swords, more like walking sticks than weapons. They were beginning to get an inkling-but only the barest inkling-of what might be demanded of them. Like a brand-new warship just fitting-out, her crew as raw as a side of beef, nowhere near ready to up-anchor for weeks, engaging in a first day of sail-handling training-in the first hour of "river discipline." He crossed his fingers, hoping against hope that they'd not come afoul of an enemy ship. Their best would be pathetic, nowhere near enough.

Lewrie put his head down on his crossed arms, swaying against the quarter-deck rails over the waist, bone-weary. His little enthusiasm had cost him two spells off-watch, and it was properly de Crillart's turn to go below. It would be eight that night, end of the second dog, before he could let himself rest, or even close both eyes longer than a blink. Sure enough, eight bells chimed forward-four o'clock, and the end of the day watch.

He thought of staging one more drill before supper, but no… his "volunteers" were by then too tired themselves, too full of strange and new concepts not yet half-absorbed. More drill would put experienced, impatient sailors too much on edge, and the "volunteers" would rankle at the abuse which was sure to come, then. They'd learn nothing more this day. Might even bridle so stiffly, some of the aristocratic ones, that they'd have no more to do with it tomorrow. Or blithely "forget" the lessons of today. Let 'em rest, he thought. And dear God, let me!

Chapter 6

"Alain," a soft voice crooned in his ear. He smacked his lips, trying to ignore it, sunk so deep in a well of turgid blackness, echoing, swirling fever-dream deepness, both unable and unwilling to move a single limb. "Alain, mon cerf formidable. Arise, mon coeur."

"Oh, God," he whispered. "What's the time?"

"Almos' six?" Phoebe cajoled softly but insistently. "Ze aspirant, m'sieur Spen'loov, 'e sen' down pour toi."

"God," Lewrie reiterated, flat on his back, rubbing his eyes to pry them open. "There trouble, did he say?"

"Non, mon amour," Phoebe assured him, with a gentle kiss on his lips. " 'E say, eet eez ze ten minute aprиs l'aubй. Ze dawn?"

"Uhmm," Lewrie sighed, trying to will himself to rise. Once he had come below, he'd fallen into an exhausted sleep, almost face down in his soup, gone back on deck at midnight, and had left orders to be wakened around dawn, no matter. He'd barely gotten his shoes and coat off before tumbling, giddy-headed, onto the bed cot, putting his arms about her an instant before total, dreamless sleep had claimed him.

"Maintenant, ze cinq minutes 'ave pass."

"Right, then," he grunted, letting a leg fall towards the deck. He swung to a sitting position, head hung in weariness that a sleep of an entire night and day couldn't cure.

"I 'ave ze cafй! Trиs chaud, et noir," Phoebe said, perkily.

I know she's bein' affectionate, supportive an' all, he thought, but damme, it's too bloody much cheerful, too early, for me!

She put the mug under his nose. His nostrils twitched, his eyes were, like a purloined letter, steamed open. He took the mug and took a sip.

"Bon matin, mon chйri," she said fondly.

"Bon matin а toi, aussi, ma chйrie," he replied, trying to crack a matching grin. Damme, she call me a serf, just then? No, cerf. A stag? "Bon matin, ma biche," he added. "My little doe."

"Chatons, zey say 'bon matin,' aussi," Phoebe crooned, pointing to the black-and-white he'd ended up adopting after all-though just how that had come about, he still wasn't certain. The little bugger was just there, playing on the bed cot when he'd come off watch the day before. As was one of his whiter, lighter-marked sisters, whom Phoebe had also claimed. They were tumbling and pouncing each other all over the map table at that moment, too busy to say "bon matin." Scattering rulers and dividers, almost upsetting the inkwell…

"Uhm, thanks for the coffee, Phoebe," he said, as his thoughts began to trickle through his brain. "You must have gone forward, up to the galley? Very kind of you. Merci bien."

"Pauvre Alain, eez… leas' I do pour toi?" She sat beside him almost prim, though swinging her heels girlishly as they hung above the deck. "Ver' beau jour… nice day, I am s'ink. I weel not 'ave to worry concernant toi visou' you' cloak. Not as cloudy?"

"Good," Lewrie hurried to finish his coffee. "I'm sorry, Phoebe, but I have to go. They'll need me on deck. Thank you, though."

"Moi, need you, aussi," she chirped, full of good cheer, almost maternal. Yet seductive. "Wan we arrivons а Gee-braltar, z'ough… Now, go. Speed oos zere. I let you' navire 'ave you, until zen."

With an offer like that, he could not depart without rewarding her with a passionate kiss and a grateful embrace. A moment's dally with the kittens, and he was off.

"Morning, sir," Mister Midshipman Spendlove reported crisply. "The dawn was at… half-past five, sir. Horizon clear. We logged six and a quarter knots, the last two hours, sir. Wind's veered more southerly, too, so it doesn't feel like a Levanter… I think, sir."

"And you let me sleep twenty minutes past dawn, when I left orders to be summoned at that time, Mister Spendlove?" Lewrie glowered, still too testy to be approached.

"Uhm, sir… we tried to wake you, me and the, uhm… Mademoiselle Aretino both, sir," Spendlove blushed.

Who the Hell's that, Alan wondered? Damme, never even took time to discover her last name! Oh, well.

"My apologies for biting your head off, then, Mister Spendlove," Alan sighed. "Bad as one of Hercules' Twelve Labours, was it?"

"No error, sir," Spendlove grinned shyly.

"Where away, the other ships?" Lewrie asked, turning back to business.

"One ahead, sir, she's tops'ls down now. The horse transport down to loo'rd must have hauled her wind during the night, a point or so. She's about another two miles off, almost hull down. The pair astern are about where they were last night, sir. Might have lost some ground on us."

"Very well, Mister Spendlove. I'll-"

"SAIL HO!"

"Christ!" he said instead, wishing his bladder wasn't full.

"Deck, there! Two sail astern! Two points off th' larb'rd quarter! Hull down! T'gallants, all I see!"

"You and the bosun have the deck, Mister Spendlove?" Lewrie inquired. "Pray, do you keep it a few minutes longer." He took a telescope and went aloft the mizzen shrouds as high as the cat-harpings, to peer astern.

"Three sail! Deck, there, three sail astern!" the main-mast lookout shouted down. 'Three sail, all three-masters! Two points off the larb'rd quarter!"

He could barely make them out, three sets of three t'gallants on the horizon, greyish-white sails bellied full of wind. Radical rose on a wave, giving him a slightly better view, then dipped once more, raising the horizon like a stage curtain. The strange ships rose and fell also. Too far off to determine their identity. But he could hazard a morbid guess. The ships around him had been at sea long enough for pale white canvas to go mildewed and tan. Royal Navy ships, wearing their working suit of sails, were usually amber or tan. These ships, though, had not been at sea much, hadn't exposed their t'gallants to the weather. They were nearly new, and pale. Weather nowhere near boisterous enough for the heavy-weather suit to be hoisted aloft, too gusty for the tropical suit… these were ships which hadn't been out of harbour in a while. And three, close together, travelling in a pack. Or a squadron.