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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"Excuse me, milord, but…" the flag lieutenant interrupted. "Your guests should even now be arriving."

"Aye, enough for now, then. You will do me the signal pleasure of dining aboard as my guest, Lieutenant Lewrie?"

"With all gratefulness for your kind hospitality, milord!" he replied, stunned by the invitation.

* * *

It was hearty English fare. Portable Navy soup, local fish in a vinegar sauce, chicken with vegetable removes, then salad, and roast beef, of course. Lewrie was in heady company: Admirals Gell, Goodall and Cosby, Captain Elphinstone off Robust, Nelson off Agamemnon, and a dozen more distinguished officers, Victory's Rear-Admiral Sir Hyde Parker and her flag captain John Knight, Holloway off Britannia, and Sir Thomas Byard off Windsor Castle, flag captain John Childs Purvis of GoodalFs Princess Royal and GelFs Captain Thomas Foley from the St. George, with a sprinking of commanders towards the middle of that groaning table, and a smattering of lieutenants who had distinguished themselves on detatched service at Toulon at its foot.

With the food came lashings of wine, a new one with every course-national origin be-damned-of which Lewrie took full measure, down near the token midshipman who served as Mister Vice at its far end. It was a convivial, very sociable supper, with many toasts made and drunk, and officers proposing individual "A glass with you, sir" duet toasts among themselves almost every minute. To observe them, it would have seemed hard to believe that these were officers who had just taken part in an appalling and embarrassing defeat.

Finally the last plates were cleared, the linen and water glasses removed, and cheeses fresh from England, nuts and extra-fine sweet biscuit set out with the port bottles, which began to circulate larboardly.

Hood was prosing on from the top of the table, conducting a conversation concerning the material condition of the ships brought away from Toulon, and no one sounded exactly pleased, Lewrie noted, though a touch "squiffy." Few of those prize vessels sounded like they'd been exactly good value returned upon their investment.

"Lieutenant Lewrie," Hood called out, making Alan start in his chair and set down his glass of port. "That vessel you brought off… Radical, was she? Tell us of her state, sir."

He explained the weeding, the slovenly dockyard work done by the French, the iron and copper, and the further damage she'd taken.

"Milord, gentlemen… I fear she may require a full quarter of this next year in dock, to set her right," Lewrie concluded, queazy with all eyes upon him. "Decommissioned, though… a chance to rename her?" he said with a quirky and shyly ingratiating grin.

"Quite!" Vice-Admiral Cosby grunted. "Can't have a ship named Radical in our Navy."

"Nothing radical allowed, ha ha," said Sir Thomas Byard, quite amused (and half-seas-over with drink).

"And those two corvettes you fought, Lieutenant Lewrie," Hood probed on. "The, uhm…"

"Oh, the Sans Culottes and the one we disabled, milord, the Libertй," Alan replied, sitting up straighter, or trying to. "Both are in decent condition, milord. Libertй requires minimal repairs… new masts, spars and canvas, mostly. Sans Culottes, perhaps a month in the yards to repair battle damage. Other than that, fully found."

"Three warships, the gallant Lieutenant Lewrie has won for us, gentlemen," Hood announced. "Though with so many of our vessels 'in-sight' at the moment the corvettes struck their colours, I fear little in the way of prize-money and head-money as reward."

"Dare I say, though, milord," Captain Nelson posed, "that given the parlous state of his prize frigate, lightly armed as she was, and with so many untrained civilian volunteers aboard… to dare a full three enemy vessels, cripple one, and take a second… was an act of such conspicuous skill, not to mention pluck and bottom… that Lieutenant Lewrie's gallantry, and his victory, were the true rewards."

"Hear, hear!" they shouted, lifting their glasses high, pounding their fists on the table.

"And I suppose," Hood said with a twinkle in his eye, after the tumult had died down, "that we may avail ourselves of those two ships' time in dock to decommission them, and rename them as well. Libertй, perhaps, is innocuous, but…"

"Tradition is to keep the name of the captured ship, milord," Sir Hyde Parker countered. "In sign to our foes that the Royal Navy's to be feared upon the seas."

"If only our foes had the good sense and common decency, Admiral Parker, to christen their vessels with worthy names," Captain Sir George Elphinstone of Robust rebutted with a chuckle, his comment raising a laugh among the others. "Sans Culottes! I ask you!"

"Quite right, Sir George," Captain Sir Thomas Byard merrily said. "Why, given our tars' penchant for a baser humour, what would they make of that, I ask you, gentlemen? Eh, Lewrie?"

"Most like, Sir Thomas, they'd be calling her H.M.S. "Bare … uh Legged,' in a dog-watch," Lewrie jested, quite happy that he'd caught himself from saying what first sprang to mind-H.M.S. Bare-Arsel

"Worse than that, I fear, sir," Byard continued drolly. "Without breeches, it means, but… what state is that, hey?"

Encouraged by too much drink and the jollity of the assembled senior officers, Lewrie could not help himself. "You suppose, Captain Byard, that they might refer to a state involving another part of the anatomy, one more, uhm… fundamental, Sir Thomas?"

That set them off to another round of fist-pounding and laughing. Lewrie quite enjoyed his clever play on words. Until he noted that Admiral Lord Hood was most definitely not amused.

As the last chuckles died away, Hood spoke.

"Lieutenant Lewrie has always been, so I have gathered, quite the wag, gentlemen. Quite the witty fellow, indeed," Hood purred.

It sounded so much like censure that the others sobered.

Oh Christ, I've fucked it! Again! Lewrie groaned to himself. Damme, and my open mouth! Never know when to keep it shut!

"Aye, gentlemen, we'll rename our prizes," Hood announced as he poured himself a glass of port, a full glass. "As for Libertй, as I earlier stated, that is somewhat innocuous, though… it would not do to encourage her crew to dwell 'pon her name too closely. Before she's recommissioned, we'll think of something suitable. As for the Sans Culottes…."

Hood made a little moue, gave a tiny shrug.

"Our tars would make something of that, wouldn't they?" Admiral Lord Hood said with a brief smile. "So, gentlemen. Since she is the worst offender… Do you charge your glasses. I was struck, just now, with an inspiration, and I would be gratified were you to indulge me."

The bottles made their way about, full bumpers were poured and set before a multitude of thirsty fists in expectation.

"A double toast, if I may, sirs, gentlemen," Hood explained as he lifted his glass. "In the jocular spirit of this evening, allow me to propose… that the French national ship, the twenty-gunned prize corvette Sans Culottes… shall be bought into Royal Navy service, as His Majesty's 6th Rate sloop of war…" He paused dramatically, a twinkle in his old eyes, "… Jester. Sirs, gentlemen, I give you H.M. Sloop of War Jester. Proudly may she tweak the noses of our foes."

"H.M. Sloop of War Jester]" they repeated loudly, in a rough and manly chorus, draining off half their port and waiting, glasses pent at midchest, for the rest of the toast.

"And to the jolly wag responsible for what little merriment we enjoy this evening, the provider of the one bright spot of cheer-and may I say, of glory-to illuminate our hopes for success and victory in future…" Hood beamed at last, looked down the table direct, and locked his eyes on Alan. "… and allow us to close the book upon our recent enterprise with an exemplary display of wit, courage, shiphandling and gallantry, in the finest tradition of the Sea Service… the young man who took her… Commander Alan Lewrie."

Jesus bloody…! Lewrie gawped as they shouted his name, and his new rank. His glass sat between his shaky hands, as they tossed theirs off beyond "heel-taps." Head down in modesty; true modesty for once, it must be said, too surprised to do else but shyly smile.

"H.M. Sloop of War Jester's new master and commander," Admiral Hood said as an afterthought, once the tumult had died down. "A captain in your own right, at last, sir. Use her well, and take joy of her."

Chapter 2

H.M. Sloop of War Jester stood out past Europa Point, hardening up to a land breeze from Spain on the starboard tack. Gun salutes had been fired, and the artillery secured. Sparse as Gibraltar dockyards were supplied, it had taken two months to set her right, more than the single month her captain had supposed.

Now she was off for England, with despatches, to recruit and man, to replace French eight-pounders with British long nines, to add some carronades to her quarterdeck. There was a sprinkling of Maltese seamen in her crew, though the hard kernel of her experienced men were former Cockerels, those who'd served detached with him, and some who'd asked to turn over to her from their old ship after her new captain had read himself in. Plus those men separated from other ships who'd been with him from Toulon. A few more volunteered from Victory, Agamemnon (most graciously offered by Captain Nelson, though he was short-handed himself by then), and the other flagships. Enough to man her voyage home to Portsmouth, doubling Cape St. Vincent, along the Spanish and Portuguese coasts, and lash cross the boisterous westerlies of the Bay of Biscay for Ushant, risking French warships.

But Jester was a fine vessel, no error, Lewrie thought proudly, savouring a first morning at sea, the fresh breezes, the warming climate of an early March Mediterranean spring day. She was well built of Adriatic oak, properly joined, caulked and payed, newly coppered, with quick-work as clean and smooth as a baby's bottom. And she was fast. He was certain Jester would get them all home safely and swiftly, sure his rising impatience would soon be satisfied.

To go ashore and visit Caroline, Sewallis, Hugh once more, and see how much little Charlotte had grown during his absence! Caroline had written that they'd coach down to Portsmouth and all be together during Jester's brief refit. So long apart, so eager to see them, to hear their voices, touch them… to hold his dear wife once more. By the time of Jester's landfall, the news of his battle, his victory… and his promotion would have made the Marine Chronicle and the London Gazette. He had not yet received Admiralty confirmation of his promotion, but surely that was a mere formality, with Hood speaking for him.

Beyond winning a fight against appalling odds, two-a-penny for the Public beliefs, he'd brought off women and children, rescued, then protected innocent lives. That made his official report, he was sure, the sort of fame beyond the normal. Even if he had gotten some of the innocent slain in the process, he groaned, reliving his errors again, trying to think of something he could have done better. He still felt guilty about those dependents who had died.

Admittedly, he felt rather guilty over his infidelities, too, of his failings as a proper husband. Though he felt drawn like filings to a lodestone, eager to rush home… he wondered if his sins would show in his face, if Caroline would know at the first instant of reunion.

Fearful, too, of his charge. Alan looked to starboard, over to where Mister Midshipman Spendlove was engaging in shy, clumsy repartee to Mademoiselle Sophie, Vicomtesse de Maubeuge, who was taking the air on the quarterdeck now the ship was secured for sea, properly chaperoned by an йmigrй Royalist French maidservant she'd taken on.

No help there, Lewrie thought sourly; Midshipman Clarence Spendlove was a year younger than she, of middling worth to begin with, and bloody hopeless as a swain. Now, Lieutenant Ralph Knolles, on the other hand… He turned to look at his first officer, fresh-plucked from fourth-lieutenant obscurity in Windsor Castle's wardroom. He was of an age, about twenty-five, came of a good family, and had been very witty and charming when about the vicomtesse. Most swain-like, indeed! Hmm…

Lieutenant Knolles felt his captain's intent perusal on the back of his neck, turned from his pose by the nettings forrud, and raised one quizzical blond eyebrow, wary of his new captain and their brief acquaintance.

"A good day for it, Mister Knolles," Lewrie grinned with false cheer, clapping his hands as if in pleasure. "Good to be back at sea."

"Indeed, sir," Knolles replied, relieved.

"Carry on, you have the deck, sir," Lewrie assured him gaily.

"Aye, aye, sir."

Have to speak to the young swine, Alan told himself; dine them both in. He could take her off my hands, pray Jesus!

With no place else to go, no other living relations, and so poor in pelf with which to establish herself on her own, even if she could at her tender young age… Lewrie had been forced by that promise he'd made to Charles de Crillart, upon his very honour, that he'd look after the unfortunate Sophie de Maubeuge. There had been time enough for his letter to go to Caroline, and to receive a quick reply on a packet brig.

Caroline had been reduced to tears, both by the girl's piteous plight and her "dear husband's" tender and magnanimous promise to such a gallant, dying man. For the few years before Sophie was come to her majority, Caroline had insisted that the girl simply must come to live with them as their treasured guest, close as cater-cousins. Let her tutor the children in French, in poetry and such, music, of course… but raise her, and let her acquaint herself with a new life in England, safely away from city evils in the bucolic splendours of Anglesgreen!

And what the tender young Sophie de Maubeuge knew of her benefactor's amorous rantipoling, Lewrie most ardently hoped, Sophie might keep to herself… and from her benefactress! But dreading that someday, in a snit, perhaps, or an unguarded moment, the mort'd…!

Christ shat on a biscuit, he thought, massaging his brow; let's please marry the chit off, quick as we can. Damned fetchin', she is… a sweet, willing tit. Hell of a catch, somebody… titled an' all? What am I bid? And the worst part of it is, I can't caution her about it. Can't even talk to her 'bout keepin' silent! Jesus, let's hope poor Charles was right… she's French! Nun-blinkered or no, it's in the blood. The French'r s'posed to understand these things… about a man and a maid… 'bout Phoebe.