H. M. S. Cockerel (54 page)

“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,
”
Capt. 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,” Capt. 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-Arse!

“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
Liberté,
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 re-commissioned, 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.”

C H A P T E R 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 dispatches, 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 Portugese 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 paid, 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
émigré
Royalist French maid-servant 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, Lt. Ralph Knolles, on the other hand . . . He turned to look at his first officer, fresh-plucked from fourth-lieutenant obscurity in
Windsor Castle
's
ward-room. 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 swainlike, 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 amourous 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.

Dear Lord . . . Phoebe!

Besides the cost of outfitting his new great-cabins (not that grand, really) with the bare minimums of comforts, of furnishings . . . which great-cabins he could not use since he'd been saddled with half a dozen nonpaying, all-eating, all-drinking passengers— live lumber!—of purchasing cabin stores, wine and such, plates and glassware, a new sea chest partially stocked with all which was needful, a new hat with proud gold-lace, and at least one new-pattern gold-laced uniform coat suitable to a Commander . . . there was Phoebe to lodge and support at Gibraltar.

Daft, daft,
daft!
he told himself yet again, turning his head to glance at the helmsman and the compass course. And discovering her scent on his coat collar, fresh from his very last shore visit of the night before, before taking
Jester
to sea at sunrise.

He inhaled deep, in spite of all his guilt, his fear and his misgivings, savouring her scent, his memory of her, and her passionate, kittenish, adoring
adieu.
Yet in spite of all, he could not help himself, could not force himself to let go of her!

All during
Jester
's
time in the docks he slept ashore with her, each moment snatched from duty a heaven-sent joy. And Admiral Hood had given him firm assurances that once his ship was ready,
Jester
would be returning to the Mediterranean, that Hood had written a specific request for his future services. There was Corsica to be taken to confound the French, after all. Royalist sentiments to exploit among the French on the island, separatist sentiments among the rather recently annexed Italian population, led by some fellow named Paoli, or something like that.

And, dovetailing so neatly with his enchantment with the petite and entrancing Phoebe was the fact that she herself was Corsican! Part French, part Italian, Mademoiselle Phoebe Aretino was. She knew every inch of the island, knew the people who mattered . . . and was well versed in her island's tumultuous affairs.

Besides being the most intoxicating, besotting, loving, amusing, exotically wee and clinging, yet so fiercely warm and passionate, a most cunning and beguiling, exciting, maddening little minx . . . !

Lewrie sighed, taking a surreptitious whiff of his collar again, still able to feel her soft lips upon his, see her huge waif's eyes as they peered up at him in total devotion. Daft or not, his affections and his soul were torn in twain. And he knew—feared, rather—that once home with his dear ones, like an antipodal lodestone, like a siren song, he would grow vexed for the feel of her, the taste of her, and be
just
as eager to put to sea, to hurry
Jester
back to Gibraltar. Hurry himself back to the arms of his tender young Phoebe.

He saw Bosun's Mate Will Cony by the fife rails of the mainmast in
Jester
's
waist, patiently tutoring some new-recruited landsmen in the identity of the maze of running-rigging belayed on the pins. And Alan smiled, in spite of all his forebodings.

Had it right, Cony, he thought; God knows His rogues when He sees 'em. I wager He'll be gettin' a
tremendous
laugh t' see us
both
wriggle . . . when we get back to Anglesgreen!

A black-and-white kitten, now four months old, came skittering on the quarterdeck from aft, shoveling a beribboned wine cork between his paws, arching, leaping and mewing as he pounced and footballed. He was turning out to be a horrid disaster, that kitten. Couldn't mouse, shied at the sight of a cockroach—and
Jester
had more than her fair share of
that
tribe aboard, at present. Loud noises drove him into hiding, in Lewrie's sea chest, hatbox, or behind the books on the shelves above the chart table. A pest for attention he was, too, all hours of the night—where he pawed and cried for stroking, butting insistently. When he did sleep, it was under Lewrie's chin, abed; or curled up in his hat. Yes, he was a perfect disaster. But amusing, and affectionate, for all that.

Which had, after much thought, suggested his name; a French name for a French cat.

“Here, Toulon!” Lewrie bade cheerfully. “Come here, Toulon!”

With a glad mew, Toulon bounded to his side in awkward hops, to scramble up his coattails and settle on his shoulder for a rub, thrusting his little nose into Lewrie's ear, clawing at his coat collar, and purring with ardour.

Too late to cure him of such sins, Alan wondered? Well, maybe he'll grow out of 'em.