H.M.S. COCKEREL

Chapter 2

Perhaps it was just as well that Captain Horatio Nelson's sixty-four-gunned Agamemnon bore the word to Naples, Lewrie thought. With the French Mediterranean fleet captured in one fell swoop, all her proud, large line-of-battle ships in the bag, the more impressive British liners were freed to make the diplomatic calls about the region-those ships captained by men of greater stature and diplomatic experience.

Cockerel idled about in the Golfe du Lion for a few days to keep an eye on Marseilles, round Cape Cicie to the west, before that pointless task was undertaken by a small squadron of British 74's, and she returned to Toulon. There was nothing much to guard against, since only a scattered handful of French frigates and corvettes were still free to operate, and those few were alone, uncoordinated and fearful.

"You really can walk in their shade," Lieutenant Barnaby Scott commented as they toured the basin a few days later.

Everywhere there was bustle. Proud French ships were being stripped of their guns and powder, rowing boats worked like a plague of water-beetles to carry captured supplies out to the Spanish and British ships. And a horde of curiosity seekers such as Lewrie and Scott had come ashore to gawp over all they'd won so easily, and crow with elation.

And from the moment their cutter had touched a quay, they'd been gawped at in turn, cheered by Royalist Toulonese, gushed over by women and men with white Bourbon cockades on their coats or their hats. Any restaurant would kick Frogs out to seat them and fete them, any desire they had was fulfilled (mostly), and they couldn't seem to buy a drink in the town- it was given with bubbly expressions of gratitude. "Damn' friendly lot," Barnaby Scott opined. "For Frogs." There was martial music, clattering hooves on cobblestones and the heavy drumming of field-artillery carriages and caissons as a Spanish half-regiment paraded by above the basin, on the main water street.

"S'pose we should be about our shopping," Lewrie shrugged, still uneasy with the concept of friendly Frenchmen. Besides, ambling about by themselves, surrounded by convict labourers in their filthy slops and irons, surrounded by milling packs of truculent and beetle-browed French sailors who were most pointedly not wearing Royalist cockades, and who hawked and spat behind their backs, or muttered sneering words behind their hands as they passed… well, they might be disarmed and supposedly harmless, but Lewrie didn't want to take the chance of risking the drunkest or the surliest of them. No matter how near help, in the form of Royal Navy working parties or Marine sentries, might be.

On the northern shore of the basin's quays, it all spread out before them as they stopped and stood, gazing down upon the pool of water between the jetties and the warehouses, dry dock and arsenals: A host of docked warships, frigates, corvettes, gunboats, floating batteries (that looked more like ancient oared war galleys), 74's and 80's of the line, and two monstrous 120-gun ships of the 1st Rate, so huge they dwarfed all others, even British 1st Rates.

"Comfortin' to know we'll have use of all these," Lewrie said on. "Frogs build damn' good ships. Finer entries, leaner quick-work… sail faster than ours, and that's a fact. Always have."

"Ah, 'tisn't the ship makes the difference, sir," Scott scoffed, a trifle bleary from all the "gratitude" he'd taken aboard." Tis men who decide a battle. Frogs've never had the stomach for fighting, not at musket or pistol-shot, broadsides to broadsides. Lay off, so please you, and fire at your rigging! Pack o' spineless, snail-eatin' Mollies, they are. Frog-eatin' butt-fuckers. All they know how to do is mince!"

"A little less of it, Mister Scott," Lewrie cautioned. "Those near us aren't mincing, exactly. Why don't you smile and nod?"

"Shit on 'em, sir," Scott sneered. "Shit on 'em! I was raised t'hate a Frenchman worse'n 'Old Scratch' himself. Hate 'em worse than Dons, when you get right down to it. Damme if I'll pander to any Frog, no matter he's licking mine arse to save his. Let 'em bring on their guillotines, I say! Cut the odds down for us first, and we'll sort out the survivors later. And spare the world any more of 'em."

"I truly do despair of you, Mister Scott," Lewrie replied sternly, not for the first time. Bluff, humorous and "me-hearty" as Scott could be, he had a surly side when he'd been tippling. Which he did about as often as the unfortunate "Little Left-enant Do-Little," Banbrook, in the past month or so, Lewrie had begun to notice.

As that other unfortunate, Lieutenant Clement Braxton, had tried anew to ingratiate himself with his own messmates after his father's illness, it had been Scott who'd still have no truck with him. Which made it harder for the others to relent, to realise that the son was nothing like the sire, and accept his shy and clumsy offerings.

"I despair of the whole shitten mess, sir," Scott gloomed, taken by a Blue-Devil mood of a sudden. "Braxtons and Brax-tons, then even more Braxtons, generation unto generation, pestiferous as Frogs in-"

"Shut up," Lewrie snapped.

"Sir?" Scott looked at him owlishly, like Falstaff called down by a drinking partner. But he did shut up, at least.

"If you cannot control yourself, sir, go back aboard."

"You'd deny me a few hours of peace, of freedom from our tyrants, sir?" Scott wheedled, sounding genuinely hurt. "Send me back to more-"

"Shut up, Mister Scott!" Lewrie snarled. "I mean it. Aboard or ashore, there'll be no more of that talk. Sets yourself a bad habit. Carp all you like two years from now, when the commission's over, but manage yourself now, sir."

"Mister Lewrie, you hate 'em as much as I do, as much as we both hate Frogs and Dons, I know it, so-"

"Sir, will you obey me?" Lewrie demanded, suddenly fed up with it; with Scott, with his impossible task. And begrudging his own few hours of freedom, interrupted by a maundering, half-drunken pest. Scott was, he'd imagined-'til now, at least-a kindred spirit. Cynical, sarcastic, wryly funny to talk to, a rakehell and a rogue. But no, Scott had a deeper, darker streak that he didn't much care for.

"Very well, sir," Scott replied stiffly, drawing himself up to a full height, doffing his hat in salute. "I'll say no more. I trust you may excuse me, then, sir? Since you find my company distasteful, I will spare you any further… I will take my leave, sir."

"Very well, Mister Scott," Lewrie sighed, wondering if he had not lost the man's respect, and his authority over him, as well as what had passed for a tentative beginning to a career-long friendship. He suspected that he had; Lieutenant Barnaby Scott was the sort who'd hold a grudge over a trifle such as this, drunk or sober. "Keep yourself out of any trouble, Mister Scott. Your opinions anent Frogs, that 'd spare you no end of grief. And be back aboard by sundown."

"Sir!" Scott said stiffly, almost clicking his shoe heels like a Prussian grenadier, and departing, a trifle unsteadily, parting a path through French citizens, subjects and sailors by his brusque mood and his daunting, damme-boy bulk and height.

"Shit, I give up!" Lewrie sighed in a bitter whisper. He'd just lost an ally in the wardroom, perhaps made a sullen enemy. It was as if Scott felt betrayed that Lewrie, who should have been on his side, had aided Clement Braxton's tentative essays at camaraderie, much as a jilted lover might turn on the suitor who'd scorned her. "What next, I ask You?" Alan queried, turning his face up to the sky.

"Pardon, m'sieur? Votre ami, 'e eez beaucoup trink, hein?"

"What?" Lewrie snapped, turning to find his accuser. "Wait a bit." He brightened, trying to remember where and how he'd met a French naval officer, "Damme, I know you, don't I?"

"St. Kitts? Votre fregate… mon fregate, ve bataille?" The other fellow beamed: "La Capricieuse? Et votre… corvette, I am s'inking…? Charles Auguste de Crillart, a votre service! Et vouz…"

"Of course!" Lewrie exclaimed. "Alan Lewrie… a votre service, aussi, m'sieur. God, it's been years! Wasn't I your gaoler?"

"Ah, mais oui, Alain Lewrie," de Crillart grinned, doffing his gold-laced hat and making a formal leg before shaking hands. "You vere ze meedshipman, zen. An' maintenant, ze lieutenant, hein? Con-grat-shu-lay-shins," he pronounced carefully, still capable of only fragmentary English. "Et votre ship?"

"Cockerel," Lewrie laughed, then crowed like a rooster. "A la chanticlier? First officer, now. Premier officeur? Et vous, m'sieur?"

"Ah, moi aussi! Premier lieutenant de fregate Alceste. She is 'ave ze trente-six canon… ze s'irty-six? Mais… las' mont ' Admiral St. Mien, 'e dismiss me, say I am Royalist, zo…"

"You don't go by Baron de Crillart, either, I take it?"

"Ah tres dangereux, mon ami," Crillart sighed heavily. "Avant ze Terror, tres early? I go to Paris to 'ow you say, un delegate in ze Etats-General. To sit? Oui, to sit as delegate. I am fill avec beaucoup d'elan, n'est-ce pas? I serve in America, I meet americains… read ze Bill of Rights, ze Declaration of Independence. Ze Paine, ze Jefferson an' Adams. An' I meet ze grande Lafayette, zo I s'ink wan I come 'ome… je suis ze nobleman, ze jeune homme, vis duty to aid ze country… 'elp amend eet. France is ze bankrupt, ze people starving, out of work. Ve vere not wealthy, powerful… old famille viz titles only, an' people in Normandie respect us."

"Yet they ended up turning on you, after all?" Lewrie asked with sad foreknowledge, having read several accounts of the Revolution's early days, when it had looked to be a gentlemanly, civilised reform, not a peasants' revolt and a bloodbath.

"Ah, oui. D'abord, ve dare un peu, a leetle?" Crillart said as he gazed out with sadness on the proud but idle ships. "Beet by beet zey dare more, an' ze radicals take over, zeyr decrees more revolutionnaire… incroyable! Zen, zey purge L'Etats-General. A bas aristos, hein? Down viz all aristocrats? I am dismiss. Revenir au Normandie… mais non, ze madness come zere, aussi. Neighbours, amis, peasants we know all zeyr lives turn agains' us. Mon pere, maman et moi, ve renonqons titles. Declare as citizens. Even zat buy us leetle safety."

"So how did you get to Toulon, and stay in the Navy?" Alan asked.

"Ah, avant ze Terreur, we sell ev'rys'in'. Bribes? I declare for Republique, zey need trained officeurs Jacobiste… I arrange post here an' bring maman, mon frere Louis. Mon pere, il est mort, of ze malade de coeur. Zo many Royalists in Toulon an' Provence, ve s'ink ve be safety. Ma cou-sine Sophie de Maubeuge, elle flee Paris, join us. More bribes, hein? Ev'rys'in' ve lose, mais notre vie… our lives. Maintenant…?"

"You're safe as houses, maintenant, mon ami," Lewrie insisted to perk him up. "The Coalition is sending troops. We'll hold the place until we raise the whole of Southern France, and Austria and Prussia kick the doors to Paris down."

"Zo do ze Republicains, ami Lewrie," de Crillart disagreed. "On ze west, General Carteau an' Citizen Mouret, zey conquer Marseilles a day before votre fleet enters. On ze east, General Lapoype an' ze Armee du Italic Nord, General Kellerman eez in Lyons, an' marchin' sud viz ze trente mille… ze s'irty s'ou-sand men."

"Bloody hell, that many?" Lewrie frowned.

"Mais, your soldiers, zey right Carteau an' Mouret las' week," de Crillart went on, cheering up slightly. "You' capi-taineEl…Elf…"

"Elphinstone?"

"Oui, Elphinstone. 'E comman' Britannique an' Espagnol soldiers. 'E beat ze Republicains badly, take all zeyr artillerie, 'orse, an' baggage. Make great casualtie, with 'ardly any loss. West of 'ere, at ze village de Senary, an' ze pass at Ollioules."

"Good on him, then," Lewrie crowed. "And there're Sardinian troops coming. Neapolitan, British, Austrian, more Spanish. Then, there's the garrison here at Toulon. Sure to be men loyal to Louis the Seventeenth."

"Oui," de Crillart allowed with another heavy shrug. "Ze Espagnol zey Ian' un mille… one s'ousand men. Royaliste Toulonese, peut~6tre two s'ousand men, only. Many, zey desert. 'Ave tres fear? Votre armee, viz matelote et Garde du Corps… 'ow you say…?"

"Our sailors and marines, and two regiments of infantry?"

"Oui, per'ap' ze… uhm, one an' a 'alf s'ousand?"

"Hell, is that all, so far? I'd have thought sure…" Lewrie exclaimed, thinking again of that fifteen-mile perimeter. Though the troops present-so far-were better drilled and more experienced than Republican peasant levies, that still sounded like they were more than a bit thin on the ground.

"Pardon, avez-vous manger? 'Ave you eaten, mon ami?" de Crillart asked.

"Well, not exactly…"

"Zen you mus' come 'ome viz me, ami Alain!" Lieutenant de Crillart cried. "Maman, Louis et Sophie, zey will be fill viz delight! An' ze cuisine a la Toulonnaise… le vin! Magnifique!"

"It was wine I was after," Lewrie explained, waffling. "I came to do some shopping for the wardroom, and…" The others had entrusted him and Lieutenant Scott with a cache of coin so they could purchase fresh livestock, eggs, cheeses, breads, and most especially, wine to replenish stores. Between Royalist "gratitude" and stark fear for the morrow among their hosts, they'd anticipated some truly outrageous knock-down bargains.

"Ve do zat, maintenant. I aid you viz ze storekeepers, hein? An' zen, you dine viz us, as our 'onoured guest. I insist!"

"Well, in that case… I'd be delighted," Lewrie replied, never one to turn down a free meal. "Lead me. I'm yours."

Chapter 3

They were, the de Crillarts, a rather nice family… for Frogs. After an hour of shopping and, with Charles' help, the discovery of a well-stocked chandlery, and a chandler who wasn't trying to pay off the national debt, they'd sent the cutter back to Cockerel gunn'1-deep with everything they'd hoped for.

Lieutenant Charles Auguste de Crillart and his relations lodged in what they termed an appartement, very West Indies in character, with wrought-iron balconies and tall windows overlooking the basin, high up on the sloping town's heights. The late afternoon vista was pleasant and fairly cool, the apartment airy and well lit, but a bit on the tattered side. Shabbily respectable, but certainly not one of the better neighbourhoods. Not what Lewrie would have thought suitable for aristocracy, even genteelly straitened aristocracy; as if Charles was forced to live on his naval pay-and that, given the times, uncertain in amount and regularity of payment.

Maman was one of those long, horse-faced, stout-jawed ladies of the old school, who clung to pale face powders and white-floured wigs. Hortense de Crillart was in her middle fifties, and might have been a handsome woman in her day. She had not been as enthralled as Charles had said to have another maw at her table, though Lewrie had mollified her misgivings with a basket of victuals and wine from the chandlery as a house gift.

Louis, the younger brother-Chevalier Louis de Crillart, he went by-was a sulky, pimply sort, dark-haired and dark-eyed, initially stiff with grave hauteur, though he'd thawed a little as the evening progressed. He was twenty, and had been a junior officer in a famous cavalry regiment, much like a British coronet in a unit which could boast "The King's Own…" in its designation. The regiment had been disbanded, its aristocratic officers dismissed or beheaded, and it was now run by corporals and sergeants, to Chevalier Louis' great, and voluble, disgust. Lewrie sensed that there was some rancour among the brothers, Louis and Charles, as if the dead father and Charles-the current baron-had made a Devil's bargain in relinquishing their titles, in selling off their estates, and fleeing instead of fighting.

Though they tried to be affable and gracious to their guest, Alan caught a few flurries of rapid French tossed between them like grenades now and then, not meant for his ears. Poor his French might be, but he did catch enough of their gist to realise that Charles' declaration for the Republic, which had saved their lives from the guillotine, and his first enthusiastic support of the Assembly, was a black betrayal to Louis, the intensest sort of Royalist firebrand. Looking at him as he spoke, his eyes glaring, darting under his dark brows, the quick, impatient way he tossed his loose-gathered hair away from his face, Lewrie could imagine him the same sort of fanatic as the ones who'd launched the Terror-a fanatic equally dedicated to his bright, shining cause-on the opposing side.

Charles, without his uniform coat and hat, at ease at the table with a glass of wine in his hand and a fund of stories about shipboard life in the French Navy, seemed much the same charming fellow he had in the Caribbean after Lewrie's ship Desperate had taken Caprkieuse, and they'd dined together so often on the sail back to Antigua, with Lewrie rated midshipman and master's mate, in charge of the prize, and Charles on his parole. Not like a baron at all, then or now, Lewrie thought.

Charles appeared more like a member of the petit-bourgeoisie, a chap more comfortable in furry slippers after a long day at a clerking desk. He was distinguished-looking, about Lewrie's age; nothing to write home about, though. Regular features, average height and all the usual forgettable bumf.

The intriguing member of the family was the younger female cousin, Sophie de Maubeuge. Her story was more tragic. Whilst Charles' presence in the Estates-General had saved his family, her father and all her relations had been too well-to-do, too resistant to change-too well known and powerful. She'd fled her convent school to hide in Normandy with the de Crillarts, whilst the tumbrils and the mobs had claimed most of her kin, including her immediate family. She was now the sole survivor, the last Vicomtesse de Maubeuge.

It was a heady title for such a sylph-like, shy, soft-spoken girl. Sophie was only fifteen, slim and petite, the sort who softly whispered when she spoke, and that, rarely. Though graced with the innate, bred-in-the-bone polish of aristocracy, the tutoring in social arts and such, she was as meek as a scullery maid, and smiled or laughed seldom; though Lewrie considered her recent horrible history a damned good reason for her gravity. That, and a proper convent, sergeant-major nun upbringing.

She was of middling height, a bit less than five and a half feet tall, between seven and eight stone in weight. Sophie's features were bewitchingly gamine. High cheekbones, a pertly tapering face, full and wide lips, and crowned by overly large, slightly almond-shaped eyes of a startling green hue, brilliant as cat's eyes, and set like glittering gems in a flawless, "peaches-an'-cream" complexion. Her hair, which she still wore long and simple in girlish fashion, was a fascinating reddish auburn hue, more russet or red chestnut than anything else Alan could think to compare it to. And the very idea that some bloody-eyed peasants, gutter sweepings and mobocracy could even begin to think of chopping the head off such an entrancing and harmless young thing set his blood boiling. Quite apart from being covertly besotted, he found his heart going out to her in sympathy.

There was trouble there, too, he'd noted, when he tried to be his most charming and amusing self, to cosset her into a better mood with songs or japes. Chevalier Louis had left off berating Republicans to glare at him for being amusing, for monopolising her attention. And, Lewrie also noted, when tender young Sophie de Maubeuge had sheep's eyes, or laughed at last, she directed her gaze and encouragement towards Charles, her saviour, as if to share with him!

It had been his family fortune, what little of it was left after selling their estates and most-prized possessions to gimlet-eyed agents or hateful neighbours, that had supported her, had brought her down to Toulon and safety. And, Alan learned, it had taken more than Charles' declaration of support and allegiance to the Republic-it had taken hefty bribes to keep her off the local committee's lists of those who deserved their necks stretched below the blade of a guillotine.

Supper with the family-a hearty and creamy soup, laced with onions and a few dubious shreds of chicken. Scads of crusty bread and butter, a runny omelet served with well-seasoned sliced and fried potatoes, and a small veal cutlet nestled at the side of his plate, aswim in a thin wine gravy, with an abundance of mushrooms, disguising what a tiny cutlet it was, ladled atop. And a marvelous St. Emilion Bordeaux, several bottles in fact, to wash it all down. Enough wine to at last mellow even the sulkiest to a semblance of good cheer, and put

a dimple in Sophie's cheek.

"I must be going, Charles," Lewrie said at last, after mangling a tune on a borrowed recorder and returning it to Sophie's care.

"Back to your ship," Crillart shrugged. "I walk viz you to ze quays, Alain."

"Permettez-moi, maman?" Sophie said quickly, sounding more like a regular girl, eager to go out, at last, as she fetched Lewrie's hat; like the daughter of a middUng-common family might, instead of waiting for some servant to do it.

"Oui," Maman allowed grudgingly, with a stern expression. Her lips flattened over her long teeth and gums, making her look even more horse-faced, and Lewrie caught another subtle undertone, as Madame de Crillart darted her glances to both Sophie and Charles, then at Louis.

Alan made his most courtly goodbye, bowed low in conge, expressed how much he'd enjoyed himself, and promised to repay their generous hospitality. Maman replied in kind, though she sounded doubtful.

It was a lovely time for a stroll. Close to sundown, with cool breezes ruffling the waters of the basin and the farther Little Road, the street lamps being lit, and the apartments and shops aglow with a candle or lantern in every window. The sun was quite low, and it was a gold and orange sunset, dusky rose-reddish grey to the south and east. Louis, thankfully, did not accompany them, so Charles and Alan strode to either side of the shorter Sophie. But it was upon Charles' genteelly extended arm that she rested her fine, white hand.

"Such a lovely evening," Lewrie commented as they strolled downhill. "All the ships, outlined against the setting sun."

"Ze Dauphin-Royal" Charles pointed out, indicating the massive 120-gunned ship on the east side of the basin. "Ze Republicains, zey vill change 'er name. Ze ozzer, Commerce-de-Marseilles. An' ze quatre-vingts canon… ze eighty guns; Tonnant, Triomphant, Couronne."

He reeled off the majestic names of the seventy-four-gunned ships, those the Royal Navy would term 3rd Rates: Apollon, Centaure, Lys (now named Tricolor), Scipion, Destin, Dicta-teur, Duquesne, Hews, Heurewc, Pompee, Commerce-de-Bordeaux, Censeur, Mercure, Alcide, Conquerant, Guerrier and Puissant, Suffisant and Souverain, now called with levelling, Egalitarian logic Souvemin-Peuple; Genereux, Orion,Entreprenant, Patriote, Duguay-Trouin, Languedoc and Trajan.

All as harmless now as a pack of dead otters, their powder away in warehouses ashore, small arms taken off and locked up, though seamen still thronged their decks, for lack of a better place to house them. Strangely silent ships, too, with none of the usual dog-watch music or humumm to be heard, their yards still properly squared and crossed and rigging taut, spider-mazed black against the sunset. Few lights showed, even through lower-deck gunports opened for ventilation. Glims at the belfries and wheels, from wardroom or great-cabin windows, perhaps, but little else; their taffrail lanterns for night-running dark. And flying no flags of any kind.

"An' Alceste" Charles muttered gravely, gazing with a spurned lover's sadness at his ship, his beloved frigate, squeezed in so snug between others on the eastern quay that she looked as forlorn as some barge abandoned in a weeded ship-breaker's yard. "Peut-Stre…"

"Soon, Charles," Lewrie assured him. "With enough loyal seamen, surely it's in the coalition's interests to raise a Royalist squadron, to show the world. And encourage the other maritime provinces, such'z the Vendee, Corsica… perhaps… peut-etre, hey?… they'd promote a loyal lieutenant to, how do you say?… capitaine de fregate?"

"Capitaine," Charles mused with a slight smile. "Zat soun' tres bon. Oui… peut-etre, mon ami."

"Capitaine de fregate, Charles Auguste, Baron de Crillart," the girl tasted, in a slightly bolder voice than her meek, kittenish tone, and beamed a hopeful smile at both of them. "Oui, zat soun' magnifique! An' 'e vin beaucoup de fame, as 'e conquer."

Poor little mort's head over heels in love with the man, Lewrie laughed to himself. And all he looks is… modest? What a twit! Take what you may, fool! And the best of luck to you. Oh, give her three'r so more years, o' course, but then… make sure I dance at yer weddin'.

"Why not admiral, mademoiselle Sophie?" Lewrie teased slyly, to see what her response might be. "Once the revolution-aries've been beat, and France is herself again, well… sky's the limit."

"Sky… eez ze leemeet?" she frowned. "Oh! Le del! Ah, oui, m'sieur Lewrie! Zen 'e 'ave… recover eez estate… all ze estates…"

"He settles down as a duke. A most eligible duke," Lewrie coaxed. "Charles, I'm amazed, all this time, you haven't married?"

"Ah, you see, mon ami," Charles stammered, turning as mottled as the sunset clouds, and Lewrie was rewarded by a sly, and thankful, look of near adoration from the girl, a gratitude which warmed him right down to his toes. "Ze marine royale, uhm… ze marry officeur, 'e eez… zey s'ink 'e eez lack le dedication…?"

"Lieutenant Lewrie, tu es marie'… you are married, n'est-ce pas? Encore, marine royale de la 'bif-tecs'… oh, pardon!" she cried, using an insulting (for the French, anyway) colloquialism. Blushing to the roots of her hair under her stylish little hat, she struggled with her most important point. "Votre… Royal Navy, yet zey do not…"

"Oui, mademoiselle, je suis marie," Lewrie replied, with a wink to her, though it cut a bit rough to declare such to a girl as desirable as she, no matter her age. Damme, but that makes me feel ancient, he cringed! "With three children," he went on, feeling even more ancient. "I wed in '86. And Caroline sailed with me to the Bahamas. Where we had our eldest son." Cruel it might be, but he delighted in encouraging her fantasies; and perhaps in opening Charles' eyes. "And the Royal Navy doesn't think any the less of me," he lied, and that most arrantly, too.

Merci, m'sieur! She mouthed at him in silence, with her back to her intended (whether he knew it or not yet), almost bouncing in her glee.

"Well, I must leave you now, Charles… mademoiselle. Pardon, Vicomtesse de Maubeuge… Baron de Crillart. My undying thanks for…"

They bowed their last departure, and Lewrie watched them with a wry eye as they began another long stroll home.

Cousin or not-and he still wasn't sure how close their consanguinity was-she'd be a fine catch, no error. He'd be a fine catch, too.

Lewrie whistled for a passing boat, and the coxswain lifted his arm and put his tiller over in reply.

It struck Lewrie that he'd thoroughly enjoyed his brief stint of domesticity, of being, even for a few precious hours, more intent upon civilian, familial concerns, instead of Cockerel's sea of troubles.

He'd quite enjoyed being avuncular with the young girl, even if he had turned out to be a mischievous, meddlesome sort of uncle. "Better Charles than Louis, that's for certain," Alan muttered to himself as his boat approached the landing steps. And he was sure Maman Hortense would agree with him. Louis… there was a lad needed shunning, fast! He might be closer to Sophie's age, might be half-seas-over about her, whilst Charles was blind as a bat, but… there was too much anger to him, too much sulkiness. Too much of the fanatical young fire-eater about him. Alan didn't think that portended a long life for the young chevalier, not in these times.

With another of his sudden chills, Alan recalled another time in another revolution when he'd encountered such dedicated hatred, and such fanaticism for a cause. Just after they'd escaped Yorktown and the surrender, down on Guinea Neck with Governour and Burgess Chiswick and their remaining handful of North Carolina Loyalist riflemen. That meaningless last skirmish before their escape cross the Chesapeake that'd slain so many people. And that despicable young lad who'd led the French to them, the one Governour'd gut-shot after, and left to die in writhing agony.

And after Yorktown, where'd I go, he asked himself? To Wilmington to help evacuate the Cape Fear Loyalists. Where I first met Caroline and the rest of the Chiswicks. Loyalists. And the de Crillarts… Royalists.

"Same bloody thing," he growled. "Nice people caught up in the worst of circumstances, and everyone out for their blood, same as… damme!"

He shivered at the appalling coincidences. And hoped that this time things might turn out different.