H.M.S. COCKEREL

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-"