H.M.S. COCKEREL

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.

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 waifs 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 main-mast 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 oid, came skittering on the quarterdeck from aft, shoveling a be-ribboned 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.