H.M.S. COCKEREL - Dewey Lambdin

"D'accord, mon capitaine," de Crillart said with a wry look.

"Might let 'em drill a bit, too," Lewrie decided on a whim. "Get organised. The Major de Mariel in overall command, Lieutenant Kennedy and your brother as his captains? It might keep them out of mischief. And make 'em feel as if they're earning their passage. Appoint some as masters-at-arms, too. Sentries, like Marines. Especially on the magazine and such. Found children dashing in and out of there this afternoon, wild as red Indians. That'll spare our ordinary and able seamen, French or British, and our experienced landsmen too much work."

"Aye, sir," Porter agreed.

"I weel tell zem, mon ami," de Crillart agreed.

"Damme, leaks or no, I'll tell you all, it feels mighty good to be aboard a ship again," Lewrie smiled, revealing too much, being too open for a proper captain. But knowing that they felt the same way and would forgive his lack of august aloofness, for he said no more than any of them might, and thus spoke for them all.

Eight o'clock came and went. Full darkness. The skies were now clearer, the winds dryer, though still cold. They should be starting to burn the French ships, he thought, but there was no sign of that. Some brief firefly glitters on the hills around Mal-bousquet, from L'Eguillette and Balaguer, bright, brief little yellow sparks. Musketry, Alan imagined. A fire or two in Toulon proper… sans culottes' looting and revenge? Abandoned Royalists' homes being trashed? There were redder, longer-lasting sparks now, appearing to come from Dubrun or Millaud… a faint drumming. Light artillery, what the Republicans could man-haul to the shore. Musketry sweeping slowly forward like a grass fire towards the arsenals, the warehouses and the dockyards, downhill from Malbousquet and Missicy. From the heights above Toulon.

Nine o'clock, and still no signal to weigh anchors. Brisk little exchanges of fire, even closer to the dockyards. More light artillery winking amber from the shores.

"Ze end," de Crillart moaned at his side, suddenly. "Ma belle France. Pauvre France. I see 'er no more."

"We'll be back, Charles," Lewrie insisted grimly. "A year. We'll beat 'em, and then you can go back. The Vendйe, up in arms…"

"Ah, a year…" Charles grinned sadly. "C'est dommage. I 'ave nozzing zere anymore. Ze France I know, she eez gone fo'ever. An' ze one een 'er place, I do not weesh to know. She be destroyed, beaucoup de poverty, sadness. D'abord, we lose nos titles… ensuite, we lose our land. Our monnaie, phfft, perdu, mos' of eet. Now, we lose our country."

"There's still the Royalist French Squadron, Charles," Alan reminded him. "They'll need officers, captains…"

"Zere be no squadron, mon ami," de Crillart countered. "Votre roi George, 'e 'ave no need for nous. 'E 'ave eez own Marine Royale, an 'e canno' pay for bo'z. Englan', she pay monnaie pour soldats… for armies, not anozzer Navy. Non. An' no place for officeur franзais in you' Navy. I s'ink I am done viz mon service."

"Any plans, then?"

"I s'ink I like to go to America," Charles chuckled. "Oui, America, Alain! Wan I serve een Chesapeake, ware ve battle you an' I… I see beaucoup de fin' land. Empty, America. Room for many. Maryland, I adore, mos' of all. We 'ave la monnaie, un peu, encore. Passage, an' ze bit of land. Work 'ard, save… mak' crops? Grow riche, encore… peut-кtre."

"Didn't think the Rebels cared for royalty, Charles," Alan warned. "Sure you're doing the right thing? And how would Louis feel about it? No one to call him Chevalier, over there, honour his bloodlines."

"Louis, oui," de Crillart heaved a heavy sigh, pulling his nose in Gallic fashion. " 'E may not care for America. So eager to fight… regain eez title? America may not care for eem, oui. Mon Dieu… ze famille! We may not chose zem, on'y abide? As 'ead of famille, I mus' do ze best for zem. But, Louis eez not boy, 'e mus' mak' eez own way, eef 'e disagree. C'est dommage!"

"You could come to England," Lewrie suggested.

"Pardon, Alain," Charles objected. "Nevair fit, zere. Live on ze charitй, tolerated? Scorned? Nous sommes les Catholiques, et enemy ancien. Toujours, we be… suspect. An' remember, Alain… ze Comandanet de Esquevarre, 'ow 'e say Toulonese are cold an'… 'tight-arses'? Not like eez Espagnols? Bien, I am French. To me, les Anglais are tight-arses. You, non, pardon, mon ami. You are not like ze ozzer Anglais I 'ave meet. I sometime s'ink you 'ave made ze grand gentilhomme franзais! Sometime, I talk vis you, I am so amaze you are anglais, les bras m'en tombent, uhm… so amaze, my arms fall off!"

"You're not the first person to point that out," Lewrie chuckled, thinking of his past in English society. "French or English."

"Now, ze Chesapeake," de Crillart went on wistfully. "Ships an' boatyards, some sea trade for us, n'est-ce pas? Maryland… ver' intйressant people, ze Amйricains, Alain. Ev'ryz'ing zer, new. Zey accept better? Maryland, she eez found' on freedom.

You' Church of England… Catholique, dissenters, Moravians, ze Hughenots, even ze… Queevers?"

"Quakers," Alan offered.

"Oui, Quakers. Tous йgal, all equal. Zere, no one say ze poor stay poor, illiterate stay dumb, 'ere are peasant, zere are nobles."

"Damme, Charles, but you sound like the very worst died-in-the-wool Revolutionary!"

"Ah, mon ami, remembre…" de Crillart laughed out loud, tapping his nose once more. "I waz een le Йtats-Gйnйral, I waz ze rйvolutionnaire! Not zere radical kin', on'y. An', someday, ve grow riche, peut-кtre? Monnaie eez title en America. Become success, et voilа… nous sommes l'aristoc-racie, encore! Peut-кtre, not riche? Zen, we be on'y bourgeois… a leetle land, a leetle trade. 'Ave been bourgeois, en Normandie… even wan ve 'ave titles. All ze same, aussi. Build new, geef maman peace for 'er las' years. Fin' Sophie a fine 'usband, vis land, an' monnaie. Marry, moi-mкme, peut-кtre, once we 'ave sйcuritй."

"About Sophie, Charles, surely you must know she…"

"Ah, oui, j'sais, moi, elle m'adore, mais.:. eez child. Cousine, trop, too… close? Mon coeur waz tak' il y a longtemps… long ago? A neighbour en Normandie. Elle nous a quittй… she go away from us. Ze guillotine. I…" de Crillart hunched into his watch-coat collar and hat. "I no weesh to speak of 'er, s'il vous plaоt, mon ami."

"Well…" Lewrie shrugged, into his own. So much for that, he thought. There was a story Charles wasn't telling, perhaps might never tell another living soul. But it was a closed subject. "Oui."

'Toucher petite Sophie, Alain…" de Crillart said, after some minutes of uneasy silence between them. "Une plus d'emmerdement. You an' Phoebe?"

"Shit."

"Oui, mon ami," de Crillart snickered, sounding as if he enjoyed bringing the matter up. "C'est trиs drфle. Louis, 'e eez furious vis you, zat you lodge Phoebe in ze great-cabins vis people of ze aristocracy… ze Quality, you say en Angleterre? Louis eez insult zat for ze voyage, eez chиre cousine Sophie 'ave to associate vis any personnes а bas naissance… lowborn, hein? D'abord, 'e warr-un Sophie, an' order 'er to 'ave nozzing to do vis Phoebe, tell 'er elle est sale courtesan. Zut alors, en suite, 'e tell maman. Et maman…"

"Christ, her, too?"

"Oui, aussi," de Crillart all but hooted with droll mirth, taking time to get his breath back, snickering and wheezing. "Maman she say eez no more zan she s'ought ze anglais man do, zey all 'ave no morals. Zen, maman eez furious vis me! Zat I associate vis youl Like eet eez catching? Ooh, la… zen Sophie eez ze furious. Sophie eez affectueuse vis Phoebe. S'ink she eez trиs amusante et charmante? Merde alors, she eez scandalise, naturellement, but still like 'er. Not know what to do… An', Sophie eez furious vis Louis, zat 'e dare order 'er 'oo she be vis. Louis say 'e weel not 'ave eez intended… besmirch?… and Sophie eez more furious… she say she eez nevair eez intended! Sophie eez furious vis you."

"Well, why not?" Lewrie chuckled. "Everybody else seems to be."

"Merde alors, mon ami… you 'ave ze wife an' enfants, but you couchez vis pauvre Phoebe," Charles further related, hugely amused by it all. "She eez йgalement furious… w'eech eez worse, zat you 'ave l'affaire adultиre .… or zat you are ze lapin-chaud… ze rabbit-'ot… but ze uncaring beast 'oo weel traiter quelqu'un comme… treat 'er like dirt? Promesse l'affaire de grand amour, mais…"

"J'suis dans la merde," Lewrie said of himself. "In English we call that 'to be up shit's creek.' Sans oars," he added ruefully.

"Ah, oui, enfin…" de Crillart sobered a bit. "Enfin, Sophie eez furious vis me, aussi. Zat I am you' ami, zat / am not scandalisй. Merveilleux, now we are bo'z les sales bкtes… feelthy beasts!"

"Well, aren't you?" Lewrie asked. "Scandalised, I mean."

"Mon ami, you forget…" Charles confided chummily, tapping the side of his nose once more. "I am l'homme franзais. Les Franзais, ve understan' zese s'ings. Moi, I weesh you bonne chance. So ver' far from 'orne, so long… any man 'oo refuse to aid la jeune fille as belle as petite jeune Phbe, 'e 'ave no 'eart. An' any man 'oo refuse 'er amour, c'est un zero… il as du sang de navet… 'ave ze blood of ze turnip! En outre… homme go too long sans 'e couche avec la femme… 'ave ze plaisir wiz girl… eez bad for you' liver. Ah, regardez!"

As four bells chimed forward at the belfry-ten o'clock in the evening watch-a match-like tongue of flame appeared in the basin, at last. They were three miles or better away, with the northern headland of the Gullet between them and a clear view, but it soared up over even that, and the waters of the Little Road began to glitter like reflected candle flames. Through their telescopes they could espy tiny bug-like rowing boats as black roaches scuttling over the Road, beyond the booms which guarded the entrance channel. Some, hung up on the booms, rowing furiously, yet going nowhere. More flames awoke, from the arsenals and warehouses. Sparks arose, borne on black-bellied columns of smoke from the slip-ways and graving docks where ships under construction were lit off like autumn bonfires.

As if awakened from slumber, the Republicans doubled, then redoubled their fire. The nearest hillsides, the basin itself, the headlands of the Gullet sparkled with tiny flashes from firelocks and gun barrels. Light artillery began an unsteady drumbeat. Near misses by the rowing boats frothed feathers of spray, and musket fire pattered a rainstorm about them. Now the fires were lit, the French had an open field of fire, and targets illuminated so well, so close within range…

BUH-WHOOM!

They felt that one in their bones; Radical shuddered seconds after to a shock wave so stupendous, as a massive fireball, a swelling and expanding miniature sun flashed into life inside the basin. The arsenal and all its powder, the powder removed from the forts, went off, sending debris and flaming embers soaring as high as the Heights of Pharon! And stupefying people close to it, friends or foes, into awed silence.