H.M.S. COCKEREL

He slept at last as real, natural thunder growled and rumbled, forcing him to nestle closer to Phoebe, to clasp her tighter and feel her reply with a snugger hug of her own as he rolled nearer. As a far-off storm voice marched closer and mingled itself with the dolorous drumming of guns.

Chapter 2

Very far off, someone was shouting something incomprehensible, which sort of sounded like 'Allez, allez, vite…' mumble-mumble 'le blah-blah-blah… perdu.' Dull thuds somewhere. Something Froggish, Lewrie half- decided, and snuggled closer to the warmth of his girl. '… les Republicans arrivent!'

Bad dream; bugger it. Sweet, soft, warm, smooth shoulder…

More thunderings; up the stairs this time? Or the storm still rumbling… guns still rumbling? What else was new?

'Merde alors,' Phoebe muttered crossly in his ear, waking first, leaning across him to listen. Her long tresses tickled his nose, half smothering him, but drew him most unwillingly nearer the surface of his pleasant stupor. He opened one eye, beheld a perky young breast, dark aureola and pinkish nipple staring back, an inch from his lips. Alan gave it a little flick with his tongue, thinking that a marvelous way to be awakened.

'Oohn,' she groaned, in spite of herself, with a chuckle deep in her throat.

More bloody bangings on the door, hard and insistent.

'Alain, someone eez…' Phoebe prompted sleepily.

'Hmmphff?' he grumbled, rolling on his back. 'What?'

'Alain!' a voice shouted as the door burst open with a bang.

At the sight of a man in uniform, a French naval uniform, with a brace of pistols in his belt, Phoebe gave out with a loud scream of pure Royalist terror as she sat bolt upright!

Lewrie felt his hair go on end for a second, until the dim light filtering through the shutters revealed the man to be Charles de Crillart.

'Sacre…' Charles gawped, his face suffusing.

'Christ, Charles, can't you knock, or something?' Alan carped.

'Alain, I… uhh…' Lieutenant de Crillart stuttered, his eyes swiveling from Lewrie's puffy face to Phoebe's bare charms, then back. 'Mon Dieu, pardonnez-moi, mon ami…'

Lewrie sat up, claiming the top sheet to shroud his groin as he put his torso between Phoebe and de Crillart. She dragged the coverlet to her chin, huddling tiny in a corner of the bed by the headboard.

'Alain, ze Republicains,' Charles explained, stepping out onto the small landing and half-closing the door. ' Fort Mul-grave… c'est perdu. Lost!'

'What?' he barked, leaping from the bed for stockings and slop-trousers. 'Lost! How?'

'Ze storm? Early zis morn, zey avant vis ze bayonet, wan most of notre powder waz wet, hein? Zey rout ze Espagnols, an' ze British could not 'old out. Une heure ago, zey at las' retreat, into Balaguer. Ze Republicains now 'ave Mulgrave, all ze canon… ze heights overlook L'Eguillette an' Balaguer.'

'Christ, that's the end, isn't it?' he fumed, stomping into his boots, tearing his shirt from a wall peg to slip over his head.

'Zat ees non all ze worse, mon ami,' Lieutenant de Crillart said in a funereal tone. 'Ze sam' time zey… coordinate? General Lapoype, 'is soldiers… zey march up s'rough Arge-liers, an' zey tak' all ze posts on ze mountain of Pharon. Zey 'ave ze canon zere, too.'

'Bloody hell.' Lewrie paused, rubbing his face. He turned to share a look with Phoebe, who was white and blanched with fear. 'Ah… any orders for us yet, Charles?' He hurried to button up his waist-coat and don his stock.

'Non,' de Crillart sighed. 'Eet eez still rain hard, an' ver' foggy. No one know anys'ing. Or see anys'ing.'

Lewrie stepped out to join Charles now he was decent, and shut the door so Phoebe could spring from the bed and dress herself.

'Damme, Pharon gone,' Alan fretted, chewing on a thumbnail for a moment. 'Heated shot, and the whole place in range, far as Fort Mandrier, so we aren't safe even in the Great Road any longer. And Balaguer and L'Eguillettes under their guns, too…'

'Oui,' Charles replied sadly. 'Wan ze powder is dry, an' zey 'ave good view? Phfft. Tout est perdu. All eez los'.'

'Your gunners, Charles… they've families in Toulon?'

'Oui, some of zem.'

'Best tell them to fetch 'em. Here to the guardhouse, for the nonce,' Alan decided. 'Your family, too. And warn them… don't try to carry away too much of their belongings… do you get my meaning?'

'D'accord,' de Crillart nodded firmly.

'I'll go up to headquarters; you take care of your own, for now,' Lewrie offered. 'We may not have long before the weather breaks, then not much time to arrange shipping. Surely, though, we'll try to get the troops away. And as many Royalists as want to go. I'll try for a ship.'

'I will go now,' Charles agreed, turning to descend the stairs.

'Charles, the girl…' Lewrie called softly to hold him. 'While I'm at headquarters… do you return first? She was Mister Scott's, uhm… girl? Do you keep her safe with the other families. I promised her I would get her on a ship, when the time came. Just didn't know it'd be this bloody soon.'

'Oui, I remember 'er, Alain. She eez putain, but…'

'Aye, she is,' Lewrie stiffened.

'Alain, mon ami… even les putains 'ave right to live. I keep her safe, until you return.'

'Thankee, mate. Merci bien.'

Admiral Lord Hood, Major General Dundas, Admiral de Langara and Lieutenant General Valdez, Forteguerri the Neapolitan, Rear Admiral Gravina, Sir Hyde Parker, Prince Pignatelli, Chevalier de Revel and Sir Gilbert Elliot held a quick counsel of war, as the sounds of battle and barrage faded away to nothing. For the moment, the Republicans were as spent as anyone else. Except for a few spatters of musketry as patrols in Toulon discouraged looting or sans culottes acts of patriotism, there was little to indicate a crisis had come.

Except for the people in the streets, the handcarts laden with household goods and valuables. Waggons streamed downhill from the outlying districts to the quays, piled up in confusion. Rain continued to fall, a chilly, drizzling misty rain that shrouded the Heights of Pharon and the surrounding mountains, almost cut off any view of de Grasse peninsula. Frightened as they were, the Royalists endured with a stoic calm, waiting for news, waiting for evacuation. Waiting for a ship to board.

It was the foreign troops who were the most unruly, those routed from the heights, the peninsula, those who should have still garrisoned the remaining posts, but who drifted back into town, looking for ships of their own. Neapolitan soldiers were already filtering aboard their line-of-battle ships, Tancredi and Guiscardo. British troops remained disciplined, as did the Spanish. It was they who maintained order in the ranks. Even if they had to threaten the Neapolitans with cannon to make them march out of their positions, turning their own guns on them. There had already been some shooting in Neapolitan lines, where terrified men had panicked and fired off their muskets at any affright, killing or wounding dozens of innocent civilians who'd streamed past on their way to the harbour, thinking them a French advance out of the fog.

Headquarters was not very informative. It was a beehive of men dashing about, of stacks of papers being sorted, of piles of rejects on pyres, and chests and campaign trunks being packed and slammed closed. The sight almost made Lewrie glad he had so little by way of possessions to worry about. He felt more mobile-and quicker when it came time to flee. It made him faintly sour, too, to see the many valuables being carted off. Silver plate, gold ornaments, clocks, an entire crystal chandelier, crates and barrels of rare-vintage wine, cognac… Toulon had been a very rich city, and it now appeared that it was being looted by the defeated, to deny the victors their proper spoils.

'Anything for me and my men to do?' he asked once more of a junior officer.

'For God's sake, sir, no!' the man shouted back, over his shoulder in passing. 'How many times do I have to