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H.M.S. COCKEREL - Dewey Lambdin
- Дата:01.10.2024
- Категория: Приключения / Морские приключения
- Название: H.M.S. COCKEREL
- Автор: Dewey Lambdin
- Просмотров:0
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Описание онлайн-книги H.M.S. COCKEREL - Dewey Lambdin:
Alan Lewrie works to get a leg over on Emma Hamilton, and comes face to face with the rising star in France, a guy called Napoleon, as well as the infamous Captain Bligh. Not a small feat!
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"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
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