C H A P T E R 1 0

Charles,” Lewrie muttered, standing over the despondent Lieutenant Crillart. “We have to get moving. We stay on this beach, we’ll freeze to death. It looks as if we could climb up to the Hieres Road and march to Saint Margaret. That’s what, ’bout half a mile?”

“Oui, Alain,” de Crillart nodded slowly, getting to his feet as creakily as a doddering ancient. Lewrie offered him a hand up. “All zose hommes splendide. Moi. . . my men!”

“I know. Mine, too, Charles. Mister Scott . . .” Lewrie replied.

“Sir!” Bosun Porter shouted in alarm suddenly. “Riders comin’!”

Spilling down from the gentlest slope above the beach, just west of where the French field guns had fired, were a knot of horse-men, men in oversized shakos, bearing lances. Blue uniforms, green uniforms all sprigged in red braiding. And the lances bore small, burgee-cut pennons of blue-white-red, the Tricolour. They were French. About twenty cavalrymen, followed by officers in cocked hats.

“Well, shit,” Lewrie sighed as the leading horsemen curvetted all about them, brandishing lance points or sabres. “Stand fast, lads! Stay calm. Stand fast!”

It was all they could do. To run . . . well, there’d be no running, not shoeless on shingle, no escape from a lance tip in the back. They were already disarmed, except for Admiralty-pattern sheath knives, and Captain Braxton had made sure the points had been blunted long before.

“Silly-lookin’ bashtids,” Landsman Preston grumbled. Some of the cavalrymen wore braids in their hair, pigtails on either side of their faces, with the rest long and loose-flowing as women, or shorn peasant-short in Republican, revolutionary style. Tall dragoon boots above the knee, Republican trousers instead of breeches, gaudy new and unfamiliar uniforms. Not a queue, not a powdered head in sight. And they were a scruffy-looking lot, too, as if their new rags had been sewn up from a set of old rags. And they stank. Lord, how they stank, bad as rotting meat, their horses galled raw by hard service!

“’Oo eez een charge?” a cavalry officer asked, one of the riders in green and red, with the ridiculous pigtails beside his cheeks.

“I am,” Lewrie spat, disgusted at being captured, and so easily.

The cavalry officer extended his heavy sabre, blade inverted and point down, inches from Alan’s nose, with a triumphant smirk on his face. “Parlez-vous français, m’sieur?” he sneered.

“Ah, foutre, non,” Lewrie said with a sad shrug. “Je ne parle pas.”

“Espèce de salaud!” the officer barked, making his horse rear and slash with its hooves, baring yellow teeth. “Je demande qu’ est-ce que votre nom, vous fumier!”

“Lt. Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy,” he replied proudly, refusing to give horse or rider an inch, prickly with pride—the only item he had left in any abundance. “Captain of the Zélé, floating battery.” He pointed over his shoulder to the wreck. “Parlez-vous anglais?”

“Oui,” the officer barked, not sounding very happy about speaking the language of an ancient foe. “You ’ear me speak eet. Lieutenant, or capitaine. . . w’eech are you?”

“Both,” Lewrie grinned, happy to have confused him.

“Et Zélé? Zat eez français.”

“Captured. French ship, British crew, m’sieur. Why she sank so quick. French,” Alan said with another expressive shrug.

“You mak’ ze leetle joke, m’sieur, hein? ” the cavalryman grinned without mirth.

“ Oui, I make the little joke, m’sieur. ”

The rider clucked and kneed his mount to take a step forward, and Alan had to give ground at last. The sword point touched his chest and began to dig into his breastbone.

“ Mais, ve sink you, an’ votre ship . . . so ’oo is laugh, now, hein, un petit merdeux! ” The rider laughed, and swung his arm back for a cut.

“Arrêtez!” a voice shouted from up the hill, leaving Alan with a hair’s-breadth between life and death as he beheld the weak November sun twinkling on the sabre’s fresh-honed edge. He knew he was being a fool, knew his truculence could get him hacked to bits. But he could not help himself.

But the officer balked, looked over his shoulder, and loosed the tension in his sword arm. The sabre came down harmlessly to the rider’s side, and he jerked his reins to ride away, to speak with the clutch of officers who had called to him.

“Good God, sir, shouldn’t you . . . ?” Spendlove shivered. “If we get ’em mad enough . . .”

“Aye, Mister Spendlove, I’ll be good, from now on.”

With the officer apart from them, the cavalrymen, the lancers and dragoons dismounted, hemming in the survivors to a tight knot, musketoons or long pistols out and half-cocked, to pat them down for weapons. For anything that struck their fancy, too, it seemed. A sergeant came up to Lewrie’s side, turned out his pockets and got a few shillings, began to touch the sword. Alan glared at him and pushed the scabbard behind his thigh. Republican or not, an officer’s glare was still useful on a Revolutionary. The sergeant moved his hand and tore his watch away, snarling a garlicky breath through dingy, discoloured teeth. He held up the watch, admiring the blue riband, fouled anchor and crossed cannon fob, done in damascene silver and gold, opened the case and held it to his ear to see if it still ticked. And made off with it, chortling and jeering.

Alan looked to the staff officers up the beach. The cavalry officer was catching pluperfect Hell from the fellow on the dapple-gray gelding. He sheathed his sabre, bowed his head and turned red as the froggings on his jacket. Then they were coming down the beach toward Lewrie, the one on the fine dapple-gray in the lead, the horse stepping and prancing as head-high as his master. He drew to a halt, tossed the reins without even looking to a lancer on the off side, and swung a leg over the horse’s neck to spring lithely down.

Another bloody minikin, Lewrie thought sourly as he studied him; just like that Captain Nelson. And young, too. Christ, he don’t look a day over twenty-one!

The officer wore glossy top boots, snug buff trousers and a dark blue, single-breasted uniform coat, cut horizontal across the waist, with vine and leaf pattern embroidery up the front, buttoned up against chilly winds almost to the throat. The stand-and-fall collar was also ornately embroidered with gold lace, very wide and spread halfway to his shoulders. A long burgundy wool sash about his slim waist, a silver-laced black belt over it with a damascened buckle supported the frog for a light-cavalry sabre. Long shirt collar turned up against his neck, wrapped in a silk stock. Plain black beaver cocked hat, big as a watermelon, dressed only with the Tricolour cockade, shadowed his eyes. Eyes, Lewrie noted, that were not young at all; very large, penetrating, studious and sober, and so reserved. Yet darting lazily, taking everything in. Lewrie reassessed his age upwards—maybe mid-twenties, he thought. The cavalry captain was, like all cavalry (English especially), hoorawing brutes, dangers to all, including themselves. But this fellow . . .

“M’sieur, permettez-moi . . .” the cavalryman said in a gentler and much more polite tone of voice as he did the introductions. “ . . . ze lieutenant colonel, Napoléone Buonaparte, chef du artillerie, à Général Dugommier, commandeur de l’Armée. ’Is aides-de-camp, ze capitaines Marmot et Junot . . . m’sieurs, ici Capitaine Luray, marine royal, de roi brittanique, Georges troisième.”

“Colonel,” Lewrie nodded, laying a hand on his breast to salute with a slight bow.

“Capitaine Luray, enchanté,” the little fellow smiled of a sudden, and offered his hand, reeling off a rapid, very fluid French.

“Ze colonel say please to forgive, ’e ’ave no anglais, m’sieur, ” the cavalryman translated. “But ’e eez delight to mak’ you’ ac . . . acquaintance. ’E offer ’is congratulation . . . votre gunnerie . . . votre courage magnifique. You no strike votre flag, sink viz les canons blaze? Magnifique, treés magnifique! ”

He had no choice but to take the offered hand and shake it, face to face at last with enemy Frogs, not the tame Royalists in Toulon. It was a wrench, though, to be forced by gentlemanly convention to have to be pleasant to the fellow who’d just sunk his ship. That was a tad more than he thought should be expected of anybody.

The cavalryman rattled on, laying on meaningless gilt-and-be-shit compliments. Colonel Buonaparte dropped his hand at last and took two steps away, removing his hat and finding a space of open ground where he could be seen better by everyone on the beach. Possibly to make a better spectacle of himself, Lewrie thought, listening with half an ear. Lewrie knew preening when he saw it.

And he was a pretty picture. Without his hat, he could show off his long hair, so fine and straight. It hung Republican fashion down to his coat collars, ungathered in any queue, fell straight down along each side of his face, and was combed forward over what appeared to be a good, squarish brow, like oils Lewrie’d seen of princes and pages in ancient times. Almost girlish, he grinned slightly. His nose was long and acquiline, but narrow, with wide-ish nostrils over a short upper lip, a pouty, thin-lipped mouth. But a most determined chin. Narrow, high-jawed face, lean as a scholar . . .

“Hmm? Please convey to the Colonel Buonaparte that I cannot in good conscience take credit for the accuracy of our gunnery, capitaine, ” Lewrie said, once he had a word in edgewise. “Our sea mortars were in the charge of a most experienced and talented Spanish officer, Comandante Don Luis de Esquevarre y Saltado y Perez, and his bombardiers. A most gallant man. He went down with the ship, unfortunately.”

Least I can do for the arrogant shit, Alan thought; let someone remember his deeds, now he’s dead and gone.

“Ah, m’sieur le colonel is sadden to ’ear zis, Capitaine Luray. ’E ’ad wish ’e may ’ave meet ze artilleriste avec ze grand courage. Ze colonel, ’e alzo say, ’e ’eez ’ave ze ’ighes’ respect pour votre generosity à votre late ami. Encore, ’e e’spress ’is amazement de votre brave deeds.”

“I thank him kindly,” Lewrie smiled.

“Colonel Buonaparte, ’e say ’e eez know les batteries de Général Carteau sink ze bateau, ze batterie le flotte, las’ mont’, in ze Petit-Rade, avant ’e arrive. An’ now ’e ’ave ze grand distinction to do same. An’ not only sink une batterie le flotte. . . but tak’ ’er officeurs an’ crew prisoner. Weech ze ozzer chef du artillerie do not,” the captain said, with a smirk again.

Damme, there it is, Lewrie sighed; knew they’d get around to a surrender, sooner or later. To this vauntin’ little coxcomb? Then we’ll be months in gaol, maybe a whole year before France gets beaten silly. Christ! Damned if I think I’m going to like that!

“The colonel has been in charge of the batteries of La Seyne?” Lewrie asked, stalling for time, staving off the inevitable. And trying to think of something, anything, for a plan of escape. “Tell the colonel . . . the gracious Colonel Buonaparte, that my ship was the one that gave his gunners so much grief. By Balaguer? Oui, us.”

That saved them another precious minute, as the young Buonaparte looked almost wolfish that he’d at last sunk his greatest thorn in his side; his bête-noire, as he put it. He smiled a bit wider, sure he had done something praiseworthy. And Lewrie could surmise by then that he was a man who lived for praise and hon-ours. All the short ones did.

“Forgive me asking, capitaine, but . . .” Lewrie said, almost chum-mily by then. “I thought it was the mortars at Fort La Garde that sank us. The colonel only had the two light field pieces, and never hit us.”

After a long babble in frog, and some chuckles among Marmot and Junot, and a look on young Colonel Buonaparte’s face like the cat that ate the canary, the cavalryman began to translate. The colonel crossed his arms over his chest, pouting chin-high in triumph. Posing!

Right, give ’em a chance to boast; works every time, Alan thought.

“Ah, oui, m’sieur Capitaine Luray,” the captain beamed slyly, “ze fort, mais oui, but . . .” he all but waved an impish finger at him. “Colonel Buonaparte, ’e eez in La Garde, ze inspection, n’est-ce pas? An’ ’e say ’e realise, at once!”

The dragoon captain snapped his fingers for emphasis, as if he were tweaking Lewrie’s nose.

“Le batterie jeune. . . new batterie, eez not Saint Margaret, but you’ supplies arrive from la mer, ze sea, hein? Eef eez not Fort Saint Margaret, zen mus’ be le batterie le flotte. Colonel Buonaparte realise . . . at once! . . . mus’ be near ze fort, so . . .’ave to be ’ere, m’sieur, no ozzer. Near La Garde, ze range? See La Garde, et ozzer hills trop haut. Too high? Ve ride out, vite, vis deux canon. An’ ze flags des signeaux, you see. ’E direc’ ze feu. Ze firing. Et, voila! Le colonel sink you!”

“He has my congratulations for his quick wits, sir,” Lewrie said with another slight bow, feeling sick at heart at how easy it had been. “Though, of course, he does not exactly have my thanks.”

“Ze colonel ’e eez delight to ’ear eet, m’sieur . Maintenant. . . ze wind eez cold, votre hommes, ils sont froid. Suffer? Ve mus’ demand of you votre surrender, Capitaine Luray, vite. Colonel Buonaparte offer all officeurs la parole, you keep votre swords. Receive ze treatment beaux. ”

“I . . .” Lewrie began to say, fingers twitching on his scabbard. There was no more shilly-shally, no more delays he could think of, and most especially, not even the slightest hope of an escape attempt could he devise that wouldn’t get a lot more of his men killed.

“And what will happen to my men, m’sieur? ” he posed instead. “To my . . . matrosen, my sailors?”

“Zey be tak’ away,” the dragoon captain shrugged, as if concern about the fate of enemy sailors didn’t signify. He looked them over with scorn, like a remount officer deciding to herd off a pack of old nags to the knacker’s yard. “Zey go to un fort, under guard. Or ze prisoner ’ulks . . . w’en we take Toulon.”

“And should I give you my parole, I’d be forced to swear, upon mine honour, that I would no longer engage in combat with France, long as the war lasts? Even if I was exchanged?” Lewrie pressed, hem-hawing for time, just a minute of freedom more.

“Zat is le convention, m’sieur, ” the fellow said, growing testy and impatient once more. “ Vite, your response?”

Lewrie turned to look around at the hang-dog faces of his men, faces still creased in pain and shock, some mildly perplexed by the conversation their captain was holding with a foeman. Saw the vacant and weary, defeated gapings of men without another ounce to give. Men he’d vowed to defend, to cosset, to husband . . . or to die with, if needs must.

Should he give his parole, he’d be almost free, in some inland French garrison town, sleeping in clean linen, bathing and shaving regularly, eating and swilling as well as any French civilian. Receive a packet of half-pay through the cartels, letters from Caroline, arrange for extra funds to be sent him. Sleep late, dawdle, ride (under guard) with a sword on his hip, the gentleman still. Hire whores, if he felt the itch.

And all the while, these men would be in chains, fettered in a loathsome fortress cellar, chained like a coffle of slaves aboard some fetid, reeking condemned ship of the line like felons awaiting transportation for life, eating slops and mushes, and thinking themselves lucky if they only slept two to a blanket, flea-ridden, lice-crusted . . .

“Je regrette . . .” he sighed, dreading those prisoner-of-war gaols just as much as his men would. But he could not do that to them, could not abandon them without a backward glance. Dear as he wished he might toddle off and call it the fortunes of war, he could not. Nor end his naval career, miss out on the blazing finale to a short-lived war, as a mildly inconvenienced . . . idler!

He lifted his hanger from the belt frog, held the sparkling hilt up to the wan sunshine, in front of his face. Saw the seashells wink as it turned in his grasp. He kissed the handguard and held it out.

“ Je regrette, messieurs, I cannot give you my parole.”

The dragoon captain made to take it from him, but Colonel Buonaparte shouldered him aside and reached out for it. Somberly, he seized the scabbard at the midpoint, his arm level. With a sad gravity, the young French officer brought it to his own face, cradling it like one might a child, to bestow his own kiss upon the bright silver chase, and nod at Lewrie with those large, penetrating eyes of his, glowing watery.

“Sir,” Spendlove said, stepping to Lewrie’s side and offering up his midshipman’s dirk. “I cannot give you my parole, either.”

“Mon braves,” Buonaparte smiled. “Vous avez du poil au culs.”

“Et vous, m’sieur?” the dragoon captain asked de Crillart.

Oh, shit, Alan shuddered! They learn he’s Royalist, they’ll be havin’ his head off ’fore dinner! And all his gunners, by sundown!

“He has no sword to surrender, sir, he lost it. M . . . Mister Scott, he lost his sword when the ship went down,” Lewrie extemporised quickly, speaking loud enough for all his men to hear. “Permit me to introduce Mister Barnaby Scott, our . . .”

Bloody Hell, what is he, he flummoxed?

“Our purser. Le commissaire de marine? Vin, brandy, clothing? Le vêtements? La cuisine, the pay . . . le rente? Purser. Bursar?”

Buonaparte raised one eyebrow and spoke to the dragoon.

“M’sieur, ze colonel say votre . . . purser, ’e wear le culottes rouge. . . ze breeches red? Marine de France, aussi, culottes rouge.” The captain posed suspiciously. “Officeur de la marine de France. ’E s’ink votre. . . Scott? . . . eez peut-être ze traitre. . . traitor, un officeur Royaliste de Toulon!”

“Mister Scott? French?” Lewrie gawped, hands on his hips and forcing himself to laugh. “Lord, that’s a good’un, that is. Lads, do ya hear that? This soldier thinks our purser, Mister Scott here, is a French officer!” He clapped a hand on Crillart’s shoulder as if to lay claim to him.

“Haw, that’s a good’un, Mister Lewrie, sir,” Cony barked with his own feigned amusement, catching his drift, and nudging the others to play along. “’Oy, lads . . . ‘Old Nip-Cheese’ a Froggie?” They began to titter.

“We do have men among us whom you might consider French, sir,” Lewrie confessed, ignoring Spendlove’s startled gasp at his elbow. “We recruited in the Channel Islands. Guernsey, Alderney. Some of our best sailors come from there. The British Channel Islands, mind. Aye, they parlez-vous, some. But they’re British tars. Well, we’ve four Spanish survivors with us. But the Royalists at Toulon are all soldiers. All the seamen left, weeks ago.”

“Je ne sais pas . . . votre bursars wear rouge?”

“Any damn’ thing they want, they’re not really Navy officers,” Lewrie lied, striking a breezy air. “Aye, red’s their colour. Waistcoat’s red, too. Plain blue coat, with cloth-covered buttons . . .”

“Say somezing . . . M’sieur Bursar Scott,” the dragoon demanded. “Parlez-vous français?”

Crillart shook his head in the negative, shrugging, with a hopeless grin at the dragoon officer.

“Somezing in English, m’sieur? ”

“Yes, Mister Scott,” Lewrie prompted as well, turning to him in desperation. “Say something in Royal Navy, Mister Scott.”

Crillart frowned, cocking his head to one side. It was his life he held in his hands, and the lives of his gunners, as well. And Alan’s . . . once they found he’d been lying like a rug, and resented it.

“Arrh, matey,” Charles pronounced carefully. “Aye-aye, cap’m.”

Alan stifled such a monumental snort of stupefaction, he felt his sinuses were about to burst. Where the hell’d he learn that, he wondered? And why’d he dredge it up now? God, what a horrid choice!

“You may have a bit of bother understanding him, you see,” Alan sped to explain, trying to keep a straight face, no matter how hellish dangerous it was. “Mr. Scott is a real Scot. A Highland Scot. Can’t understand him meself, half the time, all his ‘arrrhhin’ and ‘burrin.’”

“God-Damn-r’right, cap’m,” Crillart added. “Blud-dy.”

Oh, God, don’t gild the lily, not when . . . ! Alan winced.

He was interrupted by the most wondrous sound he’d ever heard in his entire life—the sudden spatter of musketry! Everyone jerked their heads to the source, to espy a rank of shakoed heads on the tall bluff above the beach, on the coast road. Lance tips winked beyond on the hill, bared sabres flashed, and a trumpet sounded. They wore goldish yellow jackets with white facings. Spanish cavalry, by God!

Bullets spanged off the shingle, sparks erupted crisp as struck gunflints, horses reared and neighed, and men cried out in alarm, to arm themselves or to mount quickly.

Buonaparte and his aides mounted. Lewrie looked longingly for his sword; the bastard still had it. The dragoon captain reached for the hilt of his sabre. Lewrie shoved him, punching him in the face.

“Runnforritt!” he screamed, bolting away, dragging Spendlove by the elbow. “This wayy!” as he headed for shelter under the bluffs up the cove, under the guns of the cavalrymen. His unshod right foot took terrible punishment on sharp-edged stones and gravel, every lumpy rock he stubbed on made him wince. But it was better than a bullet in the back, or a sword cut. “Run, damn yer eyes! Run!” he panted.

There were shrieks, as a lancer got his tip into the back of a fleeing sailor, another piteous cry of “Madre de Dios, noo, ahhh! . . .” that ended in a rabbity screech as a Spanish bombardier was hewn down by a dragoon’s sword, cut open from belly to breastbone. And French cries, music to Lewrie’s ears, as men were spilled from their saddles by ball, or stirrup-dragged by panicked chargers over the rough beach.

They reached the cliffs, gasping with effort. Lewrie turned to see the French cantering south, in fairly good order, heading for the far side of the arrow-shaped bluff below the beach, where there was a way up and off; steeper than the one they’d descended. He spotted Lieutenant Colonel Buonaparte on his dapple-gray, patiently waiting as his lancers thundered up the draw past him, braving long-range musket fire as his dragoons formed an open-order vedette to screen the retreat.

Buonaparte made his gray rear, stuck his arm in the air to wave the captured sword. He was smiling, damn his eyes!

“I’ll get it back, you bastard!” Lewrie howled in his loudest quarterdeck voice, jabbing a finger at the sword. “Je prendre mon. . . ! One day, I’ll find you! Je trouvez-vous! Je prendre de vous, mon . . .”

Damme, what’s Frog for “sword”?

“Espèce de salaud!” he roared instead, his voice echoing off rocks and hills. “Va te faire foutre!”

Scabbarded, Buonaparte flipped the sword so the hilt was in his fist—raised it to his face in mock salute, laughed as his horse did another impressive rear. He may have had no English, and Lewrie might not have had anything close to fluent French—but he thought he understood well enough. With a saw at the reins, the colonel was gone in a moment, up the draw and out of sight.

“Señores, pronto!” a Spanish cavalry officer directed, skidding his mount to a sand-strewing halt near them. “ Inglés? We go! Muy pronto! Darse! Hurry up!”

Not another language lesson, not two in one day, Lewrie sighed. The officer kicked an elegantly booted foot out of the near-side stirrup, reached down to offer him a hand as his men trotted up to aid the rest with spare French mounts, whose owners lay crumpled on the sands, or the mounts of Spanish soldiers who’d been spilled trying to rescue them. Alan hoisted his foot, reached for the saddlehorn, and hung on as the officer spurred his charger back up the draw to the Hieres Road.

“A minute sooner,” he muttered ungraciously beside his saviour. “Just a bloody minute sooner, thankee very much!”

Nothing could have spared him the shame of losing his ship, of course. But to see that swaggerin’ little bastard ride off with his sword in his hands . . .

His very honour!