Dewey Lambdin - H.M.S. COCKEREL

"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 the greatest thorn in his side; his bete-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 honours. All the short ones did.

"Forgive me asking, capitaine, but…" Lewrie said, almost chummily 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 Capitain 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.

"Labatterie jeune… new batterie, eez not St. Margaret, but you' supplies arrive from la mer, ze sea, hein? Eef eez not Fort St. Margaret, zen mus' be la batterie de 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 hautes. Too high? Ve ride out, vite, vis deux canon. An' ze flags de signaux, you see. 'E direc' ze feu. Ze firing. Et, voilа! 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, vos hommes, ils ont froid. Suffer? Ve mus' demand of you votre surrender, Capitaine Luray, vite. Colonel Buonaparte offer all officeurs la parole, you keep vos swords. Receive ze treatment beau."

"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… matelots, 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 la 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 foetid, 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."

"Mes 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? Les vetements? La cuisine, the pay… le rente? Purser. Bursar?"

Buonaparte raised one eyebrow and spoke to the dragoon.

"M'sieur, ze colonel say vote… purser, 'e wear les culottes rouges… ze breeches red? Marine de France, aussi, culottes rouges." The captain posed suspiciously. "Officeur de la marine de France. 'E s'ink votre… Scott?… eez peut-etre 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 de Crillart's shoulder as if to lay claim to him.

"Haw, that's is 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… vos 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. Waist-coat's red, too. Plain blue coat, with cloth-covered buttons…"

"Say somezing… M'sieur Bursar Scott," the dragoon demanded. "Parlez-vous francais?"

De 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."

De 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'um."

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 1? God, what a

honid 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. "Mister 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'um," de 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 gun-flints, 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 Spend-love 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, ahhhl… ." 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-grey, 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 grey 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 quarter-deck voice, jabbing a finger at the sword. "Je prendre mon…! One day, I'll find you! Je trouvez-vous! Je prendre de vous, mon…"