Dewey Lambdin - H.M.S. COCKEREL

"Who's this Captain Smith when he's up and dressed, sir?" Alan whispered.

"The showy one," Nelson sighed, tilting his head towards a man in almost a parody of naval uniform. He was big, bluff me-hearty, Smith was, the sort who wore a perpetual "piss-me-in-the-eye" belligerence, an exuberant sort who positively swaggered, bold as a dog-in-a-doublet. The sort with abounding self-confidence, who knew no fear whatsoever.

"Came in a fortnight ago from Smyrna, on the Turkish Levant," Nelson muttered from the side of his mouth. "Purchased a little lateen rigged boat, called it Swallow. Hired on a crew of Englishmen who had been languishing, out of work, there. Hoisted his own commission pendant, wrote his own Admiralty orders, in essence. And has been perfectly thrusting himself forward since, sir."

Ahead of you, has he? Lewrie deigned to think, with a dart at his putative "host," to see the envy burning in Captain Nelson's eyes. Sir William Sidney Smith wasn't the only enterprising and aspiring captain in the salon.

Hood made some dismissing statements; to gird their loins, stick fast, stout hearts and stalwart will… that sort of thing, just before they went their separate ways. Lewrie tagged along as Nelson approached the admiral.

"I'm sorry, Nelson," Admiral Lord Hood said, giving him a faint grin and taking his elbow protectively. "But I so prize your sterling qualities that I cannot find it in my heart to wager your future contributions upon a rather weak hand. And you have accomplished so much for me already. Tunis, Naples… though I would desire to reward you with a larger ship, a more important command. A 74, perhaps…"

"Milord, I am so completely in your debt, for all your many kindnesses, your espousal of my cause, with the finest, most gracious… and most indulgent patronage," Nelson sighed. "I would have liked to command the party, if only to, in the slightest wise, be able to reward all your goodness towards me with measure for measure, no matter the risk. I am, as always, at your instant command, of course."

"I know you're disappointed, but, after all…" Hood beamed.

"As for a larger ship, milord, I am so very happy with Agamemnon. For a 64, she's the fastest two-decker in the Fleet," Nelson rejoined proudly. "And as I have stated before, milord… no officer has ever been so blessed with such a talented, chearly wardroom as I. Offered Victory herself, milord… I would be forced to demur. I cannot give up my officers!"

"And you, Lieutenant Lewrie," Hood smiled pleasantly, turning to regard him. "My condolences upon the loss of your gun-boat, Zele. No need to even muster a court, once I read the accounts. How do you keep, young sir?"

"Most excellently well, milord; your servant, as always," Lewrie toadied to his patron, taking a page from Nelson's book on how to sound obsequious.

"Not that excellently, from what he told me, milord," Nelson interceded for him, quickly outlining Lewrie's plight regarding Cockerel, at Naples and the time since. And the refugees now gathering under his wing. "But I suspect Lieutenant Lewrie deemed his own problems too tiny to be of much concern, given the circumstances which obtain."

"You are too modest, young sir," Hood grumbled. "I mind, when your captain came aboard Victory … I gathered the impression he'd been the one who had visited with King Ferdinand, and had spoken so eloquently for an alliance. Now I discover, from Captain Nelson, that such is not the case? Hmmm. And for him to strand you, bereft of any exchange of communications. I once rewarded Lieutenant Lewrie… well, twice I have given him a command. In '83, as you recall, Nelson… at your behest. And in '86. After actions in the Far East so perilous, yet done to a perfect turn… I believe, young sir, that you may serve me best…"

"Excuse me for intruding, milord, but I shall be going now," Sir William Sidney Smith butted in. "1 simply wished to thank you again for the faith you place in me. Which shall be amply rewarded with a conflagration so intense, they'll see it in Paris, milord. My word on't!"

Must not have a jot of brains in his head to rattle, Alan thought: he's actually lookin' forward to it! How'd our British cavalry miss recruitin' this'un?

Introductions were exchanged, Sir William given the briefest thumbnail sketch of Lewrie's qualities, and source of his patronage.

"Gad, just the sort I need with me, milord," Captain Smith said with a tooth-baring bray. "Neck-or-nothin', stick at nothin' fellow! 'Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs o' war,' hey, Mister Lewrie?"

Oh, bloody Jesus, meek an' mild, save me from this I'll be good swear it never rattle another mort me entire bloody…! He prayed most earnestly.

"I am heartily sorry I cannot oblige you in this, Sir William," Admiral Lord Hood said, glancing at Lewrie for an instant, thankfully not seeing the shivers he fought. "I concur that Lieutenant Lewrie's courage would be of inestimable assistance to your endeavour, but… there are other duties I have in mind for him, in this fell instance."

Thankee God, thankee milord, bloody damned right there are!

After Smith had bowed himself away, Hood turned to Lewrie again. "There are ships in the Inner Basin, Lieutenant, nigh-enough ready for sea. This Lieutenant de Crillart of yours… he'd know them best. With his men and yours, you will ready one of them for departure. Warp her to the Great Road, soon as you are able. Provision her, and be ready to take aboard troops, refugees, or both. I recall your own worth, Lewrie. And I'll no more toss you away than I would my invaluable Captain Nelson. I fear this war will be much longer than any of us, at the onset, could have ever suspected. England will have desperate need of you both, in future. Orders will be forthcoming, empowering you to provision and arm to your personal satisfaction, Mister Lewrie. You have but to present those orders, which shall bear my personal signature, and be assured that any reasonable request will be granted you, instanter. Should I not see you again in the days to come before we quit Toulon," Admiral Hood said a bit sadly, "do present to me your compliments, once you have attained Gibraltar."

He offered his hand for Lewrie to shake.

"And I wish the very best of good fortune go with you, sir. God speed, and fair winds."

"Thankee, milord, for your goodness to me," Alan said firmly, as he shook that offered hand. "And for your trust. I will safely bring away all you send me, milord."

"My dear Lieutenant Lewrie, I rely on that steadfast promise just as surely as I expect tomorrow's sunrise."

"Zey are merde," de Crillart griped, picking at the faded bulwarks of their ship. "Ze discipline, phfft… an' no one care to keep zem in proper fashion. 'Cep' for mon Alceste. …" he sighed wistfully as his precious frigate began to make sail, out past the log boom, in the fairway for the Gullet. Ragged her scratch crew was, sloppy and uncoordinated as a pack of complete landsmen. That was understandable, for Alceste had been requisitioned by one of the allies and now flew the Sardinian flag at her taffrail gaff.

After conferring with Charles, Bosun Porter and a senior hand from the French sailors' party, hurriedly inspecting several ships in the basin, they'd settled on a forty-gun frigate, an impressive ship to all outward appearances. Certainly not in cosmetics, but in lines.

Radical, she'd been renamed after the Revolution. But she had been commanded by a procession of jumped-up quartermasters and bosuns promoted to officers from the lower deck. Then she'd been run almost by committee and the Rights of Man, with but the easiest maintenance neglected by a vote of her crew! She'd rarely gone to sea, and then only in fair weather. And after the arrival of the Royal Navy back in August, and the departure of Rear-Admiral St. Mien's men, Radical had lain idle, stern-to at the eastern quays, sandwiched in between other frigates, and had slowly disintegrated, as all ships will, without reverent and daily care.

Her bottom, they could see, was weeded, but she'd been careened and breamed in May, and her coppering had supposedly been redone. The uppr works were filthy and shabby, her bold paint faded and peeling so badly that she looked more like a merchant ship than a frigate, browned and seared, stained and grey. Her standing rigging was still sound, in need of slush and fresh tar, some hauling at the deadeye blocks to set her taut once more. Running rigging had stretched or shrunk, rope gone stiff and brittle, but a quick re-roving with fresh from the warehouses could renew that. Once they set to, British sailors made half a day's labour of what might have taken her French owners a week.

The important thing was that, once swept fore and aft, swabbed out, and vinegared, all the accumulated rat droppings, spider webs and dust, piles of trash and detritus overboard, she would be roomy. She would have bags of space on that long, beamy mass deck to accommodate hundreds of refugees or soldiers for the short voyage to Gibraltar. Should the winds turn perverse, she had the waterline to make a goodly way close-hauled, the beam to survive rough seas, especially as short-handed as they'd be forced to man her. And there was depth enough on the orlop to store salt-meats, water casks, wine and biscuit to feed a multitude for an entire month, if need be. And those salt-rations already aboard were still fairly fresh, so provisioning took less time on her than it would have aboard another ship.

Guns? Lewrie was a bit worried about that aspect, though being in a convoy with warships near at hand shouldn't present too much danger. Radical's former owners had been in the process of rearming, with eighteen-pounders to replace the twelve-pounders frigates usually bore. Some guns had come aboard before work had ceased in August, and she'd been robbed of artillery since, to augment the firepower of Coalition strongpoints ashore. As a consequence, she had only four eight-pounders on her quarterdeck and two long eight-pounders on her forecastle as chase guns. Her main deck carried only a dozen pieces of artillery, a pair of her original twelve-pounders forward, one to either beam, and a matching pair aft, beneath the quarterdeck-and eight eighteen-pounders, four per beam, fore and aft of the main-mast, all spaced out so far apart they appeared as afterthoughts. She was technically en flute, a warship stripped of artillery to make room for the transfer of troops. Were her gunports to be opened, the empty ones would resemble the ringer holes in a piccolo. But that was Alan's intent in the first place; another reason she was more suitable.

They could have taken others. There were even larger forty-four-gunned frigates, 3rd Rate 74's with even more space aboard-but they'd demand a much larger crew to work them properly. And some of those others had been in even poorer material state, so emptied of guns and rations that it would have taken a week to prepare them for sea, or were so weeded to the bottom of the basin, so neglected, it was a wonder they hadn't sunk at their moorings.

They chose her by midday on 17 December. And by dawn of the 18th, had her ready to warp out of her berth, set scraps of sail and work her out past the bomb-proof jetties, carefully keeping east'rd of the shoal which ran from the west jetty to the narrow channel through the log boom. By dinner, they were anchored close to the water-fort of St. Louis, beneath the protective shelter of Fort La Malgue. They'd simmered up supper for their refugees the night before, and had served a cold breakfast and dinner by then. Though nothing they could do by way of hospitality could really cheer those refugees.