Damned galling, Alan thought moodily, testy with himself for lack of sleep; here we are, one of the world's handsomest frigates, crawling along like a snail, fair game for…

He looked around the horizon. Merchantmen were all he saw, tired plodders, wallowing along short-handed, packed with humanity who couldn't even begin to help their thin crews, landlubbers who'd more than likely never set foot aboard a ship before, heaving their guts up, helpless…

It struck him, suddenly, that they were the only warship present, no matter how poorly armed, no matter how short-handed, or so crippled by their own multitude of йmigrйs. One, just one Republican frigate, could gobble up every ship in sight, fall upon them like a fox in the hen coop and have them all in an hour. There were frigates, corvettes, even 74's which hadn't been at Toulon, scattered in ones and twos all over before Toulon 's surrender. In French ports west of Marseille and Toulon, perhaps-now at sea, to see what they could eat, like a pack of wolves on the hunt, falling upon the slowest, weakest, oldest of a deer herd.

"That's us, by God," he muttered.

"Pardon?" Lieutenant de Crillart asked, now his task was done, and he reported back to his temporary captain.

"Charles, I've been a fool. I've been remiss," Lewrie grimaced.

Feelin' too sorry for myself, he scathed himself, too defeated. Too busy bein' a ferryman, worried about leaks and weed to… damme, I'd more thought for another tumble with Phoebe than I had for being a King's Sea Officer! Countin' seconds 'til I can sleep again!

"Charles, does a Republican ship come across this miserable lot of barges, we're done for. They'd have us, sure as Fate, and take us as easy as a pack of sheep. We should be doing some drilling at the guns, organising volunteers, getting ready for a fight. Putting together at least some means of resistance."

"But, to offer bataille, mon ami…" de Crillart shrugged. "Ve are so weak. An', vis beaucoup de femmes et d'enfants aboard, zey weel die uhm… during?… ze bataille, an'…"

"They stand a better chance fighting for their lives than they do surrendering and being taken back to Toulon to the guillotines, Charles," Alan said firmly. "Men, women and children… chop! Resist, though, well enough, and we might only lose a tenth. Not all. And get away. These other ships… easy meat. But us… too tough to chew!"

"Mmm, per'aps, mon ami," de Crillart nodded slowly, understanding coming to him.

"Look, we've Major de Mariel and what… about sixty soldiers?" Alan enthused. "They could be our Marines and sharpshooters. Gunners, yours and mine. Not enough hands to serve the guns and tend sail. But, we've all these civilian men. Work as landsmen at the braces and such. They're already doing that, some of 'em. Heave on the gun tackles, too, like landsmen in naval service. Run 'em out, overhaul. It only takes one gun-captain, one experienced rammerman and loader per gun, the rest are strong backs, anyway. Bittfield and his yeomen below in charge of the magazine, plenty of boys aboard, to be powder-monkeys and shot-fetchers. We put out a hot-enough fire, a foe might sheer away from us. And between Louis' men, de Mariel's, and the Royal Irish… and the rest of the male civilians with guns… should it come to a close-aboard fight…"

"Ze veapons, z'ough," Charles countered. "Ozzer zan ze troops, ve 'ave on'y un peu. Fusils… ze mooskets? I know beaucoup d'hommes 'ave pistolets, fusils de chasse. For 'unting? An' on'y les gentilhommes, ze bien йlevйs, 'ave йpйes."

"God helps those who help themselves, Charles. Ventй?" Alan chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. "Most especial, He helps them who got ready beforehand. Just in case He was short on miracles."

"Oui," Charles grinned. "An', eet tak' zeyr min' off 'aving ze mal de mer. D'accord."

"Mister Spendlove! Mister Porter! Cony!" Lewrie bawled suddenly. "Come to the quarterdeck, if you please."

God, but it was disheartening. They had, beyond the muskets and infantry hangers, light-cavalry sabres and such brought aboard by the soldiers, barely enough cutlasses for the French gunners and his British Jacks. There were no boarding pikes at all. Civilians owned light hangers, hunting swords, aristocratic and elegant smallswords, some older heirlooms among the elderly-rapiers and poignards, or a fencing master's stock of foils and true йpйes doled out to others.

There were few French.69 caliber St. Etienne muskets, British Tower.75 caliber Brown Besses, a handful of Mod. 1777 Cavalry musketoons which fired a lighter ball. As for pistols, there were as many types and calibers aboard as there were adult males. Most gentlemen, though, had one or two pair, and those were allotted to those without.

Boys to serve as powder-monkeys; that was no problem. Teens in plenty volunteered, treating the whole thing like a lark. Men without any personal weapons, commoners and shopkeepers, the poorer class who had never hunted, served in the army, or dared aspire to fencing skill-they went to serve the guns. Mild and fubsy tailors, chefs, cobblers and domestic servants ended up with run-out tackles, train-tackles and swabs in their soft hands. Or were taken over by experienced able seamen, "pressed" as landsmen on gangways or in the waist.

There was eight-pounder shot and twelve-pounder shot in plenty for the quarter-deck, foc's'le and fore-and-aft guns. There were several casks of powder below, but few made-up cartridges. There were several bolts of serge for cartridge-making, but "impressed" silk shirts and gowns were commandeered as well. Bittfield and his yeomen were delighted to be in charge of a pack of women to aid them. Milliners, dressmakers, housemaids and seamstresses, with a few elderly, near-sighted males who had tailored for the Quality. Giggling, tittering, chattering as gay as magpies, sewing neat, fine stitches-but taking as long with each cartridge bag as if they were running up a new gown for some very particular lady patron.

For the heaviest armament, though, the massive eighteen-pounders amidships, there was only enough solid-shot for about twenty rounds per gun, shooting to one side only, before they were exhausted. Grape-shot was almost nonexistent; they could double-shot the eighteens four times at the most. Musket-shot and pistol ball was short, so they had to satisfy themselves with scrap iron, bent nails (both copper and iron) and the shards of broken bottles and stone crocks, tied up in spare stockings, in the eight-pounders only. Radical had no swivel guns, much to Lewrie's great disappointment. As the organisation wore on, he felt like kicking his own arse, time and again, for those things which had slipped his mind when they'd hurriedly outfitted. Or those things which he had thought of by way of armaments, but had consciously decided to forego.

Deep below decks, though, the French gunners had discovered some shot for the eighteen-pounders which had been neglected when Radical had been stripped, then abandoned; Chain-shot, elongating bar-shot, and multiple bar-shot, designed to take down masts and rigging. The French were more fond of it than the Royal Navy, it was their standard tactic; to cripple a foe at long-range first, destroying his motive power, and the ability to maneuver or flee. Lewrie thought it was a waste of time, and precious powder.

The results of the drills didn't enthuse him much, either. They worked without firing, since they had so little powder to waste, and it was a shambles. People tripping over ring-bolts in the deck, tripping over tackles, standing cunny-thumbed and unknowing in the bights which in action, when guns recoiled, would have had their feet off. Standing behind the guns, so please you, totally ignorant of recoil at all! One hour they'd drill, then rest for half of the next, whilst earnest gunners tried to explain, over and over again, how to do it safely and with the least confusion. Then, back to the guns once more, for another hour of drill, trying to cram three months' experience into their heads in a single day!

The soldiers were easier to deal with. They understood crouching behind bulwarks and letting fly by-volley, the bayonet, the mкlйe. Few, however, were anywhere near marksmen. Their common practice was to line up shoulder to shoulder, three or four ranks deep, level their muskets in the general direction of the enemy, aim for the breastplates, close their eyes, fire… and hope for the best. To work jn small teams aloft in the fighting-tops, firing at single targets, was too much to hope for. Thankfully, there were young aristocrats, too well bred to stand in the line (unless they were officers), who were also sportsmen, who took pride in their marksmanship with single-shot hunting guns or fowling pieces on a chase over their ancestral lands, and who could, with a few commoners who'd worked as gamekeepers, go aloft as sharpshooters and pick off a man in an officer's uniform. But they were painfully few.

They drilled for another hour, took another tutorial rest period, and then it was time to break and pump the bilges. Then serve dinner to all. They had two more spells of drill in the afternoon. Until it was time to pump the bilges once more.

Christ, it'll be hopeless, Lewrie thought, watching them traipse away for a lie-down or a sit-down, trailing their muskets or swords, more like walking sticks than weapons. They were beginning to get an inkling-but only the barest inkling-of what might be demanded of them. Like a brand-new warship just fitting-out, her crew as raw as a side of beef, nowhere near ready to up-anchor for weeks, engaging in a first day of sail-handling training-in the first hour of "river discipline." He crossed his fingers, hoping against hope that they'd not come afoul of an enemy ship. Their best would be pathetic, nowhere near enough.

Lewrie put his head down on his crossed arms, swaying against the quarter-deck rails over the waist, bone-weary. His little enthusiasm had cost him two spells off-watch, and it was properly de Crillart's turn to go below. It would be eight that night, end of the second dog, before he could let himself rest, or even close both eyes longer than a blink. Sure enough, eight bells chimed forward-four o'clock, and the end of the day watch.

He thought of staging one more drill before supper, but no… his "volunteers" were by then too tired themselves, too full of strange and new concepts not yet half-absorbed. More drill would put experienced, impatient sailors too much on edge, and the "volunteers" would rankle at the abuse which was sure to come, then. They'd learn nothing more this day. Might even bridle so stiffly, some of the aristocratic ones, that they'd have no more to do with it tomorrow. Or blithely "forget" the lessons of today. Let 'em rest, he thought. And dear God, let me!

Chapter 6

"Alain," a soft voice crooned in his ear. He smacked his lips, trying to ignore it, sunk so deep in a well of turgid blackness, echoing, swirling fever-dream deepness, both unable and unwilling to move a single limb. "Alain, mon cerf formidable. Arise, mon coeur."

"Oh, God," he whispered. "What's the time?"

"Almos' six?" Phoebe cajoled softly but insistently. "Ze aspirant, m'sieur Spen'loov, 'e sen' down pour toi."

"God," Lewrie reiterated, flat on his back, rubbing his eyes to pry them open. "There trouble, did he say?"

"Non, mon amour," Phoebe assured him, with a gentle kiss on his lips. " 'E say, eet eez ze ten minute aprиs l'aubй. Ze dawn?"

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