With no place else to go, no other living relations, and so poor in pelf with which to establish herself on her own, even if she could at her tender young age… Lewrie had been forced by that promise he'd made to Charles de Crillart, upon his very honour, that he'd look after the unfortunate Sophie de Maubeuge. There had been time enough for his letter to go to Caroline, and to receive a quick reply on a packet brig.

Caroline had been reduced to tears, both by the girl's piteous plight and her "dear husband's" tender and magnanimous promise to such a gallant, dying man. For the few years before Sophie was come to her majority, Caroline had insisted that the girl simply must come to live with them as their treasured guest, close as cater-cousins. Let her tutor the children in French, in poetry and such, music, of course… but raise her, and let her acquaint herself with a new life in England, safely away from city evils in the bucolic splendours of Anglesgreen!

And what the tender young Sophie de Maubeuge knew of her benefactor's amorous rantipoling, Lewrie most ardently hoped, Sophie might keep to herself… and from her benefactress! But dreading that someday, in a snit, perhaps, or an unguarded moment, the mort'd…!

Christ shat on a biscuit, he thought, massaging his brow; let's please marry the chit off, quick as we can. Damned fetchin', she is… a sweet, willing tit. Hell of a catch, somebody… titled an' all? What am I bid? And the worst part of it is, I can't caution her about it. Can't even talk to her 'bout keepin' silent! Jesus, let's hope poor Charles was right… she's French! Nun-blinkered or no, it's in the blood. The French'r s'posed to understand these things… about a man and a maid… 'bout Phoebe.

Dear Lord… Phoebe!

Besides the cost of outfitting his new great-cabins (not that grand, really) with the bare minimums of comforts, of furnishings… which great-cabins he could not use since he'd been saddled with half a dozen nonpaying, all-eating, all-drinking passengers-live lumber!-of purchasing cabin stores, wine and such, plates and glassware, a new sea-chest partially stocked with all which was needful, a new hat with proud gold-lace, and at least one new-pattern gold-laced uniform coat suitable to a Commander… there was Phoebe to lodge and support at Gibraltar.

Daft, daft, daft! he told himself yet again, turning his head to glance at the helmsman and the compass course. And discovering her scent on his coat collar, fresh from his very last shore visit of the night before, before taking Jester to sea at sunrise.

He inhaled deep, in spite of all his guilt, his fear and his misgivings, savouring her scent, his memory of her, and her passionate, kittenish, adoring adieu. Yet in spite of all, he could not help himself, could not force himself to let go of her!

All during Jester's time in the docks he slept ashore with her, each moment snatched from duty a heaven-sent joy. And Admiral Hood had given him firm assurances that once his ship was ready, Jester would be returning to the Mediterranean, that Hood had written a specific request for his future services. There was Corsica to be taken to confound the French, after all. Royalist sentiments to exploit among the French on the island, separatist sentiments among the rather recently annexed Italian population, led by some fellow named Paoli, or something like that.

And, dovetailing so neatly with his enchantment with the petite and entrancing Phoebe was the fact that she herself was Corsican! Part French, part Italian, Mademoiselle Phoebe Aretino was. She knew every inch of the island, knew the people who mattered… and was well versed in her island's tumultuous affairs.

Besides being the most intoxicating, besotting, loving, amusing, exotically wee and clinging, yet so fiercely warm and passionate, a most cunning and beguiling, exciting, maddening little minx…!

Lewrie sighed, taking a surreptitious whiff of his collar again, still able to feel her soft lips upon his, see her huge waifs eyes as they peered up at him in total devotion. Daft or not, his affections and his soul were torn in twain. And he knew-feared, rather-that once home with his dear ones, like an antipodal lodestone, like a siren song, he would grow vexed for the feel of her, the taste of her, and be just as eager to put to sea, to hurry Jester back to Gibraltar. Hurry himself back to the arms of his tender young Phoebe.

He saw Bosun's Mate Will Cony by the fife rails of the main-mast in Jester's waist, patiently tutoring some new-recruited landsmen in the identity of the maze of running-rigging belayed on the pins. And Alan smiled, in spite of all his forebodings.

Had it right, Cony, he thought; God knows His rogues when He sees 'em. I wager He'll be gettin' a tremendous laugh t'see us both wriggle… when we get back to Anglesgreen!

A black-and-white kitten, now four months oid, came skittering on the quarterdeck from aft, shoveling a be-ribboned wine cork between his paws, arching, leaping and mewing as he pounced and footballed. He was turning out to be a horrid disaster, that kitten. Couldn't mouse, shied at the sight of a cockroach-and Jester had more than her fair share of that tribe aboard, at present. Loud noises drove him into hiding, in Lewrie's sea-chest, hatbox, or behind the books on the shelves above the chart table. A pest for attention he was, too, all hours of the night-where he pawed and cried for stroking, butting insistently. When he did sleep, it was under Lewrie's chin, abed; or curled up in his hat. Yes, he was a perfect disaster. But amusing, and affectionate, for all that.

Which had, after much thought, suggested his name; a French name for a French cat.

"Here, Toulon!" Lewrie bade cheerfully. "Come here, Toulon!"

With a glad mew, Toulon bounded to his side in awkward hops, to scramble up his coattails and settle on his shoulder for a rub, thrusting his little nose into Lewrie's ear, clawing at his coat collar, and purring with ardour.

Too late to cure him of such sins, Alan wondered? Well, maybe he'll grow out of 'em.

Afterword

Even more disheartening for the allies of the First Coalition, who had been forced to evacuate Toulon, was the attempted destruction of the French fleet and the naval port facilities on the night of 18 December 1793.

French troops were already in the town and on the hills to the west, overlooking the basin. Nearly 800 convict labourers were free of their chains, and acting like patriots. The log and chain boom across the harbour entrance had been closed. The Spanish, however, and contemporary accounts refer to then-desultory performance as "treachery"-of course these are British accounts, and they had their noses far out of joint when they wrote them-didn't appear to have tried very hard. Their work at the arsenals and warehouses didn't go well, and damage to the facilities was not as extensive as the fires might have made people believe. And instead of scuttling the Iris frigate, crammed with those thousands of barrels of gunpowder, they set fire to her on their hasty way out, which caused the tremendous explosion Lewrie witnessed, which blew the Union, a British gun-boat nearby, to atoms.

Sir William Sidney Smith tried to enter the basin after firing docked ships and do what the Spanish had shirked, but was driven away by the volume of gunfire. He did burn two more French 74's, but they were condemned hulks, full of French prisoners of war, whom he freed. At last, as his party retired, having done all they could, the Montreal frigate, the other powder hulk, blew up with a blast even greater than Iris. No one is quite sure how she took light-a French patriot, some mistake by Smith's party, or another pyromaniacal Spaniard who rather thought he'd like to hear something else go "Boom!" that night.

Captain Sir William Sidney Smith selected himself for the venture, and Captain Horatio Nelson wrote of his failure to do more damage, saying, "Lord Hood mistook the man: there is an old saying, great talkers do the least we see." Though Captain Smith later distinguished himself in the Middle East against French troops ashore.

The basin and port were not destroyed, and the French regained the use of many of their ships thought burned. There had been thirty-one ships of the line at Toulon, some in-ordinary, in docks, or being built. Four were sailed away, and only nine of them burned. Toulon held twenty-seven corvettes, brigs of war and frigates. Fifteen were carried off, including Alceste, which the Sardinians lost to the French a few years later, five were burned, and seven left to the Republicans. Some ships on stocks were not burned at all, and the shipyards were back in business soon after.

The worst part of the defeat at Toulon, though, was the loss of civilian lives after the Coalition cut and ran, breaking their solemn promises to safeguard the Royalist sympathisers. The fleet did carry off 14,877 of them, but could not find places aboard ships for more.

At the last, as the rear-guard troops, British, Spanish and Neapolitans, broke and ran when French troops rushed forward, the thousands of people left behind, soldiers and civilians, dashed to the quays and the shores. They waded out, imploring the last boats to save them. They were cut down, shot down or ruthlessly bayoneted by victorious Republican troops. Some accounts say hundreds, others thousands, died in the last hours, or drowned trying to swim after the boats or out to a ship.

General Dugommier protested, it is written (though Napoleon Buonaparte did not), as the Republican deputies set up their guillotines, ending up executing, by their enthusiastic accounts, a brisk 200 a day. Toulon paid for its sin; in the end, it is thought, over 6,000 civilian Toulonese lost their lives one way or another. Men, women and children.

Joseph Conrad wrote a novel, The Rover, which concerned the fate of the Royalists, featuring a young girl driven mad by the Terror, the slaughter, the permanent exile of those unfortunate йmigrйs driven overseas to any port that would have them, like storm petrels, of families and loved ones forever separated by sailing on different ships to disparate corners of the earth. If you can find it in the classics section, read the tale of poor, mad Ariette, victim of the Revolution. And of Toulon.

Lady Emma Hamilton, indeed, could never resist a sailor. After he first met her in 1793, Horatio Nelson was perhaps more besotted by Emma than most biographers suspect-or care to admit. Did he, or did he not, that early? After his stunning victory at the Battle of the Nile, Emma threw herself at his feet, and he gladly picked her up. They remained lovers, public or professional opinions be-damned, until his death in 1805 on Victory's quarterdeck at the Battle of Trafalgar.

Emma Hamilton was a sad case; she really did think of all those men, who'd used her then cast her aside, as her true, long-time friends and mentors. And we believe the depiction herein of this deluded lady is correct, especially Emma Hamilton's desire to tag onto the coat-tails of powerful and influential men and bask in their reflected, shared glories.

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