"Mister Cony, make 'em hop to it" Midshipman Hyde called to them, snappish and still fretful. And more than a little scandalized.
"Aye, Mister Hyde. Hoppin', this instant," Cony answered as he withdrew his bosun's pipe from a chest pocket of his waistcoat by its ornately plaited lanyard. "Messenger, aft t'th' capstan-head!"
"You, too, Andrews," Hyde added.
"On me way, t'de quawtah-deck, yassuh, Mistah Hyde, uhuhh!" the coxswain replied, falling back on a West Indies slave patois in subtle mockery, to rejoin the hands of the after-guard, who would tend sheets, halliards, lifts, and jears on the mizzenmast. "Right, lads. Tail on, weak-lin's. De strong men'z walkin' de capstan fo' ya."
"Canne do 'at, Cox," a landsman asked, perplexed. "Jus' 'ave 'isself a lady, all t' 'is own? Any why cain't we, I asks ya…"
" 'Cause he be de cap'um, an' you ain't, Cousins!" Andrews told the fresh-caught lubber, steering him away from a standing back-stay to his proper post on the mizzen tops'l jears. "Law, ye be so dumb, I lay odds ya thought dey call 'im de 'Ram-Cat' jus' 'cause he be fond o' de kitties, didn' ya, Cousins? Haw haw!"
Once at sea, Lewrie quit the deck, after Jester was well clear of Europa Point, and reaching easterly on a beam wind, the galley funnel fuming once more to simmer up a late supper.
Aspinall took his hat to hang up, as Lewrie hesitantly went aft to his day-cabin, suddenly feeling like an intruder in a strange salon.
There was a slanging match going on, with much hissing, spitting, and a noticeable nimbus of stress-shed fur, as the litter mates, Toulon and Phoebe's kitten-now half-grown to an almost calico white-and-tan-got "reacquainted." Toulon on the desktop, pawing the wine cabinet in threat, as her cat cowered atop it, looking over the edge, hunkered up and snarling, trilling deep in her throat between nervous chop-licking.
"Take no guff off the ladies, Toulon -that's the way," Alan muttered as he opened the cabinet doors to pour his own drink.
"Sorry, sir, but I wasn't goin' nowhere near 'em, long as they're in a snit," Aspinall apologized.
"No problem, Aspinall," Lewrie told him, tipping himself a glass of hock. "And what's your name, little girl? Whatever did your mistress name you? 'Spit'? 'Whurdrdrdr,' did ye say?" he yodeled.
A traveling case thumped to the deck, in the sleeping coach. A bustle oн domesticity, accompanied by a pleased humming tune, sometimes breaking into a soft,"half-conscious "la-la'ing."
Good Christ, but I'm such a fool! Lewrie told himself, perhaps for the hundredth time since midmorning. Well, 'tis only till Corsica… bags of time to 'wean' both of us, after.
The military authorities at Gibraltar had been gloating merry about Admiral Lord Hood's siege-work, there. The main harbor, San Fiorenzo, had fallen early on, and just recently, the city of Bastнa had come into British, or Coalition, possession. Now the French were isolated, hanging on by their fingernails at the extreme northern end of the island, in Calvi. The coastline was so well guarded by Royal Navy ships that a fishing smack couldn't sneak in with supplies, or reinforcements; neither could the French hope for a piecemeal evacuation over several nights.
And, to discomfit the Frogs even further, the fleet they'd put together from scattered units in the Mediterranean-or brought back into commission after the Coalition had failed to burn them when they had evacuated Toulon the previous Christmas!-had been countered at sea, rather deuced well! Hood had sailed away from the siege to meet Rear Admiral Comte Martin, and had snaffled the dismal bastard into a sack, in the Golfe Jouan east of Cannes, where he was now embayed and most effectively blockaded; of absolutely no use to the desperate Republican army at Calvi… or anyone else, pretty much.
Toulon interrupted Lewrie's musings, breaking off his own sort of "siege-work" to rub and purr, and meow for attention, which he got at once. Looking up and sneering a lofty "so there, see?" at the cat atop the wine cabinet.
"Only the few days, Toulon," Lewrie promised him. "Oww"
Piqued, perhaps, Phoebe's calico had taken a defensive swat at him, and had connected on his right ear!
"Oh, merde alors," Phoebe cooed, exiting the sleeping coach in a lacy flutter of feminine finery. "Juliette, elle est ze mйchancetй, ees 'naughty,' oui? … ze trиs naughty jeune fille. I am sorry, mais she ees protec', uhm…?"
"It's my wine she's protecting," he groused, placing a handkerchief to his ear. Damme, he carped to himself; the bitch'z drawn blood!
"Oh, Alain!" Phoebe comforted, taking the handkerchief, and dipping it in his hock, to dab at his ear. "I kees, an' mak'… uhm… a meilleur? Ah, better? Merci. My Englis', ees… better, mais … n'est-ce pas? I kees an' mak' eet better, hein?" she cajoled, swishing her hips and gazing up at him with mischievous, impish eyes.
"Aprиs souper, peut-кtre," he japed in return, any qualms in his head evaporating in another instant.
"Certainment, mon chou," she replied, with a promising grin. And retrieving her cat, Joliette, and keeping his wineglass, to sashay off astern to the crude sofa to sit and stroke her beast down. He poured himself another, and joined her.
Along the way, he got a peek into the sleeping coach, to find that her pitiful collection of luggage he recalled from Toulon before the evacuation had grown considerably. There were now two full portmanteau chests, brimming with yard goods. Not only dresses, but bed linens, coverlets, the wink of pewter. There were unopened crates that had rattled as they'd come aboard-glassware and plates.
"I was surprised, your removing," he began.
"Oh, Alain, to 'ave ze proper establissement pour vous, I mus' buy ze many s'ings!" she explained, looking as if she would be eager to jump to her feet, dash into the sleeping coach, and display all her new possessions like a birthday child. "To take ze suite, wiz furnishings, uhm… ze chair, ze tables, ze bed, oui. Mais, ees ver' empty? So I change rooms, for save you' monnai. An' I buy zose nice s'ings zat mak' eet… familial? More homey? Zo when you are ashore, wiz me, you are non asham-ed."
"Aha," he said noncommittally. It sounded hellish close to hopes of "familial," domestic bliss; last year's wren hatchling making a first nest of her own.
'Least I'm fortunate, he thought, taking a cool sip of his hock: don't know why, but all my girls have been the economical sort. Never a spendthrift in the lot! Knock wood!
Phoebe shrugged, turning pensive.
"D'avant, w'en I am leetle girl…" She sighed. "Papa an' Maman are trиs pauvre … ver' poor. 'E ees ze soap-maker? Maman 'elp eem… or wash ze laundry for ozzers. Sometime ze domestique … for ze rich? Ver' poor. 'Ave nozzing. I go wiz 'er, sometime… I see what ozzers 'ave, an' I wan' zat pour moi. For Papa an' Maman, aussi."
She put out a hand to him, to draw him to sit by her side more closely on the sofa, as she tried to explain her life.
"Papa, 'e nous a quittes, w'en I am seize, uhm… sixteen? An' Maman ees weak, ver' sick sometime, so I tak' 'er place, an' work as ze domestique. At firs', in Bastнa, w'ere we live. Zen I go Toulon," Phoebe told him, almost sadly, slipping an arm through his, turning to face him. "Oui, I become putain … ze petite whore. Domestiques wiz pretty
.. 'oo are pretty, hmm… eet 'appens, n'est-ce pas? C'est dommage, mais …? 'Ave ze belle vкtements, ze beautiful gowns, go to ze dances… ride een ze fine coach? Mais, come 'ome to ze rooms zat I on'y rent. Ver' impersonnel, wiz nozzing of mine? Oh, Alain, 'ow ver' much I wan' ze 'ome of my own, someday! Furniture I prefer, non w'ot come wiz rent. Forgeev, plais, mais …"
She ducked her head.
"I take ze smaller rooms to save monnaie, oui. Non jus' for you' sake. For moi. Zo I 'ave monnaie for to buy preety s'ings for… for zat someday, comprendre? Zo someday, I weel be somebody."
"If you needed more, Phoebe…" He chuckled.
"Non," she insisted, with a somber cast to her features, perhaps for the first time in his experience of her. "You, I adore, Alain, mon coeur. Anozzer man, per'aps e ave more monnai, can mak' me to be ze somebody at once, mais … j'm'en fous! Wiz you, I am 'appy! Eef eet tak' time for to be ze grande lady, c'est dommage. I be mistress to one man, on'y. Vousl Non more putain. We mak' each ozzer appy, an' I wait for you to sail 'ome to me. W'ere I mak' you ze domicile, uhm… intimй et agrйable … 'ow you say?"
"Pleasant and cozy." He grinned.
"Oui, pleasan' an'… cozy!" Phoebe giggled, rewarding his abbreviated English lesson with a chaste little kiss, and settling down on his side, her head on his shoulder, cooing with delight. "Mon Dieu, I am so beaucoup appy you 'ave return-ed, Alain! I mees you so much, I ache for to be 'appy an' content, again. To be wiz ze on'y man 'oo… care for me. 'Oo tak' si… such good care of me! I weel non be expensive, you weel see! Parce que. .. be-cause, I love you so much."
"A quiet, little place, then," he inquired hopefully. Though coin did "chink" about in his head. How much might that "quiet, little place " cost? There'd be furniture, paintings, servants' wages… And quiet, secure lodgings meant good neighborhoods, far removed from the commercial quarter; a coach-and-four might be necessary! The need for china, silver plate, cutlery, lanthorns, and candle stands, beeswax candles by the gross. Drapers and paperers in and out with even more costly…! He took a fortifying sip of wine.
"Nozzing grande, mon chou," she reassured him, though, half lost in fantasies of domestic perfection. "I non need ze palace, hein? Une leerle appartement, wiz balcony. We go to San Fiorenzo? Bon. So ver' steep ze hills, mais … non ze rent, Alain! Balcony wiz view of ocean. Zo I watch fo' you' navire … you' ship. Une domestique, on'y, '00 eez live zere wiz me… une 'oo come for day, to cook an' clean. Corsica… ees ver' poor. Une peu monnaie go ze long way, zere, you will see, I promesse. An' zo many йmigrйs royalistes go zere. You remember, w'en we leave Toulon, zey tak' away zere good sings? 'Ave non monnaie, now. Zey will be sell zose preety s'ings, bon marchй. Zat ees ze 'cheap'!"
