Dewey Lambdin - H.M.S. COCKEREL

He had to bite his lip so hard to keep from crying out, and unmanning himself, that he drew blood.

"Alain, promesse… Louis…" de Crillart grunted.

"Louis is…" Alan said, wondering if he could lie to ease him.

"I see, Alain. I see eem fall. 'E eez…?"

Cony gave his head a negative shake as Lewrie looked up at him.

"Charles, your brother… il nous a quittй. He is gone. I'm sorry."

"Maman et Sophie, zey alone now… you mus' promesse…" Lieutenant de Crillart insisted, squeezing Lewrie's hand so hard he felt his bones grate. He relaxed his grip as the spasm eased, his grip went flaccid, almost slipped from Alan's grasp for a moment, as his flesh greyed and his lips blued. "See zem to America… tak' care of zem for me… I beg you, Alain, plais? Promesse?" he demanded a little stronger, digging into his last reserve.

"I promise you, Charles," Alan intoned.

"Promesse, on… votre honneur!"

"On my honour, Charles, as an English gentleman… as a commission officer in the Royal Navy, I swear to you, I'll take care of them. I'll see them someplace safe," he croaked, blinking back tears.

"Bon," de Crillart sighed, shrinking away. His hand, as cold as ice, slipped from Lewrie's hand. "Bon," he said again, the breath his last, hissing out to rattle in his throat as his eyes glazed over. Alan closed them for him, crossed his arms upon his breast.

"Goddamn," he whispered, sitting back on his heels.

"Good feller, 'e waz, sir," Cony said in sympathy.

"So were a lot of men, just died," Lewrie grunted, chin on his chest. "God help me, Cony, I'm so weak, I…"

"Alluz are, sir, after th' battle's done. Help ya up, sir?"

"Yes, thankee, Cony." He got to his feet, swabbing his face on his sleeve. "Many others?"

"Fair number, sir. Mister Porter an' me, we're makin' th' list." They began to walk forward through the carnage, making a quick inspection. "Radical, she's beat up hellish-bad, sir. Stove in, an' leakin', I 'spects. Mister Porter's been below here, sir, says she come through in good shape, below the waterline. Jus' looks damn' bad."

There were bodies everywhere one looked, pulped, halved, broken and punctured, flopping in death throes, half-buried beneath overturned guns. There the doughty Major de Mariel, then another French soldier. A pair of the 18th, almost arm in arm as they died. A cavalryman hung over the starboard gangway. Men in civilian clothing, with their white armbands, strewn about like slaughtered game birds. But mostly French Republican sailors, thank God-hewn down, hacked down, scythed down by musketry, double-shotted iron, and cutlasses. Moaning, empty-eyed wounded clutching their hurts, sitting on the decks in shock.

There was a cannon shot, a deep-bellied roar.

"Oh, God, no!" Lewrie wailed, losing his rigidly enforced calm. "That bloody frigate!"

He and Cony dashed forward, leaping over obstacles, to ascend to the foredeck where they might have a view. There, close-aboard, was a warship, her pristine masts and yards towering over the two entangled ships. Flying a White ensign and "Do You Require Assistance." Lewrie waved to her, both arms wide. She was huge, bluff and tall, a massive two-decker 64. Where had she sprung from, he wondered?

"Sir!" Spendlove shouted from Radical's quarterdeck, aft at her taffrails. "Mister Lewrie, sir! What signal do I send her sir?"

"Send her 'Affirmative,' Mister Spendlove," Lewrie shouted back. "And damned glad I am to see you alive, by the way, lad!"

"Makes two of us, sir!" the imp grinned, bloodied but whole. "I have her private number, sir. She's Agamemnon, Captain Horatio Nelson! Beyond, there's Mermaid, 5th Rate 32, Captain John Trigge," Spendlove prated on, even as he bent on the "Affirmative" to a signal halliard. "And Cockerel, sir. She really did go for help, like you said, sir!"

"Sir!" Bittfield, the senior gunner, was yelling, too, trying to draw his attention. "Takin' on water bad, she is, sir. Hadda get all the dependents up t'th' weather-deck, sir. Best we get our people back aboard soon, we don't wish t'lose 'er, sir."

"Cony, fetch Mister Porter and all the men he can gather up," Lewrie ordered. "Patch what you can, until Agamemnon sends her hands to aid us. And get everyone, no matter who, working on the chain-pumps."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Lewrie crossed over to Radical, working his way out the jib boom sideways on the foot ropes, to the bulwarks in which the corvette's bow was deep-sunk. Looking down, he could see crushed planking between two rows of vertical hull timbers. Perhaps that was the worst damage, none of it too far below the waterline, he hoped.

He gained the larboard gangway and looked down into the waist. Women and children milled about down there, weeping and wailing, crying to heaven. Surgeons moved among them, loblolly boys were fetching up more from below, on the orlop. Wounded women! Dead, lolling children!

Dear God, that last broadside she got off, just before we went up in-irons, he quailed. The collision, everything come adrift below…! I killed 'em, winnin' my damned… victory!

He was at the head of the larboard quarter-deck ladder, about to descend, when Phoebe came rushing from the press to its foot, came up to throw herself upon him, laughing and weeping at the same time.

Thankee, Jesus, she's alive! Thankee! he thought, hugging her no matter who saw them. Stroking her hair as she babbled, one minute trembling and bubbling over with joy, the next instant bawling fit to bust-all punctuated by hiccoughy French tripped off so fast he couldn't catch a word in twenty.

"Calm, Phoebe, calm… I'm alright now. Calm," he Shusshed.

"Oh, Alain, merde alors, ze canon…! Beaucoup de femmes et d'enfants, zey tuer. Keel! Si trиs beaucoup… hurt!"

"Charles!" came a scream from below them. Sophie de Maubeuge scrambled up the quarter-deck ladder, blood on her gown. "M'sieur Lieutenant Luray, Charles…?"

He let go of Phoebe, extended his arms to her. But she did not accept his embrace, but stopped short, paling, as she realised what he was about to say, by the expression of grief and sympathy on his face.

"Non, non, mon Dieu, «on!"

"Mademoiselle vicomtesse, je regrette…" he said gently, taking her hands instead. "Charles Auguste, Baron de Crillart… il nous a quittй." Before she had time to take a breath for another hysterical scream, he told her the rest. "Aussi, Chevalier Louis de Crillart, il nous a quittй."

God, how I hate that bloody phrase, he thought; nous a quittй… left us, gone away from us. Like it was their bloody idea!

Sophie let go of his hands, put them to either side of her head as if to tear her hair out by the roots, and screamed and screamed, as she sank to her knees. Had not Phoebe gone down to her, she would have tumbled to the base of the ladder, broken her neck. Phoebe cradled her head upon her breast, crooning to her, gentling her, while Alan stood, embarrassed by his role and his slowness… his uselessness.

"Charles… Louis…!" Sophie wailed, gone white, with her eyes ready to roll back into her head in a faint. "Madame!"

"What?" Lewrie started, finally noticing the blood on her gown.

"Oui, Alain," Phoebe whispered as he went down to them, looking up with tears running free on her face, as bleak as if she'd lost someone, too. "Madame de Crillart. Ze murs, uhm… walls?… zey break open. Boulets de canon? Ze grande dame, elle est morte. Pauvre petite mademoiselle… she 'as lose 'er famille entiиre… 'ave no one, now."

"I…" he whimpered, turning away, overcome. And sure that it was all his own bloody fault! "Oh, bloody…"

"Go, I see to 'er," Phoebe urged. "You' ship, she…"

Lewrie staggered away across the littered quarterdeck, and his borrowed cutlass clattered to the deck as it slipped from his nerveless fingers. He fetched up at the battered taffrails by one of the stern-chasers which still radiated spent heat. Scrubbing bis face with both hands, trying to deny what he'd done, wondering if he could have done something different, taken another course of action that wouldn't have gotten so many innocent and helpless slaughtered.

Off on the nor'east horizon a frigate was flying, pursued by a British ship. Near the transports, both fetched-to and looking as if they'd been knocked about, Cockerel cruised slowly. And the corvette he'd crippled had struck her colours, a Royal Navy ensign flying at her taffrail. How had the civilians fared aboard those transports, he wondered; had they suffered this much, after putting up token opposition, then striking? He feared they hadn't.

Damme, he thought; I could have stood on, just a few minutes longer, endured her fire, and help would have arrived, these French would have had to sheer off, soon as they saw our warships closing…!

He turned to the sound of tumult, saw wounded men being brought aboard, the healthy slowly crawling across the bulwarks as empty-eyed as the defeated, saw his mates and petty officers putting them to work on the chain-pumps after they'd embraced their families, and gotten a sip of something to relieve their dry mouths. Agamemnon fetching-to and lowering her boats-boats crammed with strong, helpful sailors to salve his ship and his prize. And saw men who'd faced battle and suffered come back aboard to find a loved one departed.

Shouldn't be like this, he groused. Hard as the aftermath of a battle is… shouldn't be like this.

Men could fall, be cruelly wounded and linger in their agonies among shipmates, in a tough masculine world where men could josh the dying, buck them up to go game or offer awkward comfort. And grieve for good friends departed, of a certainty, as their canvas-shrouded corpses were put over the side with round-shot at their feet. But to hear the lamentations of the orphaned, the widowed… 'stead of imagining some far-off bereavement, notified half a year later that the son, the father, the brother, the husband or lover was Discharged, Dead…!

"Shouldn't ought to be like this," he muttered, leaning on the taffrails for a few, last private moments, letting his own tears flow, choking on his own bereaved sobs before stern duty recalled him.

Phoebe had quieted Sophie de Maubeuge, last vicomtesse of her lineage, turned her over to the care of another aristocratic family's women, and made her way back up the quarter-deck ladder to find him. She saw him far aft, leaning forward, head down, squeezing the rails, and her heart went out to him. She hitched up her skirts, ready to run to him, but Spendlove intervened.

"Ma'am?" he called, stepping in front of her, snuffling himself as the list of familiar hands who'd fallen accumulated in his ledger, as he recognised the bodies of friends and mentors and troublemakers from a full year's association. "Don't. Not now."

"M'sieur Spen'loove, 'e need…" Phoebe pled weakly.

"Ma'am," Spendlove objected gently, taking her nearest hand, "I know you an' Mister Lewrie… well, 'tain't my place to say, what's… but, ma'am? Do you care for him? Do you love him?"

"Vis all ma 'eart!" she declared, weeping anew at the force of her affection.

"Then, ma'am… give him a minute or two more, if you do," Mister Midshipman Spendlove dared to suggest. "He'll be back with us. For now, though, ma'am… let Mister Lewrie… let our captain have a cry."