"Whoa, slowly," Alan said, trying to translate her rushed words. Cow's hide? Bitch of a hide, disgusting… with puke, or merely filthy?
She reached for his hands and took them in hers, drawing him near for safety, imploring, jerking at them as a petulant child might in punctuation. "Zey regardent, zey watch me? Leave me lettres, oh, les lettres, ca pue la fauve! Avec tableaux… peekt'r of ze guillotine, m'sieur! Oh, plais! Je ne comprend pas… I 'urt no one, I am pauvre petite fille de joie seulement, I geeve no offence. Concierge, she t'row me out, ce soir she fin' 'er… patriotisme! I 'ave nulle autre part… now'ere else to be safe. An' I am so effrayant, m'sieur! J'suis dans la merde!"
"You need a place to stay," he replied, "to hide? Cacher?"
"Ah, oui!" Phoebe insisted, brightening at once, almost bouncing on her toes. "Et aussi…" she posed, taking on a shy but coy mien, all but biting her lip as she continued to gaze upward trustfully.
Here it comes, he sighed to himself, the hand on my purse.
"Wan you partez, you leave Toulon…?" she dared to whisper up at him, head cocked most fetchingly. "You weel take pauvre Phoebe?"
That wasn't quite the request he'd expected from her.
She stepped closer, insinuating her arms inside his cloak round his waist, claiming shelter and warmth, with her thin young face turned up to his. "You tak' me aller de Toulon? Away? Aidez-moi to… flee? You are in Navy, you 'ave les ships! Wan ze time come, ze royalistes… zey run? But zey will 'ave no room for me. 'Elle est la putain cracra seulement,' zey will say." She began to weep at the injustice of it all. "On'y ze dirty little whore? An' ze Republicains… zey accusent, aussi, an' chop off ma tete! I beg you, m'sieur, let me stay viz you? You protec' me? An' tu mettez-moi… put me on ship?"
"Uhm," he softened, slipping his arms around her instinctively, though dubious of "adopting" her. "Keep you, and all?"
"Ah, oui, s'il vous plait, m'sieur Alain!" she pleaded, looking up at him, her chin resting on his breastbone, her waifs eyes pleading as beguilingly as an orphaned kitten's.
"Je regrette, ma petite Phoebe…" he muttered, thinking of his few coins, and how far yet they might have to stretch. "Je suis pauvre, aussi. Un peu de monnaie? Apres our ship… sank? Went down? I have so little money, now."
"Je m'en fiche," she declared, her little face solemn. "Do not… care? You 'ave la salle chaude, ze warr-um room? Un peu de vin, et du pain? A little monnaie, c'est bien. No monnaie, c'est bien, aussi. You are ze homme seul, et moi, I am ze jeune fille, 'lone, aussi. Be kin' an' genereux to me, on'y un peu, et moi… I am generous a vous, hein? Quand, je serai votre jeune fille. Zan, I am your…"
Damme, the price sounds right, he thought; and she is a pretty little thing. Cundums! Well, my new'uns ain't Mother Green's Finest-they're Frog. But I s'pose they know what they're about when it comes to amour. The others, though, Cony and all… they'll see her go up with me, and what'U they think… and just who gives a bloody damn any longer?
He looked down into her face searchingly. Though her belly was pressed against his in promise, her gaze was so forlorn, yet hopeful, her eyes aswim with tears. For fear of his rejection, and her Fate if he did turn her away. He felt his resolves slipping. Again.
"God save me," he whispered in surrender. "Know what your name means, Phoebe?"
"Je ne sais pas, m'sieur," she replied softly, putting all her kitteny fondness into her voice, sensing his agreement at last.
"It means 'sunshine' in Latin," he chuckled, giving in to her neediness. And his own. "Like a happy sun? Comme le soleil heureux."
She tittered, smiled at last, and took a moment to wipe her nose and eyes on her mittens, then threw her arms around his neck. "D'accord, m'sieur Alain? You protec' me? Nous demeurons… reside, ensemble?'
"Oui," he nodded, with a sheepish grin. "We demeurons, ensemble."
"Ooh!" she cried suddenly, bouncing on her toes to hug him and giggle with relief. "You are Fhomme tees sympathique, so good, so gentil, si magnifique! Je suis si heureuse… so 'appy! An' I mak' you so 'appy, aussi, quand… wan ve… coucherons, ensemble," Phoebe vowed suggestively. "Aimes-tu la coucher, Alain?"
"Oui," he chuckled. "Mais oui, beaucoup!"
"An' wan you leave Toulon," she paused, inquiring of him more closely for an instant, leaning back warily to see if all particulars of their bargain were sure, like any level-headed woman of business. "Et… ve sail way, ensemble, aussi, Alain?"
"Oui, I swear. I'll get you on a ship, when the time comes, ma petite jolie Phoebe. Swear? Promise? Uh, croyez-vous. Believe me."
He gathered up her bags, those two items bearing all her worldly goods. He led her into the courtyard of the guardhouse, past a sentry who first gaped, then averted his eyes. Up the stairs past the few men idling and yarning in the guardroom, daring them to gawp at him. Into his room, where he shut the door on all outside distraction and curiosity.
He lit a candle as she doffed her cloak and mittens and thawed herself at the small fireplace's grate. There was a bottle of cognac on the scarred, rickety night stand by the bed. Only one glass, which he filled for her, which she accepted eagerly. He drank from the neck, listening to the rising winds as they rattled the shutters. Someone-Cony perhaps-had been thoughtful enough to obtain a warming pan for the bed, and had set out a covered dish; a quarter-loaf of bread with a hank of sausage. She devoured it ravenously, child-cheerful, as he put the warming pan back on the grate and removed coat and waist-coat.
They hung their clothing on wall pegs, suddenly sombre and shy with each other, after she was done eating. She smiled at him as she pinched out the candle, and shooed him to turn around so she could undress completely.
"M… maintenant, mon cheri," she said at last, faint and shaky.
"Bloody…" he gasped as he turned about to look at her.
She stood nude on her knees in the middle of the bed, whore-bold. Yet as shy, as nervous and giggly as a virgin might on her first night of marriage, totally feckless and artless at that moment, without a jot of a whore's weariness, pouting boredom or experience.
Her light olive skin was dark against the pale sheets, caressed by flickers of firelight, her hair a long, curling, dark brown cascade down her back to her waist, over her shoulders, half-concealing breasts small but well formed, almost perky. So slim and neat, so girlish and tiny she looked, almost thin…
"J'ai froid, mon cheri," she shuddered in a wee voice as she hugged herself for a moment, her eyes huge with want "Viens a moi… come to me? Depeches, vite?" she implored, stretching out her arms for him.
He rushed to the bed to embrace her, to kneel close to her, run his hands hungrily over her velvety firm young flesh, feeling her goosepimple at his touch. "Si belle, tu es si belle, si petite, si…!" he praised. "Such a beautiful little pretty!"
"You mak' me warr-um, Alain?" she shivered, somewhere between a nervous laugh and a helpless plea. "You keep me safe an' warr-um, mon gentilhomme fantastique?" She leaned back from his kisses to take his face in her little hands to regard him, to force him to regard her, for a serious instant. "Alors, a toi, je donne tout, mon coeur. Zen my all… I give to you? Mon corps… mon coeur, moi-meme!" she whispered in touching tears that scalded as they splashed on his cheeks as they kissed again.
They fell into the warmed bed, hurling the covers up to their chins, burrowing eagerly into the welcome warmth of press-hot sheets, grasping to clasp their warming flesh together, beginning to chuckle and sigh, to simper and giggle like goose-girl and stableboy.
When did she learn my given name, he idly wondered, too busy for much real thought as they rolled and interlaced, limbs twining as sinuous as snakes, mouths pressed together, stroking and exploring… Scott? Must have told her. She was always friendly enough… amusing and anxious to please. To fit in. Hang everything, he decided. Just all of it-hands, the war, the siege, all of it! Just a few nights, for the love of Heaven.
"Ma belle," he sighed in her ear, lost once more, humours ablaze as he nuzzled and savoured, a
fire for her and nothing else but a few precious moments of sweet, tumbling oblivion. "Ma petite. Oui, I'll keep you warm. Je fais tu chaud… and safe."
"Oh, mon cheri," she swore, going breathless. "Mon coeur… mon amour! Aimes-moi!"
To seal her bargain, to coax him or cajole him, to winnow her way into his sympathy and affection to hold him to it, she repaid him in the only coin she had left, or perhaps understood. But with passion so intense, so open and eager, so far beyond a coquette's artful practice, that he could not believe her giving of herself so completely was totally feigned, towards the end especially. Panting on his shoulder, tears in her eyes, kisses deep and searing, softly lingering and full of gentleness and seeming affection. As if, for a time at least, the girl could shut the door on her own very real fears for her future. Phoebe had as much need as anyone to abandon herself, deny the terrifying world outside, and sink mindlessly and carefree into a sweet oblivion of her own, surrender time and time again to pleasures so imperative that rife beyond her body's sensations had no terrors which could even compare.
And sleep, at last, draped half over him, her head resting on his chest, clinging in her sleep as doggedly as he had to his raft, so light and sweet, so soft and toasty warm, with her hair spilled like a quilt over them. Sleeping peacefully, purring gentle and slow, twined about him. Completely spent yet happy.
Dreaming perhaps? he wondered as he drowsed alongside, his arms cocooning her. What did whores dream about, anyway? Her world was so narrow, so limited, and she such a willow branch to any wind that blew… did she dream of safety, new gowns, a little place to call her own? Of surviving long enough to continue her same narrow life?
He glanced at his new watch on the night stand by the firelight. Another cheap piece o' work. Just gone eleven, he yawned, completely, utterly spent himself. Yet happy as well, in his own way.
Whatever it'd been-a young whore's practiced arts to earn her passage, or a frightened girl's exquisite gratitude, some small measure of true affection and desire at last awakened-who knew, he asked the ceiling. It had been bestial, magnificent… tender. And grand.
He slept himself, then. As the skies opened and a cold sullen rain began to fall, slashing at the besieged port, driven by a half-gale of wind. Pattering and rattling on the shutters, drumming on the roof slates, making him glad he wasn't at sea on such a fearsome night.
He slept at last as real, natural thunder growled and rumbled, forcing him to nestle closer to Phoebe, to clasp her tighter and feel her reply with a snugger hug of her own as he rolled nearer. As a far-off storm voice marched closer and mingled itself with the dolorous drumming of guns.
Chapter 2
Very far off, someone was shouting something incomprehensible, which sort of sounded like "Allez, allez, vite…" mumble-mumble "le blah-blah-blah… perdu." Dull thuds somewhere. Something Froggish, Lewrie half-decided, and snuggled closer to the warmth of his girl. "… les Republicans arrivent!"
Bad dream; bugger it. Sweet, soft, warm, smooth shoulder…
More thunderings; up the stairs this time? Or the storm still rumbling… guns still rumbling? What else was new?
"Merde alors," Phoebe muttered crossly in his ear, waking first, leaning across him to listen. Her long tresses tickled his nose, half smothering him, but drew him most unwillingly nearer the surface of his pleasant stupor. He opened one eye, beheld a perky young breast, dark aureola and pinkish nipple staring back, an inch from his lips. Alan gave it a little flick with his tongue, thinking that a marvelous way to be awakened.
"Oohn," she groaned, in spite of herself, with a chuckle deep in her throat.
More bloody bangings on the door, hard and insistent.
"Alain, someone eez…" Phoebe prompted sleepily.
"Hmmphff?" he grumbled, rolling on his back. "What?"
"Alain!" a voice shouted as the door burst open with a bang.
At the sight of a man in uniform, a French naval uniform, with a brace of pistols in his belt, Phoebe gave out with a loud scream of pure Royalist terror as she sat bolt upright!
Lewrie felt his hair go on end for a second, until the dim light filtering through the shutters revealed the man to be Charles de Crillart.
"Sacre…" Charles gawped, his face suffusing.
"Christ, Charles, can't you knock, or something?" Alan carped.
"Alain, I… uhh…" Lieutenant de Crillart stuttered, his eyes swiveling from Lewrie's puffy face to Phoebe's bare charms, then back. "Mon Dieu, pardonnez-moi, mon ami…"
Lewrie sat up, claiming the top sheet to shroud his groin as he put his torso between Phoebe and de Crillart. She dragged the coverlet to her chin, huddling tiny in a corner of the bed by the headboard.
"Alain, ze Republicains," Charles explained, stepping out onto the small landing and half-closing the door. " Fort Mul-grave… c'est perdu. Lost!"
"What?" he barked, leaping from the bed for stockings and slop-trousers. "Lost! How?"
"Ze storm? Early zis morn, zey avant vis ze bayonet, wan most of notre powder waz wet, hein? Zey rout ze Espagnols, an' ze British could not 'old out. Une heure ago, zey at las' retreat, into Balaguer. Ze Republicains now 'ave Mulgrave, all ze canon… ze heights overlook L'Eguillette an' Balaguer."
"Christ, that's the end, isn't it?" he fumed, stomping into his boots, tearing his shirt from a wall peg to slip over his head.
"Zat ees non all ze worse, mon ami," Lieutenant de Crillart said in a funereal tone. "Ze sam' time zey… coordinate? General Lapoype, 'is soldiers… zey march up s'rough Arge-liers, an' zey tak' all ze posts on ze mountain of Pharon. Zey 'ave ze canon zere, too."
"Bloody hell." Lewrie paused, rubbing his face. He turned to share a look with Phoebe, who was white and blanched with fear. "Ah… any orders for us yet, Charles?" He hurried to button up his waist-coat and don his stock.
"Non," de Crillart sighed. "Eet eez still rain hard, an' ver' foggy. No one know anys'ing. Or see anys'ing."
Lewrie stepped out to join Charles now he was decent, and shut the door so Phoebe could spring from the bed and dress herself.
"Damme, Pharon gone," Alan fretted, chewing on a thumbnail for a moment. "Heated shot, and the whole place in range, far as Fort Mandrier, so we aren't safe even in the Great Road any longer. And Balaguer and L'Eguillettes under their guns, too…"
"Oui," Charles replied sadly. "Wan ze powder is dry, an' zey 'ave good view? Phfft. Tout est perdu. All eez los'."
"Your gunners, Charles… they've families in Toulon?"
"Oui, some of zem."
"Best tell them to fetch 'em. Here to the guardhouse, for the nonce," Alan decided. "Your family, too. And warn them… don't try to carry away too much of their belongings… do you get my meaning?"
"D'accord," de Crillart nodded firmly.
"I'll go up to headquarters; you take care of your own, for now," Lewrie offered. "We may not have long before the weather breaks, then not much time to arrange shipping. Surely, though, we'll try to get the troops away. And as many Royalists as want to go. I'll try for a ship."
"I will go now," Charles agreed, turning to descend the stairs.
"Charles, the girl…" Lewrie called softly to hold him. "While I'm at headquarters… do you return first? She was Mister Scott's, uhm… girl? Do you keep her safe with the other families. I promised her I would get her on a ship, when the time came. Just didn't know it'd be this bloody soon."
"Oui, I remember 'er, Alain. She eez putain, but…"
"Aye, she is," Lewrie stiffened.
"Alain, mon ami… even les putains 'ave right to live. I keep her safe, until you return."
"Thankee, mate. Merci bien."
Admiral Lord Hood, Major General Dundas, Admiral de Langara and Lieutenant General Valdez, Forteguerri the Neapolitan, Rear Admiral Gravina, Sir Hyde Parker, Prince Pignatelli, Chevalier de Revel and Sir Gilbert Elliot held a quick counsel of war, as the sounds of battle and barrage faded away to nothing. For the moment, the Republicans were as spent as anyone else. Except f
or a few spatters of musketry as patrols in Toulon discouraged looting or sans culottes acts of patriotism, there was little to indicate a crisis had come.
Except for the people in the streets, the handcarts laden with household goods and valuables. Waggons streamed downhill from the outlying districts to the quays, piled up in confusion. Rain continued to fall, a chilly, drizzling misty rain that shrouded the Heights of Pharon and the surrounding mountains, almost cut off any view of de Grasse peninsula. Frightened as they were, the Royalists endured with a stoic calm, waiting for news, waiting for evacuation. Waiting for a ship to board.
It was the foreign troops who were the most unruly, those routed from the heights, the peninsula, those who should have still garrisoned the remaining posts, but who drifted back into town, looking for ships of their own. Neapolitan soldiers were already filtering aboard their line-of-battle ships, Tancredi and Guiscardo. British troops remained disciplined, as did the Spanish. It was they who maintained order in the ranks. Even if they had to threaten the Neapolitans with cannon to make them march out of their positions, turning their own guns on them. There had already been some shooting in Neapolitan lines, where terrified men had panicked and fired off their muskets at any affright, killing or wounding dozens of innocent civilians who'd streamed past on their way to the harbour, thinking them a French advance out of the fog.
Headquarters was not very informative. It was a beehive of men dashing about, of stacks of papers being sorted, of piles of rejects on pyres, and chests and campaign trunks being packed and slammed closed. The sight almost made Lewrie glad he had so little by way of possessions to worry about. He felt more mobile-and quicker when it came time to flee. It made him faintly sour, too, to see the many valuables being carted off. Silver plate, gold ornaments, clocks, an entire crystal chandelier, crates and barrels of rare-vintage wine, cognac… Toulon had been a very rich city, and it now appeared that it was being looted by the defeated, to deny the victors their proper spoils.
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