Dewey Lambdin - H.M.S. COCKEREL

"Strike?" Alan gasped. "Amenez? Vous кtes le capitaine?"

"Oui," the fellow wheezed, slipping to his knees.

"Amenez-vous? You strike?" Lewrie demanded.

"Oui," the man nodded weakly, eyes shut and filled with tears.

"Lisney?" Alan called out.

" 'E's dead, sir," Seaman Gold said at his side, gasping for air himself and bleeding from several scrapes and cuts.

"Take him, Gold. He's your prisoner," Lewrie ordered, filled with wonder. He strode aft to the taffrail, cutlass ready should any of the foemen huddled there present a danger. But they threw down all their weapons at his fell approach.

"Cockerels! Mes amis! Quarter! Merci! They've struck to us!" he shouted, turning to face the soldiers of the 18th, the Royal French infantry coming up to the quarterdeck. Then took hold of the flag halliard and set it free. Hauled in. And lowered the gigantic Tricolour battle flag to drape below the stern, trailing in the water, over the captain's stern gallery, in sign of her defeat.

"Cap'um, sir," Cony summoned, as Lewrie leaned against the taffrails, feeling utterly spent, woozy and weary beyond belief. "Mister Lewrie, sir? 'Tis Mister de Crillart, sir. Ya gotta come quick, sir. He's adyin', sir, an' 'e's askin' f r ya."

Lewrie lowered his head to his knees for a second, took several restoring breaths, then followed. As cheers of victory began to rise, as men opened their mouths to yell to the heavens that they were still ah've and able to yell… Lewrie found his friend.

Charles de Crillart had been blown almost in half, just as he'd begun to ascend the starboard quarter-deck ladder up from the waist, he had been the first man struck by a load of grape-shot from a swivel gun. His heels still rested over his head on the ladder, the rest sprawled awkwardly… brokenly… at its foot. His head below his trunk, perhaps, was all that kept him conscious.

"Alain…" he muttered weakly, clawing at the deck in agony, as the shock wore off and the pain of his ravaged lower body sank in. His legs were both broken, almost amputated, his belly plumbed by shot.

"Here, Charles," Alan groaned when he saw him. He could not help sinking to his knees beside him. De Crillart reached out blindly, eyes wavering back and forth as if his sight was already slipping, and Alan took his hand.

"Maman… et, ahahh!" he flinched, trying not to writhe to his intense pain, yet having to, which caused even more. "Maman et Sophie, Alain. I am going, I canno' aid… ahhh!"

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.