Lewrie and de Crillart stood on the quarterdeck apart from the other officers allowed on that hallowed ground; serving officers from Royalist units or the 18th Foot, a sprinkling of aristocrats or rich men who'd snuck up anyway.
"Beggin' yer pardon, sir," Will Cony muttered, coming to their side. "Uh, me an' th' bosun need t'speak with you an' Mister de Crillart, sir." Short-handed as they were, Alan had been able to promote Cony to a position as acting bosun's mate. Porter came forward, hat in hand, knuckling his brow in salute.
"Yes, Mister Porter?"
"Ah, cap'um," Porter frowned. "Ya know that foot o' seep-water we pumped out'n 'er yesterd'y, right after we come aboard 'er? Well, sirs… h'it's back… some o' h'it."
"Good Christ, we have a bottom left at all?" Lewrie asked, dumbfounded. "How big a hole would that take, I ask you?"
"Not a 'ole, sir," Cony volunteered. "Maybe lotsa litl'uns. We sounded th' well 'bout half-hour ago, Mister Lewrie, an' she come up wet. 'Bout three, four inch… deep'z a rum cup."
"Cony, she makes three inches in eighteen hours, why hadn't she already sunk at her moorings?" Lewrie gaped.
"Well, sir, my guess be," Porter stuck in, " 'long as she's light-draughted, she'd be fine. Suck in slowlike. But this many folks an' tonnage aboard, full casks and all, she's back on 'er proper waterline… maybe an inch'r two over h'it. We laded 'er deep, sir."
"I see," Lewrie fumed, clasping his hands in the small of his back again and pacing off his sudden fretfulness. "Nothing much we may do about it. Can't go back to the basin and swap for another, can we, now? Is she wormed? And how badly?"
"Aye, sir," Porter confided. "First time we pumped her dry, we checked, and they's some soft patches, sure, but she was mostly sound. 'At Froggie bosun, 'e told us she'd been careened, breamed, an' copper redone in May. Thought she'd weeded too fast, but I took mat for sittin' idle, 'stead o' sailin' h'it off. An' then, we found 'ese. Show th' cap'um, Cony."
Cony offered them a handful of nails to look over. By the light of the binnacle lantern, Alan could see that some were copper and some were iron. Some were bent, as if they'd been driven badly, and pulled.
"Oh, Christ," Lewrie said.
"Sacre-bleu," de Crillart moaned.
" 'As right, sirs," Cony agreed, with a disgusted expression over shoddy workmanship. "Aye, they recoppered 'er, but we foun' these all mixed t'gether, so we think… they got sloppy an' used iron nails, to drive through copper platin', when they laid on fresh stuff, sirs."
"But ev'ryone know, copper an' iron ensemble, in sea-water, zey eat each ozzer," de Crillart cried. "Merde alors, I know ze peegs are lazy, mais not… not stupeed! Paysans connardes, cons comme la lune! Zut! An' now some of ze copper fall away, oui? Expose ze cloth, an'ze caulking? Zat eez ware ve leak, hein? Ils sont dйbiles!"
"Uh, yessir, I guess that'd be h'it, Mister de Crillart," the bosun nodded with an uncomprehending shrug to Charles' stream of invectives. "Uhm, 'bout th' caulkin', Mister Lewrie, sir? Been probin' down below. Like I say, ain't got no big leaks, just seepin', so slow we can't spot it. But some o' th' lowest down, 'long th' keel members… looks like h'it wuz a dirty job o' work, an' they didn' put much effort to h'it."
"Scrimped on oakum and tar, paying the seams, Mister Porter?"
"Aye, sir."
"Damn my eyes," Lewrie spat, putting a hand on his hip, staring aloft. Then realised how foolish he looked. "Right, then, we made four inches of seepage in… well, no, yesterday noon 'til noon today… and it's almost…" He pulled out his cheap replacement watch to add up the hours. But it had stopped. "Buggery, damned clock," he grunted, giving it a shake. "French, I ask you-oh, sorry, Charles."
The forecastle watch bell chimed; six bells of the second dog-half-past seven in the evening.
"Let's say, thirty-two hours to make four inches, that's an inch in every eight hours. Do we work the chain pumps for, say… one hour every eight, and should the seepage not get worse, pray God… we may be alright."
"The hands, though, sir…" Porter winced.
"I know, they've enough on their plates as it is. But we do have all this idle soldiery aboard. The Royal Irish, the French…? Put it to 'em nicely, and we could use them on the pump levers. Charles, you're so much more diplomatique than I, especially with your fellow Frenchmen. Mm, perhaps you might be the one to spread the word? Quietly?"
"D'accord, mon capitaine," de Crillart said with a wry look.
"Might let 'em drill a bit, too," Lewrie decided on a whim. "Get organised. The Major de Mariel in overall command, Lieutenant Kennedy and your brother as his captains? It might keep them out of mischief. And make 'em feel as if they're earning their passage. Appoint some as masters-at-arms, too. Sentries, like Marines. Especially on the magazine and such. Found children dashing in and out of there this afternoon, wild as red Indians. That'll spare our ordinary and able seamen, French or British, and our experienced landsmen too much work."
"Aye, sir," Porter agreed.
"I weel tell zem, mon ami," de Crillart agreed.
"Damme, leaks or no, I'll tell you all, it feels mighty good to be aboard a ship again," Lewrie smiled, revealing too much, being too open for a proper captain. But knowing that they felt the same way and would forgive his lack of august aloofness, for he said no more than any of them might, and thus spoke for them all.
Eight o'clock came and went. Full darkness. The skies were now clearer, the winds dryer, though still cold. They should be starting to burn the French ships, he thought, but there was no sign of that. Some brief firefly glitters on the hills around Mal-bousquet, from L'Eguillette and Balaguer, bright, brief little yellow sparks. Musketry, Alan imagined. A fire or two in Toulon proper… sans culottes' looting and revenge? Abandoned Royalists' homes being trashed? There were redder, longer-lasting sparks now, appearing to come from Dubrun or Millaud… a faint drumming. Light artillery, what the Republicans could man-haul to the shore. Musketry sweeping slowly forward like a grass fire towards the arsenals, the warehouses and the dockyards, downhill from Malbousquet and Missicy. From the heights above Toulon.
Nine o'clock, and still no signal to weigh anchors. Brisk little exchanges of fire, even closer to the dockyards. More light artillery winking amber from the shores.
"Ze end," de Crillart moaned at his side, suddenly. "Ma belle France. Pauvre France. I see 'er no more."
"We'll be back, Charles," Lewrie insisted grimly. "A year. We'll beat 'em, and then you can go back. The Vendйe, up in arms…"
"Ah, a year…" Charles grinned sadly. "C'est dommage. I 'ave nozzing zere anymore. Ze France I know, she eez gone fo'ever. An' ze one een 'er place, I do not weesh to know. She be destroyed, beaucoup de poverty, sadness. D'abord, we lose nos titles… ensuite, we lose our land. Our monnaie, phfft, perdu, mos' of eet. Now, we lose our country."
"There's still the Royalist French Squadron, Charles," Alan reminded him. "They'll need officers, captains…"
"Zere be no squadron, mon ami," de Crillart countered. "Votre roi George, 'e 'ave no need for nous. 'E 'ave eez own Marine Royale, an 'e canno' pay for bo'z. Englan', she pay monnaie pour soldats… for armies, not anozzer Navy. Non. An' no place for officeur franзais in you' Navy. I s'ink I am done viz mon service."
"Any plans, then?"
"I s'ink I like to go to America," Charles chuckled. "Oui, America, Alain! Wan I serve een Chesapeake, ware ve battle you an' I… I see beaucoup de fin' land. Empty, America. Room for many. Maryland, I adore, mos' of all. We 'ave la monnaie, un peu, encore. Passage, an' ze bit of land. Work 'ard, save… mak' crops? Grow riche, encore… peut-кtre."
"Didn't think the Rebels cared for royalty, Charles," Alan warned. "Sure you're doing the right thing? And how would Louis feel about it? No one to call him Chevalier, over there, honour his bloodlines."