"A dozen hands, sir," Railsford reckoned, "and I'd suggest a file of Marines under a corporal to keep an eye on the senior Frogs and the wounded who may try to retake her once she's away from under Barfleur's guns."
"Make it eighteen hands and I shall be grateful to you, Mister Peck, if you could supply ten Marines under a corporal into her."
"Aye, sir," Peck agreed, favoring his splinted and wrapped arm.
"Bless me, but we're a damaged lot this evening," Treghues said with an attempt at good cheer. "Prize-master?"
"Well, I could go into her, sir," Railsford replied shyly. If he were to take Capricieuse into port, he could parley the fame and the glory into a promotion to commander himself, yet badly as he wanted it, he had to act modest, and shrug off his own suggestion.
"No, I shall need you here in temporary command, unless Dorne is playing the fool about my hurts."
"You should not attempt to rise from that bunk for at least a week, sir," Dorne warned him, "until we know there is no lasting harm from the splinters I withdrew."
Treghues winced at the remembrance of how he had been quilled with wood, and the agony of their extraction, some of them acting like barbed arrow-heads that had torn more flesh as they came out.
"Then I shall rest on my laurels until allowed to rise," the captain said with a small grin. Laurels indeed: he had taken a more powerful ship in bloody combat, with a casualty list sufficiently impressive to awe the Admiralty and the Mob at home. Men had been knighted for less. Captain Pearson of Serapis had been knighted for losing to the Rebel John Paul Jones after a splendid three-against-one defense.
"Mister Lewrie," Treghues said, turning his head to gaze upon him. "In Lieutenant Railsford's stead, I shall appoint you into the prize. And I think the post of acting lieutenant would not be out of order after today's gallantry."
"Ah." Alan could only gawp in surprise and weariness. Damme, but don't he shower his favorites with blessings, he thought.
Treghues positively glowed at him. "You did good service today with the guns, and in carrying the boarding of our prize. And I mind you've been prize-master before, after that fight off St. Croix? See, you shall have those paroled French officers aboard, and I doubt they would stand for being guarded by a master's mate. That captain of theirs probably would be insulted with anything less than an earl for his gaoler."
Everyone chuckled appreciatively at Treghues' wit, and he had a small laugh himself, before a cough interrupted him and forced him to sit still until it had passed.
"You shall take a care not to lose my prize, though, young sir," Treghues cautioned with only a hint of humor, and Alan knew if he did, he would be hung from a yard-arm in tar and chains until his bones fell apart.
They sailed on the last day of January 1782, passing noith-about St. Kitts and to windward of the prowling but ineffective French fleet, Desperate repaired enough to accompany them as escort and surety that Capricieuse would make Antigua without mischief.
The weather was balmy and the Trades steady, and a carpenter's mate could have commanded the prize, Alan sneered to himself. With the quarterdeck people and the Marines armed to the teeth, and Desperate's guns not half a mile off at any time, the French gave them no trouble.
Captain de Rosset sulked in the officer's wardroom along with this surviving officers and senior warrants, and Alan made free with the captain's quarters as prize-master, lolling on fine cotton sheets and tippling the best wines and brandies he had tasted since he had left London two years before. De Crillart proved a cheerful companion once he had given his parole-he was only a year older than Alan but a droll wit, not given to too much sobriety about life in general, and unimpressed by life in the French Royal Navy as well. His family did not have connections good enough to gain him a commission in a good cavalry regiment, so the Navy was for him, though most people in France looked down on that Service as second to its magnificent Army. Minor nobility or not, the de Crillarts were a genteelly impoverished lot, and his purse had not run to the fineries of his marquis-captain, which while on passage he savored as much as Alan did, as his gaoler's guest.
One rather sodden night in the privacy of the cabins, Alan and de Crillart dined together, with Lewrie's hammockman, Cony, serving as waiter.
"To 'is Brittaneec Majesty, George the t'ird!" de Crillart proposed, raising his glass on high, which pronunciation of "third" sent Lewrie reeling with mirth.
"'E ees votre roy. What ees so foony?" de Crillart asked.
"Turd, you said," Alan explained between titters. "Nombre trois, in English, is third, not turd. Turd is merde. Dog merde, merde d'chien, merde d'chat, merde d'homme."
"Oh, pardon!" de Crillart gasped as it hit him. "Mon dieu!"
"We call him Farmer George, anyway," Alan went on. "Wants to be thought of as a country squire, when he can't even speak bloody English himself half the time. Vot, Gott in Himmel, eh vot?"
"To 'is Britanneec Majesty, George the… th… third!" the Frenchman managed this time. They drained their glasses, seated. "The King!" Alan echoed. "And to your king. To his Most Catholic Majesty…"
"Dat ees the Espagnole, Lewrie."
"Well, to Louis what's his number, then."
Then de Crillart had to propose a toast to Treghues, whose name he didn't even attempt to butcher, and Alan countered with one to his own captain, Marquis de Rosset, which drew a flash of anger from his supper guest before the young man drained his glass in a gulp.
"Not too fond of him, are you?" Alan surmised.
"'E ees the buffoon, eh?" de Crillart grimaced. "A fool."
"So is ours," Alan confided, leaning over the table.
Alan explained how Treghues had been addled by a rammer, cut at to relieve pressure on his brain, and what odd medicine he was taking. He also told of the escape from Yorktown, and what the rest of the Navy had thought of that.
"You were in Chesapeake?" de Crillart gasped happily. "Moi, aussi! Une fregate in York Reever? Formidable! Capricieuse aussi, le potence to keep you in, n'est-ce pas?"
"Sonofabitch! Really?" Alan barked. "Cony, he was there!"
"Oh, notre capitaine very anger you escape. After 'e swear no one get out. And how tres ironique, we fight at last. Capitaine de Rosset 'e… 'e 'ave great anger to pass you. I z'ink 'e 'ave need to be victorieuse, after York Reever." De Crillart shrugged.
"Ours, too," Alan agreed. "My God, Charles, look here. If we had had a different captain, we'd never have needed to have fought you, just kept you from getting into Basse Terre with that schooner. Treghues needed a victory to regain his bloody reputation!"
"And de Rosset need le combat to avenge ees criteecs! Merde, eef any ozzer capitaine 'ave Capricieuse, we sail avec no challenge!" de Crillart realized. "So many bon hommes are le mort for zees…"
"Touchy bastards," Alan supplied.
"Oui, toochy bastards."
After that mutual admission, their friendship grew firm, until by the time Desperate and her prize were under the guns of the hill forts in the outer roads of English Harbor, he was sorry to see the fellow have to go.
They parted with many cries of "bonne chance" and promises to keep in touch, and then the world settled down to a long string of boredom once more. Alan stayed aboard Capricieuse for weeks as prize-master. Sir George Sinclair was out with some of his Inshore Squadron, so only Prize Court officials and the Dockyard Superintendent were available to upset their lives. Some more repairs were made, with little help with spares from the dockyard unless heavy bribes were offered, but there were too few hands from shore to take over charge of her as she was laid up in-ordinary awaiting her fate. Desperate swung at her anchors, too, repaired as well as could be managed under the circumstances, her burst gun replaced, but with no orders to either join Sir George their commodore, or return to St. Kitts.