Chapter Sixteen: Men of War

   The fog chased, and danced over the early morning sunshine. In through the open window of the ship,  it surprised the busy dust motes as they hurriedly flew this way and that on the bright, salty breeze. The brume caressed the uneven wood of the cabin wall, and ever so slowly dripped down it, forming little mercury rivulets on the floor that slid back and forth as the ship bobbed in the current.

   Sunlight crept up over the edge of the windowsill, and licked at Oliver’s twitching nose. He had been up for hours. Up, watching, and waiting for Joseph to awake. He softly padded across the simple, sparsely furnished room and hopped up onto the edge of the hammock, balancing himself, all four paws held at irregular angles to compensate for the gentle back and forth swaying of the berth. 

   Satisfied he found his footing, he surveyed the contraption that held them both aloft. It was a rough, sweet smelling hemp twine, that was tied to the ceiling, and stretched taught by the weight of Joseph. The boy's limbs were saved from sticking through the numerous holes by a generously large linen sheet that had been placed over it. Oliver bent his nose down and sniffed at it, he loved the strong smell. Egyptian linens, he thought.

   Stretching his whiskers into the morning light with a little mewling meow, he made his way down along the edge of the hammock, enjoying the cooling sensation of the soft material beneath his paws, he then stepped up onto Joseph’s chest. He looked down at the boy, his regular breaths rising and falling in a gentle sonorous symphony. Oliver sighed and swished his tail impatiently, meowing again ... he was hungry! He reached out a large, hopeful paw, and delicately tapped Joseph on the nose. Joseph grunted, waved a hand in the air above Oliver’s head and rolled over, causing the hammock to pitch back and forth.  

   Joseph had been up late, even later than late. The surprising arrival of Gaspard with wild stories of evil spirits, good spirits, and the kidnapping of a girl named Francesca had set the ship into a flurry of activity. Leo had turned suddenly sullen at the news and inexplicably demanded to see the grey cat Gaspard had brought with him. Queen Antoinette had turned pink in the face, her agitation revealing itself when her usually imperceptible Austrian accent rang clear like a Teutonic bell as she gathered the remaining men around her, and barked orders at each of them. 

  And Joseph? Well, they then grabbed Joseph by the scruff of his neck and included him in an impossibly daring midnight raid against the French warships floating in the distant harbour.

                                                            *   *   *

   The black waves roared and crashed against the coast, the water crested in a blue phosphorescence beneath the starless sky. Leo pressed two reassuringly meaty hands down on Joseph’s shoulders as their group rolled through the rough sea around them, ever nearer the looming shadow of the French Man O’war. A spray of water washed over their tiny jolly boat, stinging his eyes. Joseph pressed the palms of his hands against his cheeks, and looked up at the silhouette of the silent ship as the others pulled the oars against the rise and fall of the swell. “Le Glorieux” was carved into the back of the frigate in large, gold letters. Rain started to fall now, and little streams of cool water raced over the side of the ship. ‘She carries seventy-four cannons,’ whispered Leo. ‘She’s not the biggest, but she is certainly formidable.’ They both silently noted the three masts that shot straight up into the sky, and how she rocked dangerously over the rough water. The Captain appeared on Joseph’s left, and pressed his head next to his face, whispering into Joseph’s ear. ‘We’re going to try and find purchase on the beam ends,’ he said. The Captain gestured at the side of the ship, just in case Joseph wasn’t clear as to where the beam-ends were. He did, of course, but he was too polite to say so. The Captain took his silence as a silent question for more information, so he continued on.‘The portholes have been sealed against this weather,’ he said. ‘And if we are quieter than this damned squall we’ll have a chance of surprising the French, and discovering Francesca’s whereabouts.’  

                                                             *   *   *

   Oliver poked  Joseph again. Poke, poke, poke. He considered extracting a claw, just one, mind, but then, thinking the better of it, he tried a gentle jab at the skin stretched over the twitching eyeball instead. And ... nothing. Oliver groaned a throaty cat groan as  Joseph’s nose did a little summersault, and tooted out another low snore.

                                                                       ____

    The raid had a lot of merit. The plan was to sneak aboard the great, hulking French Man O’war, and to discover what, if anything, was known about the whereabouts of Francesca. This was the one consensus that was reached by all concerned. So, when all the men had recovered from Marie Antoinette’s bullying, they all nodded with enthusiasm when she insisted Francesca must be nearby. It didn’t make much sense to Joseph, but who was he to quibble with all the important peoples around him.

                                                               *   *   *

   Giuseppe had a thick rope of hemp twined around his arm. On one end of the rope was a tiny, but weighty anchor, which he let hang over the side of their small boat. He stood up, his legs as wide apart as he could manage, and he began to twirl the cord around faster and faster. He let go of the rope, and they all watched as it soared up into the night and rain ... and then fall heavily into the water next to them with a splash as it failed to find purchase on the ship’s side. ‘Dannazione!’ He swore loudly, and then, abruptly realising the need for silence, he blushed red with shame, and quickly gathered up the rope and anchor for another try. The Captain pulled on an oar, steadying the small boat abaft the larboard beam end. Giuseppe was so close to the ship, that he was able to reach out and touch the shiny, rocking hull of the great craft. Giuseppee twirled the rope around and around again, and then, again, let it go with all his might. The force of the throw made him lose his balance. He suddenly pitched forward. Leo sprang up, and the whole boat abruptly wobbled, tipping dangerously, as the swollen sea rushed over the edge of the side. Grabbing Giuseppe by the collar and pulling him backward, he saved him from falling overboard, and the boat slid up over an emerald wave and was right again. 

The anchor caught!

   The three of them smiled at one another in the rain and darkness, and even Joseph looked pleased at their success ... but now came the hard part. Now they had to climb up the wet side of a rocking ship in the middle of the night, in the middle of a storm. Even Joseph knew that to slip and fall meant certain death beneath the crushing bulk of the Man O’war, and nevermind that he still couldn’t swim!

                                                              *   *   *

    One of those extra fuzzy and furry, gold and black bumblebees you only seem to see in the first, early days of summer buzzed in through the cabin window. The olive-shaped bee lazily wound its way round and round the calm room before targeting a blue, China vase haphazardly stuffed with lavender stems that stuck out all over at different lengths and angles. 

   Oliver spasmed. He was touched with momentary paralysis at the sight of this insect intruder. His ears suddenly pointed off in two completely different directions, his green eyes bulged out, his irises involuntarily narrowed into two, tiny, sharp slits, and his whiskers shot forward like a spray of ivory tusks. 

   He honestly couldn’t believe his eyes, a bumble, of all things! Shaking himself out of his stupor, he gave the bee his best evil eye, before nonchalantly deciding he might need to appear ... calm ... yes, calm and casual. He twitched his nose, did his best at appearing indifferent and dignified, and then he started to preen. Raising a paw and giving it a lick, he proceeded to rub it from the top of his head, along the grey and black line of his cheekbone, and all the way down to his cream-coloured chin. He, like most cats, prided himself on being an expert groomer. Oliver kept busy, but also kept his gaze on this noisy bee as it busily floated from lavender blossom to lavender blossom. 

                                                               *   *   *

    The climb up the side of “Le Glorieux” was as dangerous as Joseph had dreaded - worse. Leo insisted on Joseph climbing between them, that way, if anything happened, someone could help him. Joseph nodded, and groaned. Climbing up a rope, a wet rope, in the black night?! Up the side of a pitching, rolling Man O’war in this unforgiving tempest? Where was Marie Antoinette? Not here! She was safe and warm awaiting their successful return - she made a point of stressing exactly how successful they would be, and to not even think about returning unless their mission was a prosperous one, as she waved them off into this cursed amethyst coloured squall. 

   His hands had burnt, oh how they burnt!. The Captain led the way, followed by Gaspard, Leo, Joseph and Giuseppe, who anchored the rope at the rear. The rain streamed down Joseph’s face, his hair sticking to his scalp in uneven clumps. The wind whipped at his wet clothes, determined to carry him off the swinging rope. He pulled. Hand over hand, palm over palm, his feet slipping and sliding against the hull of the ship. All of a sudden, a gust of heavy air lifted him bodily away from the ship, sending him spinning around and around like the pennants flying beyond the masthead above them. The squall suddenly changed direction. It slammed him back into the unforgiving hull with a bang. 

                                                       He let go.

    Curses. He swallowed silent curses before they escaped his lips. He swore he wouldn’t mind being a waiter again, not if he lived through this! He prayed, and promised he’d be the best waiter ever. God, please, he prayed. How long had he fallen? It felt like forever in the storm. He was sure it had been forever. His head cracked against the unseen ship, his legs and arms oscillated like a pinwheel, and there was such noise! The noise. The swearing. ‘Maledetto ...’ He suddenly stopped falling. ‘... cameriere inglese!’ And then another, louder curse. ‘Dannazione!’

   Giuseppe couldn’t help himself. Joseph had slipped, hammering down against his head and shoulders. The big Italian was only just able to get his large hand around Joseph’s ankle, and with all of his might he held him there. Both of them swinging like a broken pendulum, the wind and the lashing rain conspiring to pry his porcine digits from the rope, and plunge them both into the swelling, obsidian sea.

                                                              *   *   *

   ‘Heeey you,’ Oliver mewled. ‘Must you be such a noisy bumble?’ The bee paused for a moment, considering the slightly pudgy, grey tabby cat, and the rather odd accent it spoke in. ‘Italian,’ decided the bee, and then, as the morning air blew the sweet scent of lavender under its wings, it quickly found the cat altogether uninteresting, and continued to busily work at a particularly stubborn bloom. Peeved, Oliver padded his way back across Joseph’s stomach so that he was a little closer to the bee. ‘I sssay,’ he drawled. ‘I haven’t seen many bumbles this year, I’ve been in the city you know ...’ he waited for effect. ‘Paris.’ He waited again. ‘... France.’ He shot the bee an important look, but, unimpressed at this little bit of news, it buzzed over to another violet blossom. 

   What did bees care for the city? They smelled of horses, humans and the filth they trod upon. The gardens were second rate compared to the country, and yet ... the bee lingered at the edge of a stem, letting it bend in a quiet arc under its weight, ... and yet bouquets were lovely, delicious things to stumble upon. Bouquets and flower shops ... the bee and the stem drooped down a little further. Didn’t it have a cousin in Paris? No, no ... the bee rubbed his silver wings together, it wasn’t Paris, it was Chartres. He remembered tales of flower shops that were full to bursting with all sorts of posies, clover, pink roses and jasmine ... ooh jasmine! A tiny, happy sigh escaped the bee at the thought of a perfectly, delectable bunch of heavily perfumed, and creamy jasmine. The stem drooped further still, and the bee’s wings brushed against the surface of the pinewood end-table, and the insect, shocked at finding itself thus, let go of the stem and buzzed its way back up to the top of the lavender blossoms once again. Goodness, it thought, I mustn’t lose myself in reverie, not when there is still so much work to do today!

                                                                 *   *   *

   It was the Captain’s cool head and quick thinking that saved them, for he was first on deck, and first to notice something was wrong. He hurriedly pulled Gaspard and Leo over the rail, and with an urgent shared look that only men accustomed to adventure have, he set the two of them to assist in the steadying of the rope and to heave the injured Joseph, and still complaining Giuseppe up, and aboard.

   They crouched near the rail, and tended to Joseph’s head. Joseph was glad of their attention, feeling quickly much better for it. He did his best to smile, and focussed his gaze outward, inspecting the surrounding harbour. The rain continued to fall like a grey blanket, obscuring all but the deep shadows of the other ships, all of them, were anchored nearby waiting out the inclimate weather. He turned his attention back to the “Le Glorieux” the deck was empty for the most part. Whatever was on the expansive deck was battened down, and silent beneath the storm. Joseph sighed, his muscles ached and water dripped from his nose. He looked longingly at the Captain’s oilskin, a heavily oiled peacoat that protected him from just this sort of weather. Imagine not feeling wet?

   Leo grabbed Joseph and pulled him into their huddle, squinting against the rain to get his bearings. He whispered that the ship was ahull, her helm held to leeward, and her sails were reefed against the strong winds blowing over them. This was supposedly the best position for the ship to be in, in this storm, and Joseph was only thankful that the big ship rolled with the waves, instead of jumping off them like their little boat waiting for them below. Gaspard interupted, poking Leo and the Captain, and pointed  forward toward the bow of the ship. The shadows of two French sailors could just be made out, both supposed to be on watch, but both deciding the weather was just too much to bear. They were crouched together, perhaps sharing an off-colour joke to make the nightwatch pass that much quicker. 

   With a nod, the Captain motioned them to be quiet, and then they rose, creeping along the rail, their heads held low so as not to attract attention to themselves. Gaspard pulled out his pistol, and turning it round in his hand, for it was too wet to do any good as a firearm, he invoked the skills, and experience of his thieving feet to delicately tip-toe up behind the two sailors. One of them gave a start when he realised there was someone beside him. He was likely more worried that it was an officer that had caught him in neglect of his duty, but that didn’t last long as Gaspard hammered the butt end of the pistol against his head, and then Gaspard just as quickly grabbed the second sailor by the hair, giving him a swift crack on the head too. He turned, smiling, his teeth shining in the blackness. ‘All clear,’ he happily whispered.

   Joseph grimaced, a little jealous at this display of bravado, but scamperred on after Leo and the Captain as they caught up to Gaspard. They now turned their attention abaft, silently making their way to the French captain’s cabin. Leo took off his spectacles, and pressed his head against the closed door. Holding a finger to his lips he motioned the Captain over. With a look and a wink, the Captain pulled out his sword, and Leo silently pulled open the door latch.

                                                              *   *   *

   ‘Ahemmm.’ The bee looked up to see Oliver had silently hopped up atop the dresser, and was now almost eye to eye with the feline. ‘I don’t suppose,’ he mewed. ‘You saw any fish on your way in? It’s only that I’m hungry and he -’ Oliver flicked his thin tail over at Joseph, who now had copious amounts of dribble migrating down his chin and onto the pillow. ‘He is not waking up,’ the cat continued. ‘And the sun has been in the sky forever now.’

   The bee, too, was an early riser, and was certainly a little skeptical about the sun being up forever, such actors these cats, it thought. The insect was getting a little stressed at the very little it had got done so far that morning. The bee stared at Oliver, and then buzzed in a non-committal way, searching left and right for an untouched piece of lavender. ‘I mean,’ Oliver continued. ‘When you get dragged around the world, one expects a little pampering, in fact ...’ Oliver twitched his whiskers conspiratorially, lowering his nose toward the bee. ‘Without me Gaspard wouldn’t have even been able to make it here!’ Oliver looked at the bee, hoping for a response, and when he realised he wasn’t going to get one, he licked at his nose, and sneezed, pretending he hadn’t really cared for a response after all. Oliver couldn’t help looking a little hurt though, and dragged his claws along the pale, blonde wood of the cabinet a little sadly. ‘Have you met Gaspard?’ He ventured, speaking up again. ‘He’s much better looking than that one,’ he wrinkled his nose in Joseph’s direction, ‘and smells better too I think ...’ The bee hadn’t met Gaspard, and couldn’t care less about “that one”! My goodness this cat just wouldn’t shut up! 

   The bee hopped over to a flower on the opposite side of the vase, and turned its back to Oliver. Oliver, nonplussed, and oblivious to the bee’s desire for privacy lay down next to the vase, stretching himself out along side of it, so that his head was now beneath the buzzing bee. He blinked up at it, admiring the fuzziness of the bumble. A ray of sunlight reflected off the open window as the ship bobbed in the current, and it momentarily lit up the tiny, silvery wings of the bee. ‘Oooh, that reminds me,’ said Oliver with a large yawn. ‘You haven’t ssseen a young girl with amazingly dark, curly hair, have you?’ Oliver always admired Francesca’s curls, as they reminded him of a mermaid’s curls. ‘Only, everyone is looking for her, and I believe the sssooner she is found, the sssooner I can get back to a nice, fresh, pink sssalmon ...’ Oliver’s eyes glazed over at the thought of the nice, fresh, pink salmon, and he started to noisily lick his lips. The bee had been unaware of Oliver, it had tuned him out, and, in fact, it was happy that it had finally found a nice, plump lavender blossom, just bursting with pollen. It was very nearly done collecting the last of the pollen when it happened to glance downward, and was shocked to see Oliver’s wide open mouth, rimmed with two rows of perfectly white, razor sharp teeth just beneath its fuzzy, black and gold bottom.

   The bee gave a shrill buzz of horror, and shot straight up into the air, smacked its head against the roof of the small cabin and growled a tiny bee growl.

    The bee was angry.

    The air inside the cabin was stale. They all gathered together, crouching over in the narrow space just inside the oak door. The rainwater dripping from their clothes onto the floor sounded like a too near military tattoo, thought Joseph, as he whacked the side of his head to clear the water from his ears. His eyes adjusted to the blackness. He knew it was considered large ... luxurious even for a Man O’war, but in reality it was a tiny room. Give me the spaciousness of an airship any day! He thought. 

    There wasn’t much to see, a desk, a long, rectangular dining table, and a few chairs that were held fast with twine, a divan and an oil picture depicting a sea battle hung against the far wall, and that was it really. Gaspard tugged at his sleeve and pointed to a door at the back of the cabin. 'This would be where the French captain was berthed,' He whispered. Stepping round the table, he looking at the room. Gaspard found a brandy glass, picked it up, and held it between his ear and the door. ‘I can hear him snoring,’ he grinned. ‘See what you can find in the desk drawers, be quick about it!’ Joseph frowned, who was he to be giving orders to him?! He padded over, and started tugging at the drawers regardless, pulling out a half-dozen charts and a ship’s diary. ‘The diary!’ Whispered Leo, excitedly. ‘Pass that here!’ 

   Giuseppe stood at the entrance to the cabin, guarding against anyone that might interrupt them. The Captain and Leo quickly pocketted whatever Joseph pulled from the drawers, while Gaspard continued to monitor the captain’s berth. He rolled his eyes in the darkness. What amateurs, he thought. They’d make poor thieves for sure! The poorest! He giggled despite himself, and then stopped. Silence? He suddenly swallowed. The snoring had stopped! He waved his hands wildly at the others, motioning them all to be quiet. ‘Shh!’ They all looked up and froze.

                                                               *   *   *  

   Oliver watched as the alarmed bee leapt frantically from the lavender, spinning up into the air and bashing itself into the ceiling above. Tsk, he thought. This bee is certainly uppity. I had thought it was the wasps that were the temperamental ones, not the jolly, fat bumble. Oliver stretched again, pointing all four paws out as far as he could, and then just held them there, happy toes, happily splayed, as he lay on his back beneath the jumble of fragrant lavender. Mmm, he sighed, if my stomach weren’t quite so empty this would be a divine spot to spend the afternoon. He twitched his nose, whiskers and ears, trying to see what had happened to the bee. Had the bumble gone? 

    A sudden, sharp, red-hot burning, itching, poking, pricking, sting sent Oliver sailing up with a shriek. He flew just as high as the bee had moments before, crashing into the ceiling with a yelp, paws bristling with claws, and his tail puffed up like a row of startled hedgehogs. ‘Meowowowow!’ He cursed the bumble (who was actually in pretty good spirits right now) and fell in an un-catlike heap atop poor Joseph.

     Shocked awake, Joseph leapt up from the hammock, a mess of linen, limbs and ... ‘Oliver!’ He roared. ‘What the hell is going on!’ ... and then he lost his footing on the cabin’s smooth floor, and fell with a loud smack onto his bottom. ‘Ouch!’ Joseph angrily blinked the sleep from his eyes, focused on the large, grey feline, and groaned ... did the cat look embarrassed? Do cat’s ever look embarrassed? ‘Crikey, mate!’ Said Joseph sleepily. ‘What the ..?’ He rubbed his head. ‘Was that really necessary?’ He pouted, rubbing his bottom.

   Joseph wasn’t yet sure if he liked the cat, in much the same way he wasn’t yet sure if he liked the cat’s owner. Gaspard had arrived with a quiet confidence that Joseph only wished he had. He grimaced at the memory of Gaspard strutting onto the deck as if he had always been there, his too friendly demeanor, his clothes just so, and with his irritatingly effortlessly coiffed blonde hair ... Joseph sighed, and absently raised a hand to his own mussed hair, tugging at it. ‘Dumb Gaspard!’ He suddenly huffed, causing Oliver to quietly jump up. The feline glared at him, and then quietly composed itself, stepping on top of Joseph in an ever tightening circle, and then dangled his upright tail beneath Joseph’s nose. ‘Atchoo!’ Joseph sneezed, yawned, and then roughly patted the cat on the head as if he were a small dog. Joseph sleepily looked around the cabin, and deciding it was still early hours, he let himself fall backward onto the still cool linen with a yawn, and happily rocked back and forth.

   Oliver couldn’t believe his eyes! Joseph was back in the hammock! Does the boy not eat?! With a grunt, he hopped back up to the edge of the berth, stomping his charcoal paws across the sheets. He then settled his long, grey body on top of Joseph’s legs, and started kneading. ‘Ow. ow. ow. ow.’  Joseph reached out, and tried to pry the cat loose, but the feline had an uncanny ability to cling to his skin as if his claws were furnished with tenterhooks.

   Exhaling a loud sigh, he lay his head back down against the pillow, grumpily re-fluffed it, and stared up at the ceiling. A bee was noisily flying around the cabin in circles, it slowed, and hovered over a vase of spilled lavender, as if it was deciding whether it might be worth the effort. Joseph could have sworn the bee gave him .. or was it Oliver? ... An irritated look? He closed his eyes, and shook his head, need more sleep, he thought, but when he opened them again, the bee had gone. It had shot out of the window, easily allowing the sea breeze carry it back to the shore.

   A knock at the door brought him out of his reverie. A young boy with dark, short-cropped hair, and lips a little too bright for his pale complexion poked his head in. ‘Excusez-moi, monsieur, mais le amiral souhaite désormais son petit déjeuner.’ Joseph looked at him blankly, and the boy stared back, and then rolled his eyes, repeating himself. ‘Excusez-moi, monsieur ...’ He paused, ‘ ... but le amiral ...’ He stressed this word, hoping Joseph would be able to understand the importance of it. ‘Le Admiral would like his ...’ He paused again, searching for the word. ‘Breakfast.’ He finished, finally, adding a ‘now’ as an afterthought. He looked pointedly at Joseph once more to see if he had indeed made himself clear, and then closed the door, but, thinking the better of it, he pushed it back open and walked away.

   Sighing, Joseph rolled out of the hammock. They had all, of course, been captured. Captured by a light-sleeping captain, and this of course was an Admiral’s flotilla, and Joseph’s prayers were answered, as he had quickly been instated as the Admiral’s pet English waiter on the Admiral’s very own Man O’war. He wondered what had become of Gaspard, Leo, Giuseppe and the Captain. He reached down to grab his boots, when something brushed up against his leg. Looking down, he stared at Oliver, and it struck him suddenly odd. ‘And how the hell did you get here, anyway?!’ He asked the cat. Oliver just blinked at him and meowed.