The Third Uncle

Chapter Twenty-One: A Rescue

Chapter Twenty-One: A Rescue

Villeneuve was not happy, he loathed losing control, and here was the daemon Clotilde holding the sobbing Francesca by her neck, icy fingers, and icy heart demanding the mirror be open, and he was bound by orders to not interfere. This filthy doppelgänger had the ear of Napoleon Bonaparte! He grimaced further as Clotilde smacked Francesca's head against the mirror again. 'Open it,' she hissed. 'I know you can open it.'

Villeneuve couldn't get his officers involved. He wasn't the type of Admiral to delegate responsibility just to get himself out of an unpleasant situation, but ... he turned his gaze toward the ceiling with narrowing eyes, there were people he could involve in this, people who Napoleon has already made up his mind about.

'Dominique,' he whispered over his shoulder, startling a burly officer standing at his shoulder, instead of his manservant. 'Damn!' He croaked. Dominique hadn't heard, but more importantly, and luckily, neither had Clotilde. Villeneuve scowled at the officer to his right as if he had been the one that incautiously whispered, and motioned, with a twitching of his chin, for him to get Dominique's attention. The officer's puzzled look turned into a quick nod, and he set in motion a silent wave of activity.

Sailors discreetly tapped at shoulders, tugged at sleeves, and each tap, tug and nudge getting ever nearer the manservant, until a short, red-haired sailor discreetly poked a startled Dominique in the side. With the jerk of a stubby thumb, and a bob of his rust-coloured head, he made it clear to Dominique that he was needed by the Amiral.

A not so subtle discourse followed, a pressing together of heads, a rapid pointing of fingers into the air, and a furious amount of whispering that might have raised an eyebrow from Clotilde had it not been for a sudden outbreak of camouflaging coughs from the sailors nearest the two conspirators. As it was, Clotilde's ire was kept firmly upon the unfortunate Francesca, and while that ire burnt brightly, Dominique quietly slipped away, and out the cabin door, running into the sunlight as fast as his long legs could take him.

***

Joseph was in the process of cleaning away cups that had contained hot, frothy coffee, dishes, and trays still littered with the crumbly, caramel residue of butter-filled croissants, and brushing at table linen still sticky with the amber flakes of breakfast sweets. He frowned as Leo leant over, and deposited a napkin atop the growing pile of plates in his arms. He wouldn't have minded really, but he thought he'd be serving the Admiral of the ship, not his old comrades. Gaspard, Leo, Giuseppe and the Captain were seated around the end of a squat, rectangular table, all of them looking remarkably well tailored considering their previous night's failed attack on the ship.

A French marine that had been eyeing them with some disgust walked up behind Gaspard, and pulled him bodily away from the table, rebuking the blonde thief for resting his boots on the tabletop, and then, eyeing the already buttered and jammed croissant on Gaspard's plate, snatched it up, and away, popping it into his mouth with a crumbly grin.

'Rude.' Muttered Gaspard, as the marine stepped back to the wall of the cabin with his mouth still full of pastry. 'Ehm, Joseph?' Gaspard called out to the boy who was balancing a row of plates along the length of his arm. 'I don't suppose there are anymore of those little, sticky, raisin buns?' Joseph eyed him coldly for a moment, before turning to a pastry cart behind him, and, with a certain amount of assured skill he carefully bent forward to pick up a small plate carrying three raisin-filled sticky buns between his teeth, and abrubtly flipped all three buns over his shoulder so that they expertly arced over the heads of the other diners, bounced across the table, and rolled to a stop in front of Gaspard's half-empty glass of orange juice.