Upstairs in the Crown

Foucheaux awoke with a splash. It was completely dark, and he was almost completely immersed in water. Where was he? Was he in the hold of a ship? He was going to drown! He was in a sinking ship! And they had all forgotten him! He tried to stand up, but everything was too slippery. He flung out his hands and encountered only walls, glassy smooth walls which made no sense, but that hardly mattered now.

"HELP!" he shouted, his voice echoing and reverberating through the small dark area.

"What the bloody hell are you doing in there?" demanded Christian, staring down at the half drowned Frog, unsure whether to be amused or bewildered by his discovery.

Thank God, thank God, a light, a human voice! At that moment, Foucheaux did not know or care whether the man was English or French. All he heard and saw was a rescuer from a watery death, and a way out of this little flooded cabin. Foucheaux grabbed at the side of the slippery box he was in and heaved himself out, kicking something in the process that caused more water to come bursting in. His tumble on the floor was slightly cushioned by a rug, a dry rug if he had taken the time to notice, but he was preoccupied by his narrow escape.

He scrambled to his feet and grabbed the man by the shoulders. "Thank you! Thank God! Please, get me out of here!"

"Oi!" Christian spluttered, instinctively shoving the other fellow back, "What are you on about?"

Foucheaux stumbled backwards, his legs hitting the side of the box, and he fell in a sitting position back into the cold water. So this fellow was English. But surely the man would not leave him to drown!

What kind of hell was this? Foucheaux could not remember anything. Was this one of those prison hulks?

"Please!" he exclaimed, attempting to pull himself out of the box again. This time he noticed that the rest of the room was dry. The water was contained in the box. Was it some sort of trough? Was the man going to drown him in the trough? Foucheaux wanted to weep, with vexation as much as terror or panic.

Narrowly avoiding the Frog's flailing legs, Christian leaned over, grabbed a handful of his coat and hauled him out onto the floor. There was a small, somewhat furry looking blanket hanging on the wall; he pulled it down and dropped it over the other man, then took a step back, watching the fellow with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

Foucheaux flinched as the other man grabbed him, fully expecting to be plunged under the gushing water, but instead he found himself hauled out onto the floor.

"Thank you, thank you," he gasped through chattering teeth, his pounding heart overflowing with gratitude to his life-saving captor. He registered the blanket that the man gave him, but he was too frightened to think about it now. The water was still gushing in, and surely it would soon overflow the trough. If this was a ship, wouldn't it sink with all the seawater coming in?

He reached out and tried to block the gushing water with his hand. When that proved completely ineffective, he tried to stop up the hole with his blanket. "Help me! We have to stop it!" he shouted over his shoulder.

Christian regarded the whole scene somewhat skeptically. It was nonsensical, beginning to border on absurd. It was a dream. It had to be.

Despite himself, he felt a bit bad for the Frog. The man had all the grace of a half-drowned cat and he seemed terribly distressed by the running water. Though, come to think of it, the water was not showing any sign of stopping or even slowing down and it occurred to Christian that this could soon make the entire situation quite uncomfortable if not downright problematic.

Pulling the strange blanket off of the equally strange Frenchman, Christian wadded it up and bit by bit managed to jam it tightly into the opening from which the water gushed and, at least for a moment, this seemed to work.

He watched as the Englishman stopped the hole with the blanket. Foucheaux was no sailor, but even he knew that a blanket wouldn't hold all that water back for long. As soon as the rosbif was finished, Foucheaux grabbed his arm to pull him out the door. They'd bought themselves a bit of time, but now it was time to run!

"Gerroff!" Christian exclaimed, pulling free of the Frenchman's grip just in time to hear a splash and the renewed sound of running water. Dammit!

Casting a wary eye over his shoulder just in case the Frog tried anything, Christian stepped back into the small room and peered critically at the strange trough and spigot. There were two handles on either side. He tried pulling one. Nothing. With the water just shy of the rim of the trough now, he tried twisting the handle. The sound of rushing water got louder.

"Oh, shite..." He hastily turned it back and tried the other. The water slowed somewhat. Encouraged he kept twisting it until the gushing ceased altogether.

He turned round to face the Frenchman, a mildly exasperated expression on his face. "Happy now?"

Foucheaux stared at the trough and back at the redcoat. He had done it! Hadn't he? They were safe?

Safe. Now, looking around the outer room for the first time, he realized he was not on a ship. This was some kind of palace! What the hell was going on here? And he was dripping all over the soft rug, and he was afraid to move or touch anything. He stood there petrified, moving only to cross himself.

The Frog did not look happy. In fact he looked positively miserable. Christian took a couple careful steps closer. "Hey, you alright?" The man probably didn't speak any English, but it was all he could think of to say. No one had ever told him how to address strange men he might find drowning in closets.

Foucheaux shivered and turned his wide eyes to the redcoat again. "What is this place?" he asked in a quiet monotone.

Well, that figured. "Where the devil are we, anyway?" He moved across the room towards the window, but all that revealed was the wall of an adjacent building. Not helpful.

There was a small fire going in the fireplace. That, at least, seemed blessedly mundane. "Hey. Yeah, you, Frog," he beckoned for the man to come over. "C'mere."

Foucheaux obediently came nearer, staring expectantly at his captor. Of course he was going to obey anything this man said, as long as it kept him safe.

"By the fire, idiot," Christian said mildly, nodding toward the blaze. "To dry off like."

The man was looking at the fire. He wanted Foucheaux to stand near the fire. Or did he want him to tend the fire? It looked fine as it was (though something cooking over it would have been even finer). Perhaps the man was simply giving him an opportunity to warm up. His teeth were chattering, he realized. The cold and sopping wet clothes did not help. He looked questioningly at his guard. "Could I take off my coat?" he asked meekly, reaching demonstratively for the buttons.

What the devil was he asking him for? At least Christian assumed that was what he was asking. "Yeah, go on."

Foucheaux peeled off the coat and looked for a place to put it. There was a chair, and he dragged it close to the fire and draped his coat over the back of it, eyeing the Englishman warily the whole time. He did not want to make any sudden moves that might cause the man to shoot him or anything dangerous like that. And now, well, he may as well remove his shoes and gaiters and waistcoat. He sat down slowly in the chair, not taking his eyes off of the redcoat fellow.

"What is this?" Jérémie wanted to know. He'd been drawn upstairs by the shout and following racket. The English sailors had not stopped him leaving the parlour, strangely. Not that it mattered, necessarily. He was still wearing the luxurious soft white robe, having found he was entirely unwilling to be rid of it.

To his surprise, he discovered that one of the room's occupants was a countryman, or at least a man in the French service. The uniform was impossible to mistake. But what was he doing here? And who was this redcoat who stood guard over him?

Foucheaux turned startled eyes toward the door as it opened, and his surprise continued as the man in the white robe spoke in French. It was not until he heard the voice that he recognized the face, since he had hardly ever seen him out of uniform.

"Blanchard? Rosy! You're here too?" He grabbed him by the shoulders and embraced him, laughing with nearly hysterical relief to have seen a familiar face in this strange prison. "It's me, Foucheaux! Remember?"

Well, shite. Christian took a step back, watching the two Frenchman carefully. The fellow whom he had found drowning in the closet had been docile enough, but the arrival of the strange, fluffy Frog meant that they now had him outnumbered.

His eyes strayed to the nearby stand of fire pokers, but he resisted the impulse to grab one. Neither of the others appeared to be armed and he had no intention of escalating things if he could help it.

Foucheaux? Jérémie blinked in surprise at the other man's reaction, but recovered swiftly enough to return it. At least there was another of his company here. Did that mean there were more, somewhere?

"I am," he replied. "So is Kerjean, downstairs. Have you been swimming?"

He realised, after stepping back, that Foucheaux was soaked nearly through. What had been going on up here? He glanced at the redcoat with both eyebrows raised questioningly, even though he was aware that the poor sod would not be able to understand them. Nor, as it happened, they him.

"Kerjean's here too?" he cried, laughing with excitement. Then he remembered that they were in prison and he sobered up again. "Poor bastard. Swimming? No! I was drowning! There was a leak or something in that room there, all full up with water, but the guard finally let me out," he explained, jerking his head toward the redcoat. He shivered and moved closer to the fire. Come to think of it... He looked at the guard again, then back at Blanchard. "What're you doin' walkin' about so free? And where's your uniform?"

Farther down the hallway sunlight spilled from a doorway into the darkened hall. He could hear voices as well and recognizing one as Blanchard's, he checked, his grip on the small bundle he carried relaxing. He must have fallen asleep downstairs because he had no memory of the other soldier leaving. He had simply woken up in one of those big chairs in an empty room, and he had been wandering around in search of his friend since. No one challenged him in the strange, white robe.

The ugly sense of panic began to drain from him and Paol hurried along the hallway towards the voices. "Rosy!" he called, and then in surprise, catching sight of the other man, "Foucheaux!"