A King's Commander (7 page)

“West-nor'west, half north'z close as she'll lay, sir,” the quartermaster said, with the frustrated air of a man who'd still won small on his horse that placed, but had lost almost as much on the one he'd backed to win.

“West-nor'west, half north it is, then, Spenser. Full-and-by,” Lewrie agreed, just as frustrated. He leaned into the orb of candlelight from the compass binnacle lanthorn. Both their faces were distinct in the growing gloom, as if separated from their bodies.

Still, Alan supposed, with a petulant grunt; we'll weather the Scillies, and Land's End. Few leagues closer inshore, but . . .

“Grand while it lasted, though, was it not, Mister Spenser?” Alan commented easily. “A glorious, dev'lish-fine afternoon's sail.”

“Oh, aye . . . 'twoz, Cap'um,” the older man replied, his eyes all aglow deep under a longtime sailor's cat's feet and gullied wrinkles. With the
sound of a gammer's longing for a long-lost youthful love, he ventured to comment further. “A right rare'un, sir. Damn' at lad.”

“Another cast of the log, if you please, Mister Hyde,” Lewrie called aft, stepping into the gloom. Eight Bells chimed up forward; the end of the Second Dog, and the start of the Evening Watch. “Mr. Buchanon, you have the watch, I believe, sir?”

“Aye, sir. Send th' hands below, then?”

“Aye. Nothing more to savor tonight.” Lewrie sighed, moving to the windward bulwarks.

“I'll call, should . . .” Buchanon began, then wrenched his mouth in a nervous twitch, to keep from speaking aloud a dread that should best remain unspoken. Aeolus, Poseidon, Erasmus, Neptune, Davy Jones . . . by whatever name sailors knew them, the pagan gods of the wild sea and wind had, like e'en the littlest pitchers, exceedingly big ears! And like mischievous and capricious children, could sometimes deliver up from their deeps what sailors said they feared most.

Uncanny, it was, though—whistling on deck usually fetched a surplus of wind, rather than the lack. Gales and storm that blew out canvas, split reefed and “quick-savered” sails from luff to leech in a twinkling, leaving nothing but braces and boltropes. Never a fade, though, never a dying away. Nor one so rapid.

Perhaps tomorrow, Lewrie fretted; comeuppance comes tomorrow!

“Sir, we now log eight and one-quarter knots,” Hyde reported at last, sprinkled with spray and damp from the knot log's line.

“Thankee, Mister Hyde.” Lewrie nodded, keeping his gaze ahead toward the west. Aye, we had ourselves a rare old thrash to weather, he thought; nigh two hours at ten to eleven knots! That's at least twenty more sea miles made good, due west, till . . . damn that boy!

At sundown, winds usually faded, replaced by night winds that might not be so stout, but usually remained steady in both vigor and direction.
Clear
weather winds did, at least.

And pray Jesus,
that
holds true, he grimaced. Stays like this the rest of the night . . . fade around sunrise, of course, for a bit, but that's nine hours at eight knots—say another seventy or so to the good. And only half a point to loo'rd of the best course I can hope to make.
If
the wind didn't get up, and make us reef in.
If
we don't get headed! Comes westerly again tomorrow, we'll either fall afoul of Ushant down south, or Land's End or the Scillies up north!

He decided to do his further pondering over charts in his great-cabins, where he could worry and smolder in private.

“Good evening to you, Mister Buchanon,” Alan said, touching the brim of his hat in salute. “I wish you joy of the evening, sir.”

“And a peace . . . ahem! And a good night to you, too, sir.”

Lewrie nodded firmly at Buchanon's sensible reticence, and his rephrasing, then took himself to the larboard ladder to the gun deck.

Dispatches aboard, too valuable to lose, he mused; Frogs out in fleet strength . . . wind most like to die away to nothin', head us again . . . or come up by the bloody
barge load,
and . . .

Damn
that boy!

S
urprisingly,
the winds did no such thing, the third day upon passage. There was mist, to be sure, light sunrise winds that slatted sails for a while, but most cooperatively backing to the southwest or south-southwest again. Clouds stayed low and cream-jug pale for most of the day. At the end of the Middle Watch, when the crew was summoned to scrub and sluice, then stand Dawn Quarters, there was a lot of dew, the mists riming everything with damp. Sunrise wasn't ominously red. The fog and mist dispersed, but never quite disappeared, limiting visibility to a scant four miles around
Jester,
even from the crosstrees. Noon sights were educated guesses of how high that diffuse, cloud-covered sun ball was, but the consensus of results on the quarterdeck, except for Mister Spendlove's, which placed them somewhere on the same latitude as Iceland, showed them weathering the Scillies and Land's End. And dead reckoning, and the record of the knot log, suggested a position
beyond
the Scillies— almost one hundred nautical miles west of the Lizard
since yesterday noon.

And, with the wind backing southerly,
Jester
could come back to due west again, though only at seven or so knots on a light, tantalizing wind, and stand even farther out into the Atlantic.

And the sea. It was almost calm, mashed flat by a humid, and rather pleasant warmth, glittering and rolling, folding and curling not over three to four feet, more mirrorlike, more oily and without ripples; though the long Atlantic rollers made themselves felt. The ship rose and fell slowly and grandly, lifted, her entire length, by the long period of the scend, instead of hobbyhorsing. When pitch she did, or roll, it was a slow, creaky procedure, quite predictable and almost pleasant for all but the landsmen and new-come Marines, who “cast their accounts to Neptune” over the leeward rails. Faint wake astern, barely a bustle of disturbance down her flanks as water churned sudsy close aboard, and her forefoot cut clean and sure into the round-topped rollers, to part them with hardly any fuss at all.

Uncanny, Lewrie thought warily. Retribution's coming, sure as Fate. They're toyin' with us. Soon, it'll be roarin'. When we least expect it. Damme, I hate surprises!

Dawn of the fourth day was coolish and bracing, with a bit more life to the sea, the rollers now shorter-spaced and surging higher, in four- to five-foot swells. The wind backing even
more,
now all but out of the south! Toying with them, backing, then gusting up a touch, as it veered ahead a point or two. Yet still easily manageable winds.

Jester
would luff up through the gentle gusts, driving close-hauled, and was able to maintain a base course of west-sou'west, and a half-hourly cast of the log showed a steady seven and a half knots.

By noon sights, Alan was just about ready to start chewing his nails in fretful apprehension. And Mister Knolles and Mister Buchanon, two more who knew what whistling on deck could bring, stalked soft-footed about the quarterdeck as if the slightest misstep might bring the sky down on them like a tumbling house of cards!

“Sail ho!” came a most unwelcome cry, from far aloft.

“Oh, Jesus!” Lewrie gawped in the middle of his fifth breakfast at sea, a forkful of treacly broken biscuit halfway to his mouth.

He was off and running, shrugging into his undress coat, cramming an old, unadorned hat on his head before the Marine sentry's musket butt hammered the deck without his cabins, and his leather-lunged announcement of “Mister Midshipman Spendlove, SAH!”

“Captain, sir,” Spendlove began formally. “The first lieutenant's respects to you, and he bade me inform . . .”

“Yes, yes!” Lewrie snapped impatiently, preceding Spendlove to the quarterdeck. “Where away?” he demanded.

“
Two
sail!” came another shout from the topmast lookout.

“Sir,” Knolles reported crisply, handing his captain his spyglass. “One sail on the larboard quarter, up to the nor'east, royals or t'gallants. Can't see her from the deck, yet. But, there's a second ship, sir . . . off the larboard beam, a touch southerly of us. Say, east-by-south to be her bearing? Just appeared moments ago, as these morning mists cleared. Royals
and
t'gallants, 'bove the horizon, sir.”

“Thankee, Mister Knolles.” Lewrie frowned. He took in the set of
Jester
's sails, the strength of the wind that flailed the commissioning pendant. Even close-hauled,
Jester
was loafing along in light morning air. The sunrise cast of the knot log had shown only a touch over seven knots, and the wind felt no fresher than when he'd quit the quarterdeck to go below a half-hour earlier. “Be back, shortly,” he said, slinging the telescope over his shoulder.

He climbed atop the larboard bulwarks, swung out around the mizzen stays, and began to ascend the mast, recalling how terrified he had been, the first time he'd been forced aloft, so long ago. All these years, and it still hadn't gotten any easier! He thought, surely, he would be senior enough, and like many post-captains too stout, to
have
to do this; could stay on deck and let the younger and spryer be his eyes. Except he knew himself for an impatient “hound,” and wondered, just before essaying the futtock shrouds, if he could ever be content with second-hand information.

Most careful for a good handgrip and sure feet, puffing some, he got to the deadeyes of the fighting top after a breathless dangle on the futtock shrouds, scaling the underface of the outward-leaning ropes and ratlines. Then on to the mizzenmast crosstrees, far up by the doublings of the topmast, to take a perch on the bracing slats.

The vessel off to the east wavered in his ocular as he embraced the topmast with one arm. Ship-rigged, he saw; three sets of yellow-tan ellipses—tops'ls, t'gallants, or royals visible, with her hull and course sails still below the horizon. Swiveling to the nor'east, he spotted the second. She was more broadside on, with three umber rectangles of sail peeking over the indistinct rim of the sea.

He returned his interest to the nearest ship. Had she changed her aspect to them? When he first espied her, he'd thought she'd been beam-reaching west-nor'west across the wind, her upper yards and sails fatter and wider. Now, they looked narrower, more edge-on, her masts beginning to overerlap in his narrow view-piece.

“Altering course,” he muttered sourly. “Comin' over to ‘smoak us.' Discover what we are. Well, sufferin' Jesus!”

An infinitesimal gay splotch of color burst forth upon her upper yards, vivid bits of flapping cloth. She was making a signal, as she came about hard on the wind. But, to whom? he wondered. It was hard to make out—plain red square flag atop, what seemed like the Blue Peter next-below, a yellow-white beneath that, and a fourth he couldn't make out. That, of a certainty, wasn't a recognition signal in the Howe System
he
knew; nor was it one of the private signals to identify one Royal Navy ship to another!

He turned back to the ship up in the nor'east. Sure enough, she was replying. Making a single hoist of what he took to be a red square with a white speck in the center. A one-flag signal—that could only be a reply to an order. More like, an affirmative. And it was not a
British
“Yes”! And was she turning, too, foreshortening the broadside view of her upper sails? Also coming onto the wind? Merchantmen had no desire to speak each other with flags. Nor be curious about strange vessels. A merchantman sailing independently would shy from the sight of
any
other ship, even were HMS
Victory
to heave up alongside with an invitation to dinner!

They had to be French!

A brace of frigates, he decided, out scouting in the van of the main body of that fleet Howe had been seeking. And had just discovered a weak and tasty treat!

“Deck, there!” he shouted. “Pipe ‘All Hands'! Mister Knolles? Make sail! Royals, t'gallants, and stays'ls!”

A little faster now, though heeled perhaps a bit too far hard-over,
Jester
began to trundle along, adding another knot to her speed. To keep their minds off it, and prepare them for the worst, Alan told his officers to practice gun drill.

Five weeks in port, and not a shot fired! he lamented.

Port admirals didn't like the sound of guns going off in their harbors. Bad for their digestions, he supposed; interrupts any naps they take. And was a “waste” of good gunpowder that they'd have to replace, at Admiralty expense, before a ship sailed.

Jester
had a good warrant gunner and mate in Bittfield and Mister Crewe; her quarter-gunner was a Prussian named Rahl, who
claimed
that he'd been one of Friedrich the Great's artillery masters. Cockerels and Victorys, Agamemnons and a few others, were experienced. But except for dry-firing, mostly running-in, loading, and running-out work with the new-comes, his guns wouldn't be well-served. Not after the landsmen and Marines, who would be forced to assist on the tackles, were deafened and quivered to a state of nerves by the first blasts. And half of that had been instruction, employing only a single piece at a time, mostly letting them watch, before trying them out at the least-skillful jobs. There'd only been a week of dry-firing, using an entire broadside at once, and that wasn't nearly enough.

“Would you say this seems a bit familiar, sir?” Knolles said, after going below to change into clean clothing, and silk stockings and shirt, which were easier for the surgeon to draw out from wounds.

“It appears pretty much the way we
got Jester,
sir.” Lewrie nodded, playing along in spirit with Knolles's humor. The officer was possessed of a very dry wit to begin with, and was purposefully japing, for the crew's benefit, to make them think that things were not quite as bad as they appeared.

“Damme, Mister Knolles,” Alan said more loudly. Again, for the crew's ears. “Chased by two corvettes. Shot one to flinders, and took this'un! Do you think, sir, that the French'll oblige me a
second
time, and make me a post-captain, when we serve these, alike?”

He got the appreciative laugh he'd expected, though most of his inexperienced new men merely tittered nervously; and that only because the older hands had done so.

French frigates, he pondered, pacing aft to the taffrail for a peek. 
Longer on the waterlines, perhaps one hundred twenty feet, to his one hundred. They'd be at least a full knot faster. The one down to the nor'east was too far off, and with only a knot advantage, would take until sundown to catch him up. No, the main threat was the one to the east, now almost abeam. She'd cut the corner on
Jester,
sail a shorter course, with a half-a-knot to
a full
knot greater speed than her consort, because she wasn't beating to weather, but was sailing a point “free” on a damned close
reach,
to intercept off
Jester
's
larboard bows.

When she came up to shooting range, Lewrie decided, he'd have no choice but to wear off the wind himself, reach across the wind due west, to escape,
far
out into the Atlantic. Scouting frigates, that'd be most likely, he thought; out ahead of the French fleet's van division, looking for Howe's fleet, so they could steer their admiral into a massive battle. If
Jester
showed no sign of leading them to Howe's main body, they
might
break off their chase, he most fervently hoped; perhaps by sundown, at the latest?

“We're nigh on three hundred fifty miles out to sea,” he mused; “three hundred fifty miles west of Ushant
or
Land's End, for God's sake! What do they think I'm leadin' em
to—
the Happy Isles of the West?” he whispered.

And the weather . . . ! Alan felt like ordering “All Hands” up on the gangways to begin whistling, if it would stir up one more
pint
of wind. That remained steady from the southwest or south-southwest, and none too strong. The morning was less humid than the day before, less dew and mist upon the decks at dawning. The clouds were higher and thinner, a first thin coat of whitewash brushed over cerulean blue, with many traceried gaps of open sky. Not superb sailing weather, but no sign of bad weather, of a certainty, which might bring a rising of the winds. For the Atlantic in early summer, it was almost warm and pleasant, too.

Just warm enough a day, as it progressed, to bring a stronger wind as the seas warmed. Or enough heat to stifle
any
winds, leaving all three warships boxing the compass on lying little zephyrs. And a longer and heavier French frigate might still coast through the dead spots, maintain her steerageway even in very light air, whereas the lighter, shorter ship would struggle and flag.

“Mister Knolles,” Lewrie called out, coming back to the center of the quarterdeck. “We'll run in the starboard battery to loading position, and bowse the carriages to the deck ringbolts. Then, open the larboard gun ports and run out the larboard battery to firing position. That
should
shift enough weight to set her flatter on her keel.”