H. M. S. Cockerel (47 page)

“Aye aye, sir,” Spendlove piped, seeing the plan at once, dashing aft for the flag lockers.

“Don't s'pose those are friendly, Captain Lewrie?” Lieutenant Kennedy inquired, hoping against hope, and nervous about fighting aboard ship instead of on land, where he knew what he was doing.

“Slow as we are, sir?” Lewrie scoffed gently. “And tag-end of the fleet? Hardly.”

“Ve steel offer
battaille, mon ami?
” de Crillart asked from the other side.

“If we have to, Charles,” Lewrie stated, turning to face him and the rest of the officers: Major de Mariel, the Chevalier Louis, and the senior gunner's mates. “Hopefully, we will make a demonstration of force, more than anything else. With a Royal Navy frigate to aid us . . . that might be enough. Now, gentlemen. Raw as we are, hmm? Let's not delay, and do things in a last-minute panic. Let us go to Quarters now. Uhm . . .
aux armes, messieurs?
”

An agonizing quarter-hour passed, as the decks were sanded, the water butts and tubs filled, slow match ignited and coiled around linstocks, coiled around the upper rim of the tubs. The galley fire was extinguished, the coals thrown overboard. Women and children trooped below to the safety of the orlop, low near the water-line, to huddle in between kegs and casks, boxes and bales, their chests and luggage. At least
Radical
would have an overabundance of surgeons; the Royalists were mostly people of the upper or professional classes, so they had no less than four surgeons, two physicians, a dentist, and several of those worthies' personal servants as surgeon's mates, experienced with assisting their masters' daily work. For loblolly boys to bear the wounded below, they had the least-useful older gentlemen, or the ones who simply could not grasp the fundamentals of artillery drill. And some few stocky older women, who were stronger than most of those men.

It was impossible to clear the mess deck, though, to empty that low-ceilinged cavern of junk. There were too many trunks and chests to carry below, out of harm's way, too heavy to tote quickly. There might be clouds of dangerous splinters flying there, perhaps, but with people at least herded below to the orlop, Lewrie thought, the noncombatants would not have to face that danger.

The boats
Radical
possessed, and those extra cutters Lewrie had brought along from their ferrying days, already were astern, under tow. For the simple fact that he hadn't had the labour available to retrieve them and stow them on the boat beams which spanned the waist. One less source of splinters, he thought grimly, though through no forethought of his own.

British troops of the 18th, the Royal Irish, to larboard along the gangways, Major de Mariel's infantry and Louis's light cavalrymen to starboard; red coats and black shakos on one side, and pale whitish-gray coats with black cocked hats, or blue-and-buff coats with plumed black-leather helmets on the other.

The bowsings for the guns were cast off, run-out tackles overhauled in neat bights. The guns were rolled back from the port sills, tompions removed, barrels checked for obstructions, touch holes cleared by the thrust of linstock ends sharp enough to puncture cartridge bags. Gun tools were thrust into shaky hands, and men stood atremble as if yesterday's drills had never occurred with stiffened rope rammers, rope swabs, crow levers, wormers used to scrape out clogging scraps of powder and the buildup of gun soot after a few firings, or to draw shot.

Nine men to each eighteen-pounder, seven to serve each twelve-pounder, and six for the lighter eight-pounders; those were the required numbers in the Fleet, though guns could be well served with slightly less. Under the circumstances, they would
have
to be. Still not enough, even with all the volunteers, to man both larboard and starboard batteries at once.

“Ve load,
mon capitaine?
” de Crillart called from the waist. He would be in charge of the gun deck, since most of the gun captains and volunteers were French. “
Mon maître-canonnier,
'e sugges' ze chain-shot,
d'abord. Non
customary
à l'anglais mais
. . . ve are ver' good vis it. Zey are mos' esperience. Tak' down ze reeging, crac! An' ve are
non
ze
maneuverable,
n'est-ce pas?
”

“Aye, Charles,” Lewrie called back from the quarterdeck, thinking it made good sense to render a foe as clumsy as
they
already were, evening the odds. “
D'abord,
the chain-shot, bar-shot, all of it.”

“Cartouches des poudre!”
the grizzled master-gunner demanded, and a herd of boys emerged from the midships companionway hatch with wooden or leather cylinders which contained the powder bags. The artillery was charged, rammermen shoving the bags down the bores to thump against the rear of the breeches. From the shot-garlands, the gun captains picked shot. Blunt iron cylinders cast in two halves, linked by two bars between, with eyes hammered round each bar—elongating bar-shot, which would fly apart to their full extent upon firing. Longer, round-topped bundles of cast-iron rods, which would spread like spider legs to whirl through the air to rip away sails, rigging and light spars—that was multiple bar-shot. And chain-shot; loaded as what appeared to be solid iron balls, which became two hemispheres linked by a short chain. That, and the elongating bar-shot, were the heaviest, designed to take down a t'gallant or topmast above the fighting-tops, to shatter even the stout course-sail yards.

Alan had been on the receiving end of French artillery before, and had never been that impressed with the concept, never been aboard a ship really disabled by such ironmongery. But de Crillart and his master-gunner seemed confident about it.

“The enemy have hoisted their colours, sir!” Spendlove was quick to point out. All three ships had run up huge Tricolour flags, the one in the lead flying a smaller second one at her mainmast truck as well.

Lewrie lifted a telescope and went to the starboard rails. The lead ship was definitely a frigate, the other two . . . ? “Lieutenant de Crillart, could you join me on the quarterdeck for a moment?”

He loaned Charles the telescope.

“Don't happen to
know
them, do you, Charles?”

“
Non.
I do not reco'nise,” de Crillart intoned soberly. “
Mais,
ze
frégate
eez ze
trent-deux
. . . ze s'irty-two? She weel 'ave twelve-poun'
canon,
an ze six-poun'
canon de chasse et canon de gaillard
. . . quarterdeck? Ze ozzer two are ze corvettes.
Vingt canon
. . . twen'y, on'y . . . eight-poun', I 'sink.”

“
Only,
the man says,” Lewrie snorted, flexing his fingers on the wire-wrapped leather hilt of his smallsword. “They'll be up level with us in about half an hour. Range-of-random-shot? What's that with bar-shot and chain-shot? A mile?”

“
Oui.
Vis you'
frégate
out zere, z'ough, we not 'ave to
bataille
all at once.
Mon Dieu, merci,
” de Crillart chuckled, though his mouth looked a touch compressed and white.

Alan took the telescope back, went to the mizzen shrouds again, and scaled them for a better view. Would they stay in a pack, he speculated? Or would the easy pickings encourage them to split up?
Radical
on a slowly converging course, to meet them on their windward, larboard beam,
Cockerel
downwind, but ready to slide along their starboard side, or cut across them to rake the leader . . . take us separately or together?

He couldn't suggest tactics to Captain Braxton, he was senior on the scene. And if he knew who I was aboard this barge, Alan thought in secret glee, he'd be even less willing to listen. No, he'll keep simplicity in mind, he's a cautious man. Eager to make a grand showing after all these years, yet he'll not do anything too rash, too risky. Pass them on the opposing tack, starboard to starboard, then tack around the stern of the last corvette in line, and rake
her.
Then line up behind
Radical
to make a battle line, he wondered? If Braxton thinks we truly
are
another Royal Navy frigate, he might.

Now . . . what would I do, were I the Frog commander, yonder?

Claw upwind, now, he was dead certain. Hold the wind-gauge on the British, and at the same time, sail nearer to those panicky merchantmen, threatening them. Force
Cockerel
and
Radical
to go about first to combine strength,
then
force them to beat up toward the three Frog warships to save the transports. All during that long, labouring approach, fire chain-shot and all, hoping to disable the British frigates before battle was really joined. The French would be faster, they almost always were, so they could out-foot them. And neither
Cockerel
nor
Radical
could point any higher to windward than they could, so it would turn into a long stern chase, with even more long range chain-shot. More chances to disable, then gobble up.

Hmm . . . he sighed to himself, rubbing his unshaven chin; maybe I ought to come about . . . go hard on the wind now? Be level with 'em, or hold the wind-gauge myself. Draw
Cockerel
to me. If Braxton wishes a name for himself, he'll follow along.

“Mister Spendlove! Mister Porter!” he bellowed from his perch. “Hands to the braces! Lay her full-and-by on the larboard tack! Close-haul!”

“Aye aye, sir!”

“Deck, there!
Cockerel
's
goin' about!” the mainmast lookout screamed, his voice cracking. A tone of wonderment in his voice which drew Lewrie's attention aloft first, before he turned to eye his former ship.
Cockerel
had been reaching across the wind, now out of the sou'-east, her bows pointing nor'east. To harden up close-hauled would lay her just a little north of due east, should she remain on the starboard tack, with the wind across her right hand first.

Sure enough, she was foreshortening in the ocular of his telescope.

Should have waited, should have
waited,
Lewrie fretted, growing uncertain of Braxton's tactical skills. Harden up on the starboard tack first,
then
cross the eye of the wind to larboard tack, and beat up to me, cross their bows before they get anywhere near you . . .

This early tack would put him a couple of miles away, on the same course as
Radical,
but out of gun range.
Damme!
He'd done that before, hadn't he—last year, that Frog convoy, and that big forty-four-gun frigate . . . ! Lay off and be safe.
Appear
like he was doing something positive but . . . avoid action? The shrouds swayed as
Radical
leaned to the force of the winds, decks and masts angling to leeward as she hardened up to weather. Lewrie had to take both hands to secure his perch, to slip his arms in around the stays and ratlines for a firmer stance for a moment.

When he raised his telescope again,
Cockerel
had just completed her tack across the wind, sails luffing and spilling, shimmering like a heat wave in the ocular, like bed sheets in a stiff spring breeze out on a line to dry, before her hands could wheel her yards about, haul taut on braces and sheets. And kept
on
turning!

“No, you bastard!” Lewrie muttered in surprise. “Close-hauled, at least, you . . . !” For a hopeful moment, he thought
Cockerel
was just clumsy and slow. Every ship usually fell too far off the wind for an instant upon tacking, before hardening back up to the proper course, as close to the wind as she might bear.

But, no.
Cockerel
kept on wheeling about, her yards going farther round until they were almost end-on to his view, courses, top'ls and t'gallants bellying taut and full, the profile of her low, sleek hull entirely presented.
Cockerel
had come about, aye—tacked since it was the quickest maneuvre—and was now sailing west-sou'west, not to join forces with him, not to stand off on a parallel beat, downwind and safe. She was running!

“Oh, you bloody man, you perverse, bloody man!”

Didn't matter, he grumped; me aboard this tub, nor anyone else. least it ain't
personal,
the . . . ah!
He'd
never know who he abandoned. Couldn't care less!

All his plans in shambles, for the moment without a clue, faced with the prospect of fighting those three French ships alone once more. Let down by his own Navy.

“You filthy bastard!” he yelled, just for the temporary relief. “You bloody . . .
coward!”