Hostile Shores (49 page)

“She’s flying her fore and middle stays’ls again, sir!” Caldwell exclaimed. “They’ve re-roved. And, she’s bared her main course!”

“You sure, Mister Caldwell?” Lewrie asked, turning to face him.

“Sure, sir!” the Sailing Master insisted.

“Well, no wonder she’s out-footin’ us!” Lewrie groused, trying to peer out to confirm that with his own eyes. “If she gets far out ahead of us, that bastard Don could bow-rake us. Or—!”

If we can fall back far enough t’harden up t’windward, we can
just
squeak the jib-boom and bowsprit short of her stern and shoot
her
up the arse,
Lewrie schemed. He looked aloft at the commissioning pendant, which was streaming towards the starboard side, a point or two abaft of abeam.

No, that won’t work,
he sadly told himself.

Their course was still Due East, or a point off to East by South. The pendant showed that the wind was from the Nor’-Nor’east, and they would end up in-irons if they turned up to windward much further. He would have to continue slugging it out on this heading, with the foe slowly creeping further and further ahead towards the larboard bows.

“Mister Westcott! Soon as the next broadside is fired, haul our wind and come to Sou’east,” Lewrie ordered. “That’ll place her back abeam of us, and open the range a bit.”

And just keep poundin’ her, hopin’ that something aboard her will give way, sooner or later,
Lewrie thought with a groan.

There were stabbing flames of discharge in the smoke as their enemy fired again, a very ragged and stuttering broadside. Feathers and shot pillars shot skyward, mostly ahead of
Reliant
’s bows, with very few shot actually striking her, for once.

“She can’t be sure of where to aim, with all this smoke, sir!” Lt. Westcott rasped out. “They think we’re still abeam of her!”

“Aim for the gun flashes! By broadside …
Fire!
” Spendlove cried from the waist.

“Helm up, Quartermasters!” Lewrie snapped. “Come about to the Sou’east! Hands to the braces, Mister Westcott!”

Reliant
wheeled away Sutherly, wreathed in her own fresh fog bank of powder smoke, and sailing into the clouds of smoke from previous broadsides, which by now were taller than the mast-head trucks.

“Been at it for a full hour, now, sir,” Caldwell commented. “I do believe by the sound of it that the Dons are
very
slow to fire and load.”

“And our lads are just as tired as theirs, Mister Caldwell,” Lewrie told him, gesturing toward the ship’s waist, and
Reliant
’s gun crews who were streaming sweat despite the coolness of the morning, who were taking the short time between running out the guns and their firing to dash to the scuttle-butts for a sip of a water, or dip up handfuls of water from the swabbing tubs between the guns, now foul with the black nitres from spent gunpowder. “That’s not three rounds every two minutes any longer.”

“At least we haven’t taken much damage aloft, sir,” Westcott said, looking up at the masts and sails. “Our Spaniard’s playing the game fair, unlike the French.”

“And we’ve cheated, by tryin’ t’cripple his yards?” Lewrie asked with a brow up. “
All’s
fair, so long as we win.”

“
Hold
fire, hold fire, there!” Lt. Spendlove shouted.

“What’s the problem, Mister Spendlove?” Lewrie demanded from the forward edge of the quarterdeck nettings.

“Can’t
see
him, sir, for all this smoke,” Spendlove replied. “It’s so thick, I’m firing at his gun flashes, and I don’t wish to waste a broadside on thin air. Sorry.”

The sudden lack of ear-splitting thunder was eerie. Combined with the thickness of the masking powder smoke, it was eerier still, so when Midshipman Shannon called out a fresh cast of the log at the taffrails, everyone could make out his thin young voice. “Only five knots, now! Five knots even!”

“Ah, we’ve shot the wind to nothing,” Mr. Caldwell spat, “and whipped a fog of our own making. The air must be very humid, today.”

Boom-Boom … Boom,
from out to larboard, more off the bows now, than abeam, as Lewrie had hoped his turn-away might place the Spanish frigate. It was yet another ragged, stuttering broadside, as if the Dons could see a target to engage as they bore, rather than the full weight of a co-ordinated broadside.

“I only count ten, not twelve,” Lewrie said, feeling a bit of hope. “We may have silenced two of his great-guns.”

“Speak of firing into thin air,” the Sailing Master scoffed.

All could hear the moaning of solid shot as it passed ahead of the bows, could hear the splashes as heavy iron balls slapped the sea and skipped off into the distance.
Reliant
wasn’t even touched!

“Mister Caldwell, the last clear sight you had of our enemy,” Lewrie posed, “you said they’d sheeted home their main course? Was it reefed, or drawn fully down?”

“Un-reefed, sir,” was the Sailing Master’s firm assurance.

“I’d hoped, by hauling our wind, t’keep her abeam, but it seems she’s sailin’ faster than our own five knots,” Lewrie plotted aloud. “She now lies more-like only three points off the larboard bows. Do you believe we have enough wind t’go back up to Due East, or East by North?”

“Aye, sir, but no higher, else we’ll almost be in-irons,” Mr. Caldwell allowed.

“Mister Spendlove!” Lewrie yelled down. “A water break for all your gunners, then man the
starboard
battery!”

“Aye, sir,” Spendlove replied, both weary and mystified.

“Put yer helm down, Mister Westcott, and lay us on the wind, East by North. Hands to the braces and sheets!”

If I can
find
you in all this, you Spanish bastard, I’ll
bugger
you, yet!
he thought.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The decks tilted a bit, first coming upright and level from the slight heel to starboard as HMS
Reliant
swung back towards her original course. Her hull slightly groaned at the easing, the myriad pulley-block sheaves squeaked and chattered, and the yard parrels squealed as braces and sheets were tailed on to swing the yards to angle the sails for a close reach, more up-wind. Once the yards were trimmed, and the fore-and-aft jibs and stays’ls were drawn tauter to cup that scant wind, the decks took on a slightly greater heel to starboard, but nothing as dramatic as they would be when going close-hauled on a stronger wind.

“Five and
three-quarter
knots, sir!” Midshipman Shannon cried from the stern, as if thrilled by the improvement. Casting the log was a minor chore, one that Shannon’s limited experience at sea rated him, so he would perform it as best he could ’til given a better one.

“
Tastes
a bit healthier, anyway, sir,” Lt. Westcott commented after a deep sniff, then flashed one of his brief grins. “It hardly smells like rotten eggs any longer. We’ll be in clear air any second now.”

“The enemy’s ceased fire,” Lewrie fretted, going to the break of the quarterdeck by the starboard ladderway to peer out.

“Saving shot and powder ’til he can see, again, most-like, sir,” Westcott said with a shrug, after following him over. “Same as us.”

“Aye, but did he haul off more Sutherly t’find us, or hope to work ahead of us and wheel round t’bow-rake us?” Lewrie wondered out loud. “Or, did he come back on the wind, and sail clear of all this on the same tack as ours?”

I’ll either see his stern, open for the raking, or his larboard guns, which are fresh and un-damaged,
Lewrie thought;
and the range greater than before. We now have the wind gage, and can fall down on him, at the very least. Which, dammit? Show yourself!

He was too impatient to pretend to be implacable, or properly stoic; he left the quarterdeck and went forward up the starboard gangway to the main mast stays for a better view, shouldering two Marines out of the way. “Mornin’, sir,” one of them whispered.

“Ah, good mornin’, Private Dodd,” Lewrie replied without looking at him. “Enjoyin’ sea life, are ye?”

“Aye, sir!” Dodd said with a twinkle. “Most exciting!”

“Speak only when spoken to, Dodd,” Lt. Simcock warned.

“Thought I did, sir!” Dodd answered, stiffening his posture.

“Leg up,” Lewrie demanded, taking hold of the thick and tarry stays to scramble to the top of the bulwarks and the filled hammock stanchions. He swung out-board and began to climb the rat-lines for an even better view, ’til he was half-way to the cat-harpings.

He
was
in clearer air! Swivelling his head round, Lewrie saw sparkling sea to windward, ahead, and astern. They had sailed above the pall of battle, into bright blue morning skies and innocently white clouds. The only blotches of sour yellow and dirty grey smoke were to leeward, to the South, and with the suspension of fire from either frigate, that bank of smoke was thinning, and slowly scudding away.

“Mastheads!” the main mast lookout in the cross-trees shouted. “Deck, there! Mastheads, one point ahead o’ th’ starb’d beam!”

There she
is,
by God!
Lewrie silently exulted;
Her mizen and spanker … her main, and main course? She’s almost stern-on!

He quickly scrambled down to the top of the bulwarks, pointing to leeward. “
There
she is, Mister Spendlove! Almost abeam, and her stern open to us! There she is, lads! See her? A bit more than one cable off, but she’s there! See her?”

Gun captains, officers, and Midshipmen ducked down to peer out the gun-ports, then stood back up, shouting fierce “Ayes!” of comfirmation, growling lusty eagerness.

“Aim small, then, fire as you bear, Mister Spendlove, you lads, and tear her heart out!” Lewrie urged them, clinging to the stays with one hand and jutting his other like a pointer at the foe.

“Cock
your
locks!”
Spendlove shrilled. “Aim for her stern … crow levers, there!
As
you
bear
 … slow and steady does it, now!
As
you
bear
 …
Fire!
”

Oh, sweet Jesus, yes!
Lewrie thought as the enemy frigate came swimming from the thinning haze, becoming almost substantial, as the 18-pounders crashed and thundered below his feet, as a fresh, thick pall of smoke, bright amber stabs of explosions, left those cruel iron muzzles, and firefly sparks swirled in the new smoke. In the scant seconds between discharge and the masking of their target, he could see the Spanish frigate’s spanker boom shatter, her proud ensign go flying free of its halliards, and great holes and showers of broken stern windows be smashed into her transom!

“Pound her! Go, my bully lads, and
murder
the bastards!” he yelled over the last echoes of his guns. A loud cheer from his men rewarded his urgings. With help, he jumped down to the gangway and quickly made his way back to the quarterdeck, beaming fit to bust.

“We’ve got them now, sir!” Lt. Westcott chortled.

“Damned right we do! We
stern-raked
her, by God, and I think ev’ry shot went home!” Lewrie crowed with glee. “That’s a
killing
blow! Let’s see what
Señor
Spaniard does, now! Mister Spendlove?” he shouted to the waist. “Hold fire ’til you can see her, again!”

“Aye, sir!” came a disappointed reply. Spendlove’s, and everyone’s, blood-lust was up, now “gun-drunk” enough to want to continue battering the foe ’til they could see chunks flying off her and bodies hurled aloft.

“There she is, again!” Lt. Merriman urgently pointed out to the gunners. “Her mizen’s gone by the board! Huzzah!”

The Spanish frigate was well and truly stricken, with her mizen mast damaged belowdecks, perhaps half-severed by the weight of metal shot up her wide-open stern. It lay over to starboard at a drunken angle, leaned forward onto her main mast. Gallantly, someone was on his way up her main mast with a fresh Spanish flag, perhaps to nail it to the top-masts in defiance.

She had swung up onto the wind, or was trying to, making barely a ripple of wake, in an attempt to expose her larboard guns and continue the fight, but it was a slow, crippled manoeuvre.

“As
you
bear
 …
Fire!”
Spendlove was ordering again.

“Two points free, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie snapped. “Let us close the range and hammer her t’kindling.”

“Two points free, sir, aye!” Lt. Westcott echoed. “Helmsmen, up helm, and steer East by South.”

“She’s not gotten her larboard gun-ports open, yet!” Caldwell exclaimed, a second before sight of their foe was blotted out, again.

“Fine with me!” Lewrie said with a laugh.

When a ship was brought to Quarters, all interior partitions were struck, all mess-tables hinged to the overheads, leaving a long alley on her gun-deck. When she was stern-raked, there was nothing to prevent solid iron shot from ravening from her transom planking to her forecastle galley and livestock manger, snapping carline posts and dis-mounting guns, and massacring her sailors, wholesale. There was a very good chance that that stern-rake had killed and wounded so many of her crew that those still on their feet were too stunned for a proper response!

“There’s her larboard quarters!” Lt. Westcott shouted as the smoke thinned again, wafting down past the Spanish frigate. “Two, three … she’s opening her larboard gun-ports, now. About one hundred and fifty yards off?”

“As
you
bear
 …
Fire!”

The Spanish frigate’s crippled mizen mast split, its top-masts splintering free from the thicker trunk of the lower mast, and tearing her main course and main tops’l apart like a butcher’s carving knife! The gallant fellow with the fresh flag was ripped free of her upper stays and was flung into the sea to her dis-engaged side!

“Does that constitute her striking, I wonder, sir?” Mr. Caldwell hooted.

Fresh gun flashes erupted down the enemy’s larboard side, and roundshot howled over
Reliant
’s decks, one or two slamming into the side with shuddering thuds.