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We can fight her under the Red Ensign, Lewrie thought, tautly smiling; It’s the Navy’s Red Squadron flag, too. Nobody’ll fault me for opening fire under false colours, not this time!
In 1794, when he’d first had command of the old Jester sloop, he hadn’t had false French colours lowered and Navy colours run up before delivering one broadside, and he’d been criticized for it in enemy newspapers, and Nelson himself had torn a strip off his arse.
“Sir!” Midshipman Rossyngton cried from his perch halfway up the larboard mizen mast shrouds. “She’s almost hull-up!”
Lewrie gave him a wave in recognition, then went to the forward edge of the quarterdeck and the cross-deck hammock stanchions. “Mister Spendlove?” he called to the Second Officer, whose post when at Quarters was between the two batteries of guns. “Run in the guns and load, but do not prime … both batteries.”
“Load, but do not prime, aye, sir!” Spendlove called back.
He tried to peer at the enemy warship—for that was what she had revealed herself to be by hoisting false colours—from the larboard corner of the quarterdeck, but the fore course and billowing jibs were in the way. He crossed over to his proper place to windward, and got a better view. She was almost bows-on to Reliant, all of her sail plan now visible above the horizon, and perhaps only nine miles off. She seemed to be hardening up to the wind a point or so, trying to sneak up and steal the wind gage, intending to pass close aboard and deliver her first broadside from her starboard guns into Reliant’s starboard side.
Lewrie collapsed the tubes of his telescope, hunched into his coat, and pondered, frowning in concentration. How would he fight her? The slant of wind limited how far to starboard he could turn and surprise her by wheeling “full and by”. That morning wind was fresh enough at the moment, but could weaken before both ships got within gun-range. Serving her a broadside from his larboard guns and bow-raking her would be too chancy.
It was a given for Royal Navy captains to gain the weather gage, upwind of a foe where one’s ship could steal wind from the foe’s sails, and command when one fell down alee to musket-shot or pistol-shot. Sometimes, though, the leeward ship, heeled over to larboard in this instance, could elevate her guns higher, whilst the enemy’s guns were depressed, even with the elevating quoins fully out.
It’ll be a passin’ engagement, Lewrie stewed, pursing his lips and gnawing on the lining of his mouth; one, maybe two broadsides if we’re quick about it, and then we’re past each other, and swingin’ about t’re-engage. Once she’s past us, it might be best t’haul wind and wear alee, with the larboard battery ready for ’em that instant. The Spaniard will, too. It’d make no sense for them to turn up into the wind.
Lewrie used both forefingers to sketch out the manoeuvring on the wood of the cap-rails, supposing that the Spaniard would want to stay close enough for his further broadsides to be fired at a range of less than one hundred yards, giving his gu
Christ, we’ll end up spirallin’ round each other like “country dancers”, Lewrie thought; but, I’ll have the pre-loaded larboard guns, and he’ll be re-loadin’ his starboard battery … and the Dons ain’t all that well drilled, in the main, at gu
At least the Spanish were slower and clumsier back in Europe, he had to caution himself. With the Royal Navy’s incessant blockades of enemy harbours, it was rare for French, Dutch, or Spanish warships to get much sea time, or chances to practice live firing. This Spaniard, though, based out of the Argentine, or some other Spanish possession the other side of Cape Horn, might have been free to drill his crew to deadly competence.
He raised his telescope for yet another look at the approaching enemy warship, and made a decision.
“A point to windward, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered. “We are stupid, weak, and civilian … or so the Dons imagine. It’s only natural for us t’get to speakin’ distance and say hallo to another British ship, hey? I want us to pass starboard-to-starboard, damned close, so our first broadside’s a blow to the heart.”
“Aye, sir,” Lt. Westcott replied.
Might he haul his wind before then, cross our bows and rake us with his larboard guns? Lewrie had to consider; Or recognise us as a frigate, and decide t’bugger off South?
He shrugged that off, deeming that the Spaniard’s move could be spotted soon enough, and even at longer range, he still had time to turn up higher into the wind and present his larboard battery. Once the Spanish captain did that, he’d surrender the wind gage, and who in his right mind would give that advantage up, once seized?
Well, I have, Lewrie confessed to himself with a wry grimace; Hell’s Bells, I’m pla
Another decision made; he would hold course.
“Mister Spendlove, my apologies to your gu
“My, sir,” Lt. Westcott said in a whisper near his shoulder, “but how very un-British.”
“He’ll be expectin’ our usual ’twixt wind and water broadside, t’punch holes in his hull and dis-mount his guns,” Lewrie said with a wee snicker, “and, he may be pla
“Deck, there!” a lookout sang out. “Chase is a … frigate!”
“Hull-up, sir!” Midshipman Rossyngton yelled, now standing on the starboard sail-tending gangway, having left his former perch on the shrouds.
Lewrie and Westcott could see the enemy as clear as day, by then, too, bows-on to Reliant with her entire hull in plain sight; not a now-and-then thing which depended upon the rise and scend from an active sea to shove her higher for a time. The seas were fairly calm with few cat’s paws, and any apparent waves no higher than one foot or so. The fully-risen early morning sun had brightened those waters to a brilliant dark blue, too, with no more sign of the muddy coloured outflow from the Plate River and its estuary.
Atop that brilliant blue sea, the Spanish frigate stood out starkly, a dark brown hull with a faint band of pale yellow paint, and her sails the colour of weathered parchment, Lewrie could take note after a long look with his telescope. The enemy looked a bit worse for wear, as if she had been at sea for months on end, which made him feel a touch of uneasiness that she might be that rare Spaniard who had had time to make herself hellishly efficient, and would be quicker off the mark than he had hoped, or expected.
Devil take it, he grimly thought; we’re committed.
He lowered his glass and looked aloft to the streaming commissioning pendant. “Another point to windward, Mister Westcott.”
“A point more to windward, aye, sir,” Westcott replied.
“Once our first broadside is delivered, we will haul our wind as quick as dammit, take the wind fine on the quarter, even wear if we have to, t’keep her in close gun-range. Be ready for it.”
“Aye, sir,” Westcott said, nodding and smiling. “Chomp down on her, and hang on like a bulldog.”
“That’s my good fellow!” Lewrie congratulated him.
He raised his glass once more to watch the enemy ship close the distance between them. She was altering her course slightly, hardening about one more point to windward, and baring a bit more to see of her starboard side.