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From his perch on the poop deck, Lewrie could make out two sets of sails from the deck, by now; t’gallants and royals, perhaps a hint of their tops’ls when the scend of the sea lifted them a few feet more. Whoever they were, they were bows-on to Sapphire, on larboard tack, a bit of separation between them as if sailing abreast of each other. By the slight cant of their sails, he suspected that they were also going close-hauled. If he managed to get to windward, they could not swing up any closer to him, but would have to stay on larboard tack, ceding him the right to fall down to them when he willed.
“Not exactly how I expected this morning to turn out, what?” Captain Pomfret commented as he paced up near Lewrie’s shoulder.
“Not how I thought it would go, either, sir,” Lewrie said with a rueful grin. “If they do turn out to be Spanish, you can write home to tell your people that you’ve been in your first sea-fight.”
“What do you call it, ‘yardarm to yardarm’?” Pomfret asked.
“I’d prefer not to,” Lewrie admitted, laughing briefly. “That sort of battle’s costly. You see how they’ve slipped to about three points off our larboard bows? We’re close-hauled on one tack, they’re doin’ the same on opposite tack. Unless something goes smash aloft, I hope to get seaward or them,” he said, explaining what that meant as an advantage, and how he would come about and match tacks to engage, and how he hoped to fall down upon them in his own good time.
“But, how do you expect to fight two of them?” Pomfret went on. “You said they might be two big frigates. How big?”
“They’re most-like what we call Fifth Rates, mounting the Spanish equivalent of our eighteen-pounders,” Lewrie said. “Does it come to about two cables’ range, our lower-deck twenty-four-pounders should prove the difference … unless the Dons’ve developed carronades … those fat, stubby barrelled ones there?… there’s more twenty-fours, though they’re short-ranged. About four hundred yards is the most one can expect. But that gives us sixteen heavy guns to each beam.
“See the Dons yonder?” Lewrie pointed out, gesturing towards the pair of sails on the horizon. “They’re hard on the wind and they can’t steer any higher … like a coach on a narrow country lane with a rock wall on one side which it can’t go through. Those frigates can’t come near us, so long as I stand aloof to windward. They could tack or wear about to the same heading we’re on now, but that’d make no sense. When a ship tacks, or alters course that drastically, it slows down and it takes a while t’get back up to speed, so even if they do tack, we end up chasin’ them. They could split up, but that’d put ’em miles apart, and the idea is t’stay and support your consort. Strength, and comfort, in numbers, hey?”
“I think I see, but still…” Pomfret said with a frown, and a hapless shrug, for half of what Lewrie had said was Greek to him.
“If they’re Spanish, they could be the finest frigates in their entire navy,” Lewrie continued, lifting his telescope for another look at them. “The Dons, and the French for that matter, build grand ships, but, it’s seamanship, gu
He lowered his day-glass and turned to Pomfret. “Much like the garrison at Gibraltar. Would you march ’em out against the French or the Dons right off, without a lick of re-trainin’? Then, there’s gu
Lewrie knelt down to ruffle the dog’s head and neck ruff.
“Your dog is he, Captain Lewrie?” Pomfret enquired as he made “come hither” noises, offering his fingers to be smelled. Bisquit went to him, tail fluttering madly, and whining, with a grin on his face.
“Ship’s dog,” Lewrie said, explaining how the Reliant frigate had acquired him. “He’s made a new friend.”
“Eight and a half knots!” Midshipman Fywell reported.
Lewrie stood and looked aloft; the wind was picking up force, and looked to be coming more from the South by East than from Due South.
“Damn,” Lewrie groused. “Mister Westcott, ease her to East by South, and I’ll have the main t’gallant, middle, and topmast stays’ls hoisted. Drive her, hard.”
Five Bells of the Forenoon were struck at the foc’s’le belfry marking half-past ten of the morning. Lewrie went down to the quarterdeck, leaving Captain Pomfret on the poop deck to play with the dog.
“They’re almost hull-up, now, Geoffrey,” he muttered closely to the First Officer. “We may be engaged by Seven Bells. Let’s advance the rum issue to eleven A.M.”
“Six Bells it’ll be, sir,” Westcott agreed, nodding. “Do you intend to ‘Splice The Mainbrace’? That’d encourage them.”
“No, I don’t want ’em too groggy when handlin’ powder,” Lewrie said. “We’ll save that for after we’ve beaten those sons of bitches. I’ll be aft for a bit. Carry on, sir.”
“Aye, sir,” Lt. Westcott said.
After a time, Captain Pomfret came down from the poop deck to the quarterdeck and looked round for Lewrie, still full of questions. He settled for Westcott. “Captain Lewrie seems confident, sir. Pardons if I intrude on your duties.”
“No intrusion, Captain Pomfret,” Westcott said with a laugh and a quick, savage grin. “Watch standing mostly involves standing about, looking attentive. It will be some time before we tack and beat to Quarters. The captain? Captain Lewrie takes nothing for granted, I assure you, but in this case he has grounds for confidence. In the Navy he’s known as the ‘Ram-Cat’, ye know. Not for that cat he keeps in his cabins, but for his way of going after the foe … he earned that early on. I’ve served as his First for four years in two ships, and if anyone can surpass him, I’ll eat my hat. He’s probably been in more actions than most of us have had hot suppers, the Glorious First of June, Saint Vincent, Camperdown … Copenhagen? And many single ship fights in between. He fights clever, though he’ll never believe it of himself. We’re in very good hands, the best of hands.”
“Something for me to write home about, then,” Pomfret decided. “Am I properly equipped for it?”
“Hmm … sword, two pistols, silk shirt and stockings, just in case,” Westcott said, looking him over from head to toe. “Wax in your ears? Good. I think that’ll do quite nicely.”
Lewrie came out of his cabins, after having a quick sponge-off, and loading and priming his weapons. He had changed to a silk shirt and stockings inside his boots, too, though the boots would unravel them something horrid. He wore his Gills’ hanger on his left hip and had clipped his two new over-under double-barrelled pistols to his waistband, and had shoved his side-by-side double-barrelled Mantons in the deep side pockets of his uniform coat.
“You look perfectly piratical, sir,” Lt. Westcott quipped.
“Aarr, and belike,” Lewrie replied in a raspy growl, astonishing Pomfret, who was more used to the grave and sombre command style of senior Army officers. “All I’m lacking are half a dozen more pistols hung round my neck like Blackbeard, and slow-match fuses burnin’ in my hair, hah! Let’s see what the Dons’ve been up to in my absence.”
He snatched his telescope from the bi