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“Deck, there!” a lookout bawled. “They’re showin’ Spanish colours!” Lewrie also could make out the bright red-gold-red ba
The leading frigate had hauled her wind slightly, falling off ’til she was in line-ahead of her consort, blending their sails into a single mass in Lewrie’s ocular. Both were well above the horizon, tops’ls and courses towering above the dark hulls, their i
He lowered his telescope and collapsed the tubes, tapping it on his left palm in thought. The Spanish warships looked to be about more than three points off Sapphire’s larboard bows, perhaps closer to three and a half points; they had lost some ground due to the shift of the winds, and now steered Sou’west by South. He sketched with a fingertip on the cap-rail, their course, his course, and where and when their opposing tracks would intersect.
I’ve got bags of room to tack! he thought with a feral smile.
Six Bells were struck, and a fiddler, a fifer, and a Marine drummer struck up “Molly Dawson”, surprising the crew, who had only partially begun to gather. Bosun Terrell piped Clear Decks And Up Spirits, and the rum keg was fetched up to the belfry. Doling out the rum to all hands and ship’s boys usually took about twenty minutes or so, with men milling round to find those who owed them “sippers” or “gulpers” for past favours, stretching the process out a few minutes more.
He would wait ’til the keg was borne below, and all the brass cups were gathered up before tacking, before sending them all to their guns, again. He returned to the quarterdeck.
“Mister Westcott, pass word to the galley for the fires to be staunched. Di
“Aye, sir,” Westcott replied.
“I wonder…” Lewrie mused aloud. “Our gu
“It was, sir,” Westcott agreed, “with very little left or right of the battery, and we hit the slope just underneath so many times we almost dug down to the foundations.”
“The Spanish’ll fire high, and open at long range, hopin’ that they’ll carry top-masts and spars away t’cripple us. Well, perhaps we can play that game, too, at say, two-thirds of a mile?”
“They won’t be expecting that from a British warship, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, and his grin was positively evil.
“We’ll get to close quarters and hull ’em ’twixt wind and water later on, but in the begi
“Wear, sir, not tack,” Westcott suggested. “There’s less of a chance for something aloft to carry away and put us ‘in irons’ at the worst moment. If we miss stays…”
“You’re right, as usual, Geoffrey,” Lewrie agreed. “Aye, we’ll wear instead. That’ll shorten the range a little bit, too.”
He waited, pacing round the quarterdeck from his traditional post at the windward bulwarks to the lee side, forcing himself to be patient, to appear outwardly calm. He petted Bisquit when the dog quit the poop deck and his bone, heading for the lower decks and handouts of food in anticipation of di
“Pipe All Hands,” Lewrie commanded at last, standing squared on his feet amidships of the quarterdeck by the hammock stanchions, hands in the small of his back and looking down into the crowded waist.
“Ship’s company, face aft and hark to the Captain!” Westcott shouted.
“Lads, recall when I read myself in at the Nore,” Lewrie began in his best quarterdeck voice, “I told you that I would do my best to find a way to turn Sapphire from a boresome escort to a fighting ship. We’ve made a decent start on that, you and I, but today.… Here is your time, here is your morning to win fame for yourselves and this ship, and show those motherless Dons over yonder who really rules the oceans! Are you ready?”
A great, enthusiastic cheer greeted his words. When he raised a hand, and it subsided, he continued.
“In a few minutes, we’ll wear about, and then we’ll beat to Quarters,” he said, “and we will engage the Spanish. You showed me earlier today that you’ve become some of the finest naval gu
His crew’s response was a hearty growl.
“We’ll take ’em on one at a time, first at long range, then at close quarters, and hammer the bastards ’til they curse the day they thought they could try us on, and curse the moment they clapped eyes on Sapphire! God bless every one of you Sapphires, and our good ship. Now, let’s be about it!”
“Ship’s company, dismiss,” Lt. Westcott ordered, his cry lost in the great, savage din of shouts and huzzahs.
Lewrie looked at the Spanish frigates from the lee bulwarks; they were now a little more than two miles off. It was time.
“Bosun Terrell, pipe Stations To Wear!” he shouted.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
As the helm was put over, HMS Sapphire slowly hauled her wind, falling off from “full and by” with taut canvas eased and loosed, the yards slowly being angled to the opposite tack to the squealing of the wooden balls in the parrels that bound the yards to the masts, amid a rustling thunder of sailcloth, and groans of the masts and the hull timbers, her stern crossing the eye of the wind at last, and her yards re-braced in the proper spiral set from courses to t’gallants. She came back to the edge of the winds, all her sails bellied out, again filled with drive and power.
“Now, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered, “beat to Quarters.”
The young Marine drummer began the Long Roll, the fiddler and fifer struck up one of Lewrie’s favourite tunes, “The Bowld Soldier Boy”, and Sapphire thundered again as deal-and-canvas partitions were struck, furniture was folded or struck below, and the gun decks were turned into long, open alleyways full of men, guns, truck carriages, and gun tools. Ship’s boys serving as powder monkeys dashed to the magazine for their first pre-made charges of propellant, fetching them back in flash-proof leather tubes to kneel behind their assigned guns.
“The ship is at Quarters, sir, and steady on Sou’west by South,” Lieutenant Westcott reported, formally doffing his hat in salute, and of a much graver ma
“Very well, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said with a nod, graver himself, now that they were on the cusp of battle. He went to the starboard side, the lee side now, to peer at the Spanish frigates. The turn-about had slowed Sapphire considerably, and she was now only slowly gaining back what speed she’d had. The Spanish ships were now on their starboard quarters, about a mile and a half off, having lost none of their speed and gaining on Sapphire.
“A matched pair, sir,” the Sailing Master, Mr. Yelland, said. “Both sport bright red gunwale stripes, alike as peas in a pod.”
“Sister ships?” Westcott wondered aloud. “The best that they could order out, once Madrid heard of our raids?”
“Damme, I’ll bet they think they’re special,” Lewrie drawled.
Damn, what if they are? he had to ask himself, though.