Kings and Emperors

“The larboard battery will open,” Lewrie gravely ordered, “by broadside. And skin the sons of bitches!”

“Larboard battery … by broadside … fire!” Westcott yelled.

Unconsciously, Lewrie crossed the fingers of his right hand along the side of his thigh as the guns lit off in a titanic roar, a sudden fog bank of powder smoke, and amber-red flashes of jutting flame that erupted from her side.

“Two-thirds of a mile, you made it, Mister Yelland?” Lewrie asked, turning to look for the Sailing Master.

“Aye, sir, about that,” Yelland said through a dry throat.

“Can’t see a bloody thing,” Lewrie groused. “Mister Harvey,” he called to the nearest Midshipman. “Aloft to the cross-trees with a telescope, and spot the fall of shot!”

“Aye aye, sir!” the lad said, snatching a glass from the bi

The first broadside’s smoke was wafting away over San Diego Point, and Santa Lucía Hill was emerging once more.

If we can’t take their fire, we can get the bower up and the wind’ll blow us back on the kedge, then wheel back out to sea, he thought, taking time to look over to starboard at the other ships in port. Fully laden ships were shifting their anchorages further out of range of the French guns, some in groups that were leaving the harbour to stand off-and-on outside. The one transport that had been hit several times looked to be in a bad way, her main topmasts hanging over, her yards a’cock-bill in disorder, and listing a bit to starboard. At least the French weren’t firing at her, anymore.

“Run out yer guns!” Lieutenants Harcourt and Elmes could be heard from below as they pressed their gun crews to prepare for one more broadside.

“Shot was high, sir!” Midshipman Harvey yelled from aloft. “High and right!”

“Quoin blocks in a bit, Mister Westcott, and take in on the kedge cable spring!” Lewrie snapped, impatient for the adjustment in aim to be completed.

“Ready!” was shouted up to the quarterdeck.

“By broadside … fire!” Lt. Westcott yelled, and Sapphire shook and roared as the guns lit off, as the truck carriages came rushing back in recoil. “Better aim as the barrels warm up, sir,” he said to Lewrie, with a confident wink.

A full battery of French artillery consisted of several 8-pounder guns, at least six of their famed 12-pounders, and a brace of howitzers. All were firing at a fixed target. Shot splashes towered close to the larboard side, Sapphire drummed to a solid hit, and a howitzer roundshot crashed down onto the starboard sail-tending gangway with a raucous shriek of rivened, splintered wood.

“Still high, sir!” Midshipman Harvey shouted over the din to the deck. “Traverse is still just a bit to the right!”

“Pass word, quoins in another inch,” Lewrie snapped, “and take another strain on the kedge cable spring!”

“Ready?” Westcott demanded after the adjustments were made. “By broadside … fire!”

What I’d give for fused shells! Lewrie bemoaned as the broadside bellowed, flinging heavy shot shoreward through the sudden pall of smoke. He’d dealt with fused mortar shells and bursting shot when he’d been at Toulon; he knew the dangers of such tricky, delicate shells being rammed down hot barrels, perhaps lighting the fuses as they were rammed down and bursting, destroying the guns and killing gu

“Traverse is true, sir!” Harvey screeched, sounding triumphant. “Our shot is skimming the hill, by inches, I think!”

“Quoins out half an inch!” Lewrie shouted. “Serve the whores another!”

“Ready? By broadside … fire!” Westcott roared.

“Yes! Yes, that’s the way!” Midshipman Harvey yelled, far above the massive smoke clouds and able to see.

French shot was still striking close aboard, the ship boomed to hits crashing into her thick timbers and stout scantlings, and wood shrieked and squawked as the lighter upper bulwarks were ravaged. The fore course yard was hit, amputated just below the foremast fighting top, and both ends of the yard sagged downward in a steep V to drape furled canvas, and snap brace line, clews, and jeers. A Marine tumbled from the foremast fighting top with a thin scream, crashing to the deck in a pinwheel of arms and legs.

“Spot … on, sir!” Harvey reported, going hoarse.

“Pass word below,” Lewrie yelled, “our aim is spot on, and no adjustments are needed! Pour it on, Mister Westcott, pour it on!”

He lifted his telescope as the smoke thi

Damme, is that an over-turned gun yonder? he wished to himself.

Two-thirds of a mile range was just too far to make out close details, even with his strong day-glass, but he could make out French gu

“By broadside … fire!”

“Dammit!” he spat as his view was blotted out, lowering his telescope in mounting frustration. He wanted to see!

Climb the shrouds, high as the cat-harpings? he thought; No, it wouldn’t be high enough. I’d have t’join Harvey, and I’ve not been in the cross-trees in ages!

There were some good things about being a Post-Captain, or pretending to be one, after all!

“A gun dis-mounted, sir!” Harvey yelled down.

Lewrie whipped up his telescope again as the smoke cleared to a haze and did a quick count of the little H-shapes. Yes, there was one of them leaning to one side, with no one standing round it!

“Serve ’em another, Mister Westcott!” he roared.

Firing, ru

“Deck, there!” Harvey cried. “They are bringing up limbers! Three guns dis-mounted … they are retiring!”

Lewrie took a long, hard look, even though his eyes burned from all the irritants in gunpowder smoke, blinking away tears, swiping at his face with the cuffs of his coat sleeves.

Yes, by God! he told himself; They’ve had enough of us, they’re pullin’ out!

Horse teams, which had been sheltered near the caissons of shot and powder cartridges, could be seen near the surviving guns, being hitched up; carriage trails were being lifted to re-assemble guns to the limbers. One by one, the French battery was withdrawing to the shelter behind Santa Lucía Hill!

“Cease fire, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie bade in a croak through his dry and smoked throat. “Cease fire, and pass word below that we shot the living shit outa those bastards! Damn my eyes if we don’t have the best gu

“Took the better part of two hours, but we did it, sir,” Westcott said, gri