“Yes, by God!” Lewrie said with a laugh. As that smoke wafted alee, he avidly sought signs of damage through his telescope as gouts of disturbed water near her waterline leapt upward, as sails twitched again as they were holed, and bits of the Spanish frigate’s bulwarks and hammock-filled stanchions were smashed away. “Best gunners in the entire Navy, the best in the world, indeed!”
As he watched, the frigate’s large main course was clewed up, and enemy topmen scooted out the yard to brail it up. She was readying to return fire. A signal hoist went up her after halliards, and the trailing frigate began to take in her main course, as well. They would fight. “Now, it gets int’resting,” Lewrie muttered.
The lead frigate endured two more broadsides from Sapphire before her side erupted in smoke and jets of flame. The range had been closing all along, and she was only half a mile off when she opened upon the British ship. Heeled over to the press of wind and still on a beat to weather, her guns would reach further, their maximum elevation aided by the cant of her decks. Shot moaned overhead as Lewrie fought the natural inclination to duck, crouch, or cringe. One ball hummed over the poop, between the bulwarks and the lower spanker boom, creating a sudden gust of air that shoved him against the bulwarks, and came near to sending his hat overboard. There were several loud thuds and crashes as enemy shot hit home. Lewrie peered over the side and saw the hazes and swirls of splinters rising where some shot had hit, flinging engrained dust and paint or tar from the wounds.
“On the up-roll, by broadside … fire!” Lt. Westcott yelled, his voice gone raspy from the effort, and the ever-present smoke.
In the heat of the moment, some of Lewrie’s gun-captains had forgotten to re-insert the quoin blocks under their guns’ breeches, too intent on re-loading, priming, over-hauling tackle, and running out as the range shortened. While most of Sapphire’s broadsides were aimed at the Spaniard’s hull, some shots went high. Unwittingly they emulated French or Spanish practice, which was to cripple an enemy’s speed and manouevrability by taking down masts and rigging before closing for a slug-fest at musket-shot.
“By broadside, fire!” and Sapphire roared out her fury once more. Her guns were hot, now, and when they discharged, they did not slam back in recoil, but leapt clear of the deck by several inches, slewing off-centre and straining breeching ropes, making the stout iron ring-bolts groan, and making gunners dodge aside to keep from being hit, or their feet caught in the tackles.
When the smoke cleared from that broadside, Lewrie whooped in glee, pointing to the Spaniard and yelling, “Just look at that!” Those shots from the guns with the quoin blocks fully out had pummeled the frigate’s rigging. Her fore royal mast and yard, her fore t’gallant mast and yard above the cross-trees, had been shot away, falling like a hewn pinetree to leeward, and dragging her outer flying jib with it. A moment later and her main t’gallant stays’l parted from the foremast to swirl back against the main mast. All that wreckage hung for a long moment as Spanish sailors scrambled up from the foremast fighting top to chop or slash it away, but it all broke free and fell, the yards of her topmasts spearing into the frigate’s fore tops’l to rip it open like a gutted fish before finally falling clear into the sea!
“Another point free, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie ordered. “Close the range on her!”
And make the angle too great for the trailin’ frigate t’shoot at us, he grimly told himself; Just take ’em on one at a time!
With her foremast sails ravaged and short a jib, the Spanish frigate slowed, though she still was at least two knots faster than the two-decker, still steering Sou’west by South while Sapphire was now sailing Due West, the angle of approach greater, and drawing together. Gamely, her side lit up with a broadside of her own. Roundshot moaned or shrieked past the bows, past the stern, above the decks, punching holes in Sapphire’s sails, and slamming into her side, making her planking squawk parrot-like as thick, seasoned oak was stove in.
“By broadside … fire!” and Sapphire gave as good as she got, crushingly so. Her lower-deck 24-pounders hulled the Spanish frigate, and Lewrie could see fresh, star-shaped shot holes blasted into that former loveliness, could see her masts sway and quiver from the force of the blows. Something had shattered the frigate’s main tops’l yard and the windward half collapsed onto the brailed-up main course yard, jerking the brace-line for the main t’gallant apart, and both sails winged out alee, the tops’l fluttering like a shirt on a clothesline, and the upper t’gallant angling out almost fore-and-aft, flattened by the winds and making the frigate heel leeward.
“We’re almost close enough, now, to employ the carronades and six-pounders, sir!” Westcott shouted up to Lewrie.
Lewrie looked forward and found his cabin-servant, Jessop, at one of the quarterdeck carronades, promoted from powder monkey to a gunner. Jessop was hopping from one bare foot to the other in impatience. He looked aft at Lewrie as if pleading.
“Aye, Mister Westcott, serve ’em with ev’rything!” Lewrie called back. “Woo-hoo!” Jessop could be heard yelling.
“All guns, by broadside … fire!” Westcott shouted.
With the addition of the 24-pounder carronades, it was an avalanche that struck the Spaniard, even as she got off a ragged broadside of her own. Both ships blanketed themselves in powder smoke and blotted out any chance of a view for long moments before being blown alee. The damaged tops’l, the un-controllable flatted-out t’gallant, had drawn the frigate over several more degrees of heel, forcing her fire to dash high above Sapphire’s decks, but the two-decker’s fire, aimed “’Twixt Wind And Water”, smashed into her side, gun-ports, bulwarks, and her waterline. Lewrie could see the frigate’s underwater coppering, tinged and streaked algae-green, exposed for a foot or more, as several heavy roundshot punched ragged, dark holes through it. If she rolled upright, the frigate surely would begin to flood!
Spanish sailors were high aloft in her rigging trying to control her t’gallant, slashing and hacking at any line that held the sail taut to the wind. At last, it was freed to flutter leeward, horizontal to the sea, and the frigate righted herself, those shot holes now smothered in foamy, disturbed seawater. She lost more speed due to all her damage aloft, and finally fell a point off the wind to bring her guns to point abeam at Sapphire, but she was limping, by then.
“By broadside, fire!”
That was the stroke that did her in. When the smoke cleared, all could take delight in seeing her entire foremast above the fighting top falling, taking her fore tops’l and the last of her jibs and stays’l over her starboard side, pressed by the wind. The sudden drag in the sea jerked the frigate’s head downwind, reducing her to a crawling cripple. Sapphire’s sailors erupted in taunts, jeers, and loud cheering, and the fifer and fiddler struck up a lively jig in celebration.
“Oh, the poor bastard!” Westcott shouted, pointing off at the trailing frigate. She had been following in her leader’s wake, about one cable astern, and was turning leeward abruptly to avoid collision!
“Cease fire, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie ordered over the loud din of his crew. “Pipe the Still. We’ll let ’em celebrate when the work’s finished. A water break for the gun crews, but put the hands to the sheets and braces, and get us back on the eye of the wind ’til we see what this’un intends to do.”
“Aye, sir,” Lt. Westcott replied. “Bosun, pipe the Still, then hands to sheets and braces!”
That call, the Still, was rarely heard aboard Sapphire, though there were some severe disciplinarians in the Royal Navy who ran their men and their ships in silence by day and night, with all orders passed by Bosun’s calls.
“I thought you’d finish her, sir,” Captain Pomfret said as the crew’s cheers fell away, and sailors fell to their required duties.
“She is finished, for now,” Lewrie told him, intently peering leeward at the trailing frigate, which was now masked by her crippled leader. “Her foremast’s gone by the board, and without jibs, she can’t keep anywhere close to the win
d. They might rig something up sooner or later, but, she’s out of the fight, with her fore tops’l and her fore course gone. If her captain has any sense, he’ll turn and sail into Almeria for shelter, with ‘both sheets aft’. That’s what’s called a ‘soldier’s wind’,” he added with a wry expression. “No slur intended.”
“You’re turning away from the second?” Pomfret asked.
“Aye,” Lewrie cheerfully admitted, “we’re gettin’ back hard on the wind, so we stay above her, same as we did the first. Once she’s clear of her consort, and comes back on the wind herself, she’ll never be able t’claw out a yard closer to us. She’ll be about half a mile to loo’rd, or thereabouts, in easy gun range. Her captain might consider takin’ shelter in Almeria, too, goin’ about and runnin’ back to Cartagena, or continuin’ the fight, beatin’ his way West and hopin’ to out-run us. We’ll have to see what his intentions are before committing.”
“Her captain might hope that his greater speed will allow him to get ahead before taking too much damage,” Lt. Westcott chimed in, “though what a lone frigate hopes to do to the Westward is anybody’s guess.”
“So, they didn’t come out after us, specifically?” Pomfret enquired, shaking his head in wonder. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
“Once we take the second, we’ll have t’ask him, sir,” Lewrie said. “How’s your Spanish? Mine’s abysmal.”
“There she is, sir,” Lt. Westcott said in rising excitement at the prospect of further action. “Just getting clear of the first one.”
“Hard on the wind, again, hmm,” Lewrie speculated. “For now, that is. Fire one six-pounder from the foc’s’le, Mister Westcott. We might goad a proud Spanish hidalgo into a fight, after all. Challenge him!”
The traditional shot was fired, a mild yelp compared to heavy guns’ roars, and a lone cloud of spent powder smoke drifted quickly alee. A long minute later and a flat bang came from the Spaniard. He would fight!
CHAPTER FORTY
“Give us a point free, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered after a look aloft at the commissioning pendant. The wind was holding from the Sou’east, and the Spanish frigate was sailing Sou’west by West, as she and her sister ship had from the first. The range was about half a sea-mile, but that would slowly close as Sapphire fell down upon her.
“She’s opened,” Westcott pointed out as the frigate’s side lit up in jets of fire and a dense cloud of smoke.
“Quoins fully out, remind the gun-captains,” Lewrie demanded, “and have ’em load chain-shot and expanding bar-shot for the next broadside. You may open, Mister Westcott.”
“On the up-roll, by broadside … fire!” and HMS Sapphire shook, trembled, and groaned to the recoil of her guns once more.
“Captain Pomfret?” Lewrie called out, looking round the quarterdeck for the Army officer. “You’ve a watch with a second hand? Excellent! I’d admire did you time the Spanish broadsides and let me know how long it takes ’em t’re-load and run back out. The longer, the better for us.”
“By broadside … fire!”
A second salvo from the Spanish frigate was headed their way, moaning and keening louder and shriller as the roundshot approached, then turning basso as balls passed over and beyond. The frigate aimed high, hoping to cripple Sapphire’s sails and rigging, and taut canvas was puckered and holed aloft. Several lines parted, and some blocks came raining down onto the weather deck. One ball plucked a topman and a Marine from the mizen mast’s fighting top, flinging them down to the poop deck. The Surgeon’s loblolly boys were called for to tend to them, but what was left of them was beyond any care.
“By broadside … fire!”
The Spanish frigate had begun two points abaft of abeam to the two-decker, but she was coming up quickly. Within a few minutes, she might even fetch up directly abeam, then slowly work her way ahead of Sapphire, making an escape.
We can’t keep on like this, Lewrie thought; Else she’ll get away. Damned if I’ll let her, but …
“Alter course one more point to loo’rd, Mister Westcott. We’ll have to engage her more closely. Pass word to the gun decks to mind their elevation,” Lewrie snapped. “Cast of the log!”
It took a long, infuriating minute for the report to come back that Sapphire was only making a bit over seven knots.
“Damme!” he spat, sure that the Spaniard was still making ten or better!
“By broadside, fire!” and the sea round the Spanish frigate was frothed by the impacts of roundshot, and several holes appeared on her, just before the view was blotted out by a return broadside. The enemy shot moaned, keened, and thrummed about Sapphire, raising great splashes alongside, smashing into her thick oak sides, making her hull drum and screech. There was a louder bang, a metallic clang as if a church bell had fallen from a high belfry, and people were shouting below. Midshipman Ward came to the quarterdeck, his uniform askew, and it and his face smudged with spent powder. “We’ve a twenty-four-pounder dis-mounted, sir!” he shouted, “struck right on the muzzle, and off its carriage! Two men under it, sir!”
“Calmly, Mister Ward,” Lewrie sternly chid him. “The men are looking to us for steadiness. My compliments to Mister Elmes, and he’s t’see to it.”
“Ehm, aye, sir,” Ward said with a gulp, then dashed below.
“Pardons, sir, but their timing?” Captain Pomfret said, waving his pocket watch. “It’s taking them just about one minute ’twixt their broadsides, and the last one appeared rather ragged, taking about ten seconds from the first shot to the last. Almost ‘fire at will’, hey?”
“Now, that’s what I hoped to hear, sir!” Lewrie crowed, quite pleased. “They’re gettin’ tired and dis-organised.”
“By broadside, fire!”
Crash-bang-tinkle! A Spanish shot smashed into the starboard quarter gallery of the officer’s wardroom and carried straight through the other side. Another crashed into the starboard bulwarks, scattering stowed hammocks, ripping a chunk from the bulwark in a cloud of splinters, and cutting a brace-tender in two!
“You may not have that spare cabin you’ve been using, Captain Pomfret,” Lewrie said, leaning far out over the starboard bulwarks to survey the damage, “or the ‘necessaries’, either.”
“Lord, what was that?” Lt. Westcott cried, pointing at their foe. “I could have sworn I saw a flash of flame and smoke aboard her!”
There was a sooty cloud of smoke forward of amidships, a rising cloud that lingered long after her last gush of powder smoke drifted alee. Lewrie raised a telescope and saw ant-like Spanish sailors with water buckets, dipping them overside into the sea and hauling them up. A longer perusal showed that the frigate’s side had been chewed up, two gun-ports had been turned into one, her larboard side best bower anchor was gone, and the long, out-jutting cat-head beam was amputated, and aloft. “Hah!” he cheered. Both her fore and main masts were missing her royal and t’gallant upperworks! “That’ll slow her down! She won’t get beyond us! Mister Westcott, steer one more point alee!”
“Helmsmen, make her head Due West. Bosun Terrell, ease braces and sheets,” Westcott called out through a brass speaking-trumpet.
“Damme, but I do believe she’s sheeting home her main course!” the Sailing Master, Mr. Yelland, shouted. “She is!”
“Hell of a risk, that,” Lewrie commented with a scowl.
“Why, sir?” Pomfret asked.
“There’s always a risk that it’d catch fire from the discharge of the guns, sir,” Lewrie told him, “That’s why ours is reefed out of danger, and if this scow was any faster, it’d be brailed all the way up.”
“Steady on Due West, thus!” Westcott shouted. “By broadside, fire!”
The Spanish frigate still insisted on sailing close-hauled to the winds, and was spreading her main course to make up for the loss of her fore and main mast upperworks, but their course, and Sapphire’s course, would eventually result in an intersection.
Question is, who crosses whose bows first? Lewrie wondered.<
br />
“Carronades and six-pounders in the next broadside, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie snapped. “Shoot her to wood scraps! Pass word to aim to hull her!”
The Spanish frigate was swimming up to only one point abaft of abeam, out-footing Sapphire, and firing yet another broadside of her own, yet this one was very ragged; a pair of guns, several single discharges, another pair, then some more seconds apart. Lewrie reckoned that if Pomfret was right, it would be at least another full minute or longer before she could fire again.
“All guns, on the up-roll, by broadside … fire!” and their ship rocked as if gut-punched by the recoil. A vast fogbank of smoke blossomed into being, swept downwind by the breeze, smothering their view of the enemy, and rolling down onto the frigate.
“Make our head West by North, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie yelled. “Close the range!” He knew that he was getting “gun-drunk”, caught up in the fight to the point that fine tactics were abandoned, but Lewrie didn’t care, by then. The evil reek of spent powder and the titanic roar of his guns were too intoxicating for cool, detached thinking any longer.
“By broadside, fire!” and when the pall of gunsmoke drifted alee, there was the enemy frigate, with her bowsprit shot away and her jibs flagging to leeward, with her larboard-side main course yard a shattered stub that had ripped that great sail in half as it had fallen. There were more holes in her bulwarks, along her row of gun-ports. At last, she was beginning to haul her wind and bear away towards the coast, but that was many miles off, by then. She had come up fully abeam to Sapphire but she would not out-foot her any longer, and it was the two-decker which would do the over-taking, still holding the wind gage.
“By broadside, fire!” this time at about one cable’s range and above the smoke, everyone on deck could see her masts shiver and shake at the impact. The frigate’s return fire was no more a broadside but a feeble stutter. At such close range, Lewrie was surprised by how many roundshot moaned overhead, not into the hull, wondering if the Spanish gunners were even trying to aim any longer.
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