“English powder first, sir!” Boling shouted back. “Ready? Fire!” Blam! went the 6-pounder, jerking back to the extent of the breeching ropes, smothering the forecastle in a cloud of smelly, spent powder smoke. Lewrie eagerly looked seaward to spot the fall of shot, and found a small, quickly dissipating pillar of spray.
“Half a mile?” Westcott guessed aloud.
“Here’s the French stuff, sir! Ready? Fire!” Boling shouted.
Blam! went the other larboard forecastle six-pounder, creating a fog of smoke that was quickly blown away. Lewrie could barely make out the wee circle of disturbed water from the fail of the first shot. Seconds later, a pillar, a feather of spray, leaped aloft for a quick second before it collapsed, leaving another round patch of foam.
“Hmm, just a tad short of the first’un,” Lewrie groused, but not completely disappointed. “Were both fired at the peak of the up-roll, Mister Boling?” he demanded.
“Both, sir, aye,” Boling shouted back.
“One more time, t’be sure!” Lewrie ordered.
“Fire them together, sir?” Boling suggested.
“Aye, together!” Lewrie agreed.
“Left-hand gun’ll be the French powder, sir,” Boling said.
As Sapphire pent herself at the top of the up-roll, where she paused for a long second or two, both guns went off together, almost as one. Lewrie’s and Westcott’s telescopes were whipped up to spot the fall of shot, and …
“Almost alongside each other, sir,” Westcott hooted. “Not a ha’penny’s difference, really.”
“We’re in business!” Lewrie crowed, and his evident pleasure with the results of the experiment raised a cheer from the crew.
“Secure, Mister Boling,” Lewrie said as he went to the forecastle. “I’d very much admire did you have cartridges made up for all gun calibres, about six rounds per gun, and mark them, and all of the French kegs, for practice only.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Boling replied, touching the brim of his hat with the fingers of his right hand, carefully concealing how much of a chore that would be, and how he felt about it.
“Disappointing in a way, though, sir,” Lt. Westcott said as they made their way aft to the quarterdeck once more.
“How so?” Lewrie asked him.
“Well, French-made gunpowder,” Westcott said with one of his fierce, quick grins on his face, “one’d think that it should smell more like lavender than rotten eggs.”
“We could sprinkle ’em with eau de cologne, once we’re back in Lisbon,” Lewrie said. “That’d make ye happy?”
“Oh, immensely!” Westcott laughed. “We’d even make the French happy … to be shot at with such elegant and cultured stinks!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HMS Sapphire did reap a few more prizes, even one upon which the new gun sights could be tested, but Lewrie’s hopes of being in “business” were pretty-much dashed. Still seemingly without escorts, the French convoys, sent out in penny-packets of three, four, or five ships to reduce the odds of them all being swept up by the dozens, seemed to spend more time huddled fearfully in ports all along the coasts during the daylight hours, and if any strange tops’ls were spotted by shore watchers, that was where they stayed.
If they did slink out of shelter round sundown, they ran without lights, making them almost impossible to spot, and put into harbour at the first alarm only twenty-odd miles further along on their voyages. If they were detected, and Sapphire gave furious chase, most of them managed to enter port long before the plodding, heavy two-decker could catch them up within gun range, making Lewrie imagine that even if he still commanded a swift frigate, they would have still escaped.
His officers and Sailing Master tried to console themselves, and him, with how much delay in the delivery of supplies that they were causing, even if they didn’t capture anything, how their very presence was freezing the process, creating one gigantic bottleneck, and starving Marshal Ney’s army in Northern Spain of everything needful, slowing their operations, perhaps even forcing them to remain in place in large garrisons awaiting the largesse that Paris promised them, but receiving only dribbles.
“It’s possible, sir,” a hopeful Lt. Elmes suggested, “that we are forcing them to land their goods in all these little fishing villages, and have to cart them inland from there. Think on it; long baggage trains using up all their waggons and draught animals, with thousands of troops drawn off to guard them. Would not that give the partisanos more opportunities to raid and bum the supplies, and kill more Frenchmen?”
“Mister Elmes has a point, sir,” Lt. Westcott contributed to the gloomy conversation over supper in the great-cabins. “The French planned to use the large port cities, Corunna, Ferrol, Gijon, and Santander, Bilbao … nice, sensible, easily protected, but now? Little land convoys scattered all over the lot, each one needing a squadron of cavalry, or a battalion of infantry to keep the Spanish off them!”
“You’re makin’ it sound like blockade duty, sir,” Lewrie petulantly replied as he idly shoved pickled vegetables round his plate. “Boring, excruciating, eye-glazing, dull blockade duty. We need to be after them, not loafin’ along and just watchin’ ’em!”
“Well, sir, if they won’t come out, perhaps we must go in,” Lt. Keane of the Marines suggested. “I will own that the last few weeks have proven to be stultifyingly dull to me, as well. What if we found an occasion for some cutting-out raids? Even if we don’t fetch the enemy ships out, we could set them alight and plant new fears in them.”
“There’s nothing I’d like more, Mister Keane,” Lewrie quickly agreed. “Hear, hear! A glass with you, sir! But…,” Lewrie said after they had drunk each other’s health, “we’ve five prizes, with sixty-eight hands, and half our Mids aboard them already. There are two with their crews still aboard, and two files of your Marines off t’stand guard over ’em. Perhaps, if the French continue with their skulking practices on our next cruise, we’ll start off with cutting-out raids.”
“And, if the French have erected batteries to protect all the little fishing ports, we can get in some more gunnery practice, sir,” Westcott told him with a wink. After serving as Lewrie’s second-in-command for six years and more, he knew his Captain’s delights, and his frustrations; most especially his need for meaningful action.
“We’ll give it one more day, then,” Lewrie announced, “before we sail for the pre-arranged ‘rondy’. Hopefully, the other ships of the squadron’ve done better.”
“To the ‘rondy’!” Lt. Elmes proposed, lifting his glass high, which demanded a refill all round.
“To the ‘rondy’!” they chorused once everyone was topped up, and drained their glasses to “heel-taps”.
Damme, I’ll bet the others have had more fun! Lewrie thought in un-relieved gloom, despite his cheerful demeanour.
* * *
It didn’t look as if the other ships had done much better, though, as they slowly loomed up over the horizon at the meeting point, seventy or more miles out to sea. Captain Yearwood’s Sterling, and Commander Teague’s Blaze trailed in from their watch off Corunna and Ferrol with only four prizes, half the “bag” of their first cruise. Hours later, the masthead lookouts announced the arrival of Captain Chalmers’s Undaunted, Commander Blamey’s Peregrine, with four more sail following in their wake, fresh from their hunting grounds from Bilbao to San Sebastián and Bayonne.
“Signal to all ships, Mister Elmes,” Lewrie ordered, “with two guns t’make it a General. ‘“Form column on Sapphire. Prizes to form column to seaward’.”
“Aye, sir,” the officer of the watch said, shouting aft to Midshipman Griffin to make up the flag hoist, and forward for two 6-pounders to be loaded, run out, and fired.
That’ll take at least two hours, Lewrie estimated; more than time enough t’shave and get presentable. And have Yeovill kill the fatted calf, so I can dine ’em in.
“Once the signal’s repeated, Mister Elmes,” Lewrie said as he turned to go aft to his cabins,
“Shape course Due West. We’ll keep on under reduced sail, t’make it easier for the rest to catch up.”
“Due West, aye aye, sir,” Elmes repeated.
“I’ll be aft for a bit. Send for me when you are ready to go about,” Lewrie added at the door to his cabins, then entered, calling out to Pettus and Jessop to lay out the good tableware for a feast.
It’ll have t’be a good’un, he thought; For sure, they’ll all be disappointed.
* * *
Sundown was a rare’un, all red, lemony, and amber, painting a mild sea to the West, and highlighting the thin clouds. The taffrail lanthorns had been lit for the night, just as dusk gathered. Lewrie stood on the poop deck, awaiting his guests, freshly shaved and sponged down, watching the boats making their way to the starboard entry-port. Sapphire slumbered along at only six knots, making for an easy row for the oarsmen, with Undaunted’s cutter in the lead. As she came close alongside, Lewrie gave Bisquit a final pet or two and descended to the quarterdeck to greet Capt. Chalmers and the others, giving the side party a final look-over. After a quick peek overside, Bosun Terrell lifted his silver call to his lips and began to tootle a long, trilling welcome as Chalmers made his way up the man-ropes and boarding battens.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” Lewrie said, doffing his hat once that worthy had gained the deck, looking a tad stern. “Oh, Bisquit, don’t sniff his ‘wedding tackle’!” for the dog, thinking himself one of the side-party, was trying to “identify” the new arrival.
“Oh, no matter, sir!” Chalmers replied, bending down to give Bisquit some pets. “I adore dogs, and ain’t you a fine one, hey? How do, fellow. You’re a good dog, yes you are!”
I knew I should’ve introduced him to the dog, long ago, Lewrie thought, congratulating himself; They’re nigh-slobberin’ over each other!
Next aboard in seniority was Capt. Yearwood, acting less affable, as though his lack of success was a bit of gristle to chew over. Commander Blamey, then Teague, came next. Blamey seemed in better takings than Teague.
“Hmm, it seems the pickings aren’t as good this time as they were on our first endeavour,” Lewrie commented, eliciting a grunt from Yearwood in agreement.
“Well, actually…” Chalmers said. He and Blamey looked at each other like “sly boots” ready to chortle. “We did have one bit of success, sir. See that three-master in the middle of our column?”
“She’ s the French National Ship Le Caprice!” Blamey crowed.
“One of their corvettes?” Teague gawped.
“Well, damme,” Yearwood gravelled, irked that he and Teague had not had the fortune to cross hawses with one, too. “Much of a fight, was it?” he sourly asked.
“Not really,” Chalmers said, looking as if he’d polish his fingernails on his coat lapel. “we ran into her off San Sebastián, escorting six merchantmen. They managed to scuttle off, more’s the pity, but she offered a fight. When she did, we doubled on her, and after a couple of broadsides into her from either beam, she struck her colours, right quickly and sensibly, too.”
Damn the both o’ you lucky bastards! Lewrie thought, feeling robbed of glory; Of course the convoy got away, ’cause you were too eager t’make more o’ your names! Why not us, I ask ye!
“God in Heaven, how grand for you, sirs!” he said, instead. “My heartiest congratulations! It’s a good thing that my cook laid on a cool champagne punch for us. Let’s go dip into it to celebrate your success.”
Worst of all, I wasn’t “in sight”, so Sapphire, and I, can’t share one wee scrap of the prize-money, or the credit! he futher thought as he saw his supper guests into his great-cabins.
And, once supper was served, the less successful had to endure a long and lively tale of how the Le Caprice was taken, how few casualties they had suffered, how heavy the loss of life aboard the French corvette had been, and how they’d disposed of their prisoners.
“We took this horrid little cockleshell, the shabbiest barge you ever did see,” Commander Blamey regaled them, “filled with the usual cargo of food and such. We hauled her out of sight of land, dumped most of her cargo overside, then transferred our Frenchmen into her and told them to make the best of their way into a port, and bedamned to them, and if her Captain survives his court-martial for her loss, I’d be very much surprised.”
“I’ve heard that the Frogs don’t take kindly to any more failures at sea, any more embarassments,” Chalmers sniggered. “Trafalgar was bad enough. Bonaparte may be a great soldier, but he knows nothing of the sea, and can’t understand how or why his Navy loses so often, or sits idle in port, for all the money he’s thrown at building it back up.”
“Their gunnery was horrible, too,” Blamey sneered, “as if they were firing live for the first time in their miserable lives, hah!”
“Speaking of gunnery,” Lewrie said, happy to interrupt the tale of derring-do, “I find myself in your debt, Commander Teague. All of Sapphire’s guns, even the carronades, now have notched sights cut into them, and we’ve had a couple of opportunities to practise aimed fire. Well, somewhat aimed fire. It’s still early days.”
“Bless me, sir, but I really can’t take complete credit for the idea,” Teague modestly replied, all but ducking his head. “Two years ago, I dined with several other officers, one of whom was a Captain Broke of the Shannon frigate, who first mentioned the idea of aimed fire, and targetting specific parts of an enemy ship, to kill her officers and crew faster. You’ve actually practised, sir?”
Then it was Lewrie’s turn to expound on sacrificing a poor prize as a target, the painted “gun ports”, the rewards of tobacco or full measures of rum issue to more-accurate gun crews.
“We took aboard some French gunpowder, and it’s almost as good as our best, for practise use only,” Lewrie told them, “there’s plenty of it still aboard one of our prizes, and you’re welcome to it, if you’ve a mind.”
“Pity that you couldn’t retain the target ship’s cargo, though,” Capt. Chalmers said. “Our Portuguese allies could have used those guns, and waggons.”
“Well, French shot isn’t quite the same calibre as British shot,” Lewrie brushed off, “so sooner or later, the Portuguese would have run out.”
“Windage, too, sir,” Teague reminded Chalmers. “Too loose a fit down the barrel, and God only knows where your shot lands.”
They all agreed that the new French practise of sailing by night, only, and in short legs from one little fishing village to the next, was making their hunting more difficult. It was also agreed that the French would have to organise dozens of vulnerable road convoys from those wee ports, eating up troop strength from the field, forcing them to scour Spain for oxen, mules, and horses to do the hauling, and if the armed partisan bands could deprive them of those, the French would be in a cleft stick; eat or fight.
“For my part, I just hope that the French at last realise that un-escorted convoys just ain’t in the cards,” Capt. Yearwood gravelled. “If they need supplies so badly, they must go through the largest port cities. Larger convoys, larger baggage trains to their troops, with fewer troops drawn off to guard them. Bonaparte’s generals are surely giving him an earful, begging for more of everything. Surely, he’ll order his Navy to do something about it, and the next time we prowl these coasts, we’ll find a chance for real combat.”
“Pray God!” Commander Teague heartily seconded him.
“Unless the French send out some of their two-deckers, and chase us off,” Capt. Chalmers quipped.
“Then we act like privateers and sneak in to pluck prizes under their very noses,” Lewrie japed back. “When there’s a will, there’s always a way, hey? Perhaps stay together as a proper squadron, for once, instead of hunting in dribs and drabs? I might enjoy that, the opportunity to fly my broad pendant, flaunt my authority, and drive you all to distraction with flag signals, hah hah!”
“Just so long as we dine this well, at your expense, sir,” Chalmers quickly rejoined, with a laugh.
�
�Hear, hear!” Lewrie agreed. “Yeovill, Pettus, Jessop. Pour yourselves some port, to congratulate this fine supper.”
Once they’d been toasted, the tablecloth was whisked away, and the port bottle, the shelled nuts, and cheese were set out, along with grapes and oranges taken aboard at Lisbon.
“These walnuts,” Capt. Yearwood marvelled, “they’re sugar glazed? Delightful.”
“With a touch of cinnamon, sir,” Yeovill told him as he gathered up the plates at the sideboard for washing, later.
“I envy you, Capt. Lewrie,” Yearwood said, “your cook is a marvel.”
“He’s been telling me that for years, sir,” Lewrie replied.
* * *
“Meant to ask,” Lewrie said to Capt. Chalmers as they stood on the quarterdeck awaiting the various ship’s boats. “How’s my son doing?”
“Quite well, sir,” Chalmers told him. “He’s in command of the prize corvette this very night, and keeping it in good order. Young Hugh is all that one could ask of a professional seaman, and more. Dependable, bold, and fearless. When he stands his examination for promotion, be assured that he will go with my heartiest recommendations. And pass, the first try, I’d wager.”
“I’m delighted t’hear it,” Lewrie said, pleased to his toes, “though once back at Lisbon, I’d admire a few hours of his time. In the same squadron, but ‘so near but yet so far’, what?”
“I shall see that he’ll have some free time with you, sir,” Chalmers promised. “Ehm, where’s that dog of yours?”
“Following my cook to the galley for his own share of our supper, I’m sure, sir,” Lewrie told him. “If he hasn’t made a pig of himself, beggin’ off the crew, below.”
“Pity,” Chalmers mused. “I’ve a mind to adopt a pup once back at Lisbon.”
“Thin pickings, I’m afraid,” Lewrie told him. “I was ashore there, just after the French evacuated. They’d shot them all.”
“Lord, what a monstrous people!” Chalmers said with a shiver. “Well, I shall say goodnight to you, Captain Lewrie.”
A Hard, Cruel Shore Page 21
