“I’m delighted to hear it, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie said with genuine feeling.
Lewrie left the Sailing Master to sip the last of his ginger beer and paced along the windward bulwarks of the quarterdeck, right up to the sail-tending gangways, and back, head down in thought most of the time, pausing at the end of each lap to peer aloft and out to sea, frowning.
The cats are away, the mice will play, he thought, fretting that the French were using his absence to their advantage, using this bout of foul weather as a mask to scuttle out to sea like so many roaches and land their mountains of supplies for their armies in Spain, this very minute.
“Damn the risk,” he muttered at last. “Mister Westcott?” he bellowed.
“Aye, sir?” the First Officer replied near the helm.
“Two guns for a General Signal, and bend on a hoist,” Lewrie ordered. “Alter Course Sou’Sou’east. We’ll close the coast and see what we can see!”
“Very good, sir!” Westcott crisply snapped, as if a move toward action suited him right down to his toes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Even on their new point of sail, the squadron of three ships could only wallow along at about six knots, sure that sooner or later they would fetch sight of the Spanish coast, but unsure of exactly where that might be. The brig-sloop Peregrine led, at least three miles ahead of the Undaunted frigate, which preceded Sapphire by another three miles, all within decent signalling distance from each other, given the rain and heavy overcast which now and then swept between them in sheets.
No matter the incessant rain and damp, the crew lined up as the mid-day rum issue was piped at Seven Bells of the Forenoon Watch, as the gilt-trimmed red rum keg was brought on deck with music and drum.
A few minutes before Eight Bells, and the change of watch, Lewrie came back to the quarterdeck with his chronometer and sextant, in hopes that something could be determined of their position at Noon Sights, but, after the last double-chime of the ship’s bell echoed away, everyone’s boxed instruments had to be put away. The overcast was simply too thick to make out even a ghost of the sun. The watch changed, Lt. Elmes, the Third Officer, replacing Lt. Westcott.
“A word, if I could, sir?” Westcott asked as the officers and Mids departed the quarterdeck off-watch, or to take up their stations of the Day Watch. “Won’t take a minute. Changes in messes, changes in duties in the muster book?”
“And a warming cup o’ my fine coffee, hey?” Lewrie japed.
“That would be welcome, too, sir,” Westcott admitted.
“Aye, come aft with me,” Lewrie bade, re-entering his great-cabins and stripping off his foul weather coat and hat for Pettus to deal with. They went to his desk in the day-cabin, where he fetched out his muster book, and they began to cross out and write in who was to be where in both larboard and starboard watches, and when the ship went to Quarters.
“These two ship’s boys … powder monkeys so far … wish to serve on the forecastle six-pounders. Moss and Rorie,” Westcott said. “They’re getting too old to be rated as boys, and there’s two younger lads, Bandy and Vannoy, who can replace them, when they’re not servants. And, there’s Posey, he’s fifteen now, who’s been going aloft and wishes to be a topman.”
“Fine with me,” Lewrie said as he made those corrections. “If we keep this up, though, we might have to entice some likely lads at Lisbon, whether they can speak English or not.”
“Hmm, who did this?” Westcott asked as he twirled Lewrie’s portrait round atop the desk, where it had been left.
“A good likeness, d’ye think?” Lewrie asked.
“Very good,” Westcott, who was a dab-hand artist himself, said. “Rather … flattering, though. It makes you look at least five years younger.”
“Don’t remind me,” Lewrie groaned.
“Odd for a portrait,” Westcott said, picking it up to peer at. “Not straight-on, more like a side-view. You sat for it whilst you were up in London? Who’s the artist?”
“Not a bit of it,” Lewrie told him. “Midshipman Chenery’s sister sent it me, and that after I collected him and coached down with him. She did it from memory, after a half-hour in their house, at best, and that in the wee hours before dawn, when most people can’t keep both eyes open.”
“Then it is quite remarkable,” Westcott marvelled, setting it back on the desk. “A most talented young lady. Pretty, is she?”
“Oh, don’t leer, Geoffrey,” Lewrie chid him. “Pretty? Aye, I believe so, though not in the contemporary sense of a great beauty. Miss Chenery is … striking. Memorable. Pity she’s a professional artist and portraitist … or wishes to be, to the utter horror of her father, I gather.”
“Pity, indeed, sir, for she’s talented enough, in spades. To draw you so accurately … if flatteringly,” he japed back, “would do any artist great credit, in such a short time, from memory of a brief encounter. She could be an artist … if Society allowed.”
“She wrote that she’s been offered a chance to illustrate some children’s book, and has a commission for a Bond Street merchant’s portrait,” Lewrie told him. “I saw some of her other work, and they were amusing, and accurate depictions. March Hares, hunting hounds, children flying a kite, and a portrait of her sister and her child that was so realistic I could’ve sworn they were right there, posin’ behind a framed hole in the wall.
“She did tell me that she made almost an hundred pounds last year,” Lewrie said. “So I suppose she already is a professional.”
“Hmpf, well,” Westcott commented, “one would suppose that if women wish to enter the world of men’s affairs, they’d best restrict themselves to the arts. What they’re taught on how to be well-bred … drawing, playing some musical instrument, perhaps even writing novels,” he seemed to scoff his own expression, drawling “novels” out in scorn of the Gothic thrillers that most women seemed to read, and fluttered over.
“I promised you coffee,” Lewrie said, all but slapping at his forehead. “How remiss of me. Pettus, coffee for both me and Mister Westcott.”
“Yes, sir,” Pettus replied, going to the sideboard in the dining coach, but everyone froze in place when the Marine sentry yelled to announce Midshipman Kibworth.
“Signal from Undaunted, sir,” Kibworth blurted out as soon as he was in the cabins, “Peregrine is showing Enemy in Sight!”
“Keys to the arms chests, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said as he hastily unlocked his desk and handed over those keys. “My brace of Mantons and my hanger, Pettus, then see the lanthorns and candles are snuffed, then get you and the beasts below.”
He snatched his own foul weather coat from the overhead beam peg, clapped on his wet hat, and dashed to the quarterdeck, followed by a cheering Jessop on his way to his station at Quarters on one of the starboard carronades.
“Where away, Mister Elmes?” Lewrie asked.
“Ehm, no idea, yet, sir,” the Third Officer confessed. “Just the first signal to go on. We can just barely make out Peregrine from the deck, out beyond Undaunted, and she…”
“New hoist, sir!” Midshipman Carey reported from the poop deck above them. “From Undaunted, her number … Enemy … Convoy, Course East, Many Sail.”
That meant that the frigate’s lookouts could also see what the brig-sloop had first reported, out there in the gloom and swirling banks of rain, not merely repeating Peregrine’s signals.
“Due East, is it?” Elmes pondered, with one eye pressed hard to his telescope’s ocular to see for himself. “Empties, most-like, sailing in ballast back to France.”
“Do you imagine the French would waste escorts on a convoy of empty ships?” Westcott scoffed.
“They would, if they wish t’keep enough bottoms for further voyages,” Lewrie said as Pettus came from the cabins with his sword and pistols and helped him strap everything in place. Chalky was in his wicker cage, ready to be transported to the safety of the orlop, and making his annoyance at being rained on very loud. “Off ye go, my lad,”
he bade Pettus, sure that Sapphire’s crew would take the sight of his steward, the Captain’s cat, and the ship’s dog making their way below as a sign of action to come, and quite possibly, new prizes and more profits.
“Deck, there!” the mainmast lookout bawled. “Peregrine makes Numeral Ten … Sail! Ten Sail in th’ offin’!”
“Oh, please let us scoop them all up!” Lt. Westcott cheered, rubbing his hands most greedily. “I could use the money!”
“Gentlemen, Beat to Quarters, and take your proper stations,” Lewrie ordered. Leaving the quarterdeck to Westcott, he went up to the poop deck for a better view. His first eager scan of the horizon showed him only Peregrine and Undaunted, with curtains of rain beyond. Disappointed, he lowered his glass and looked forward to watch as his ship prepared for action. Marines making their way to the sail-tending gangways, and up the ratlines to the fighting tops with their muskets and swivels. Weather deck, forecastle, and carronade gun crews casting off lashings of their guns, plucking tompions from the muzzles, and fetching up loading scoops, rammers, sponges, and crow-levers to load and aim their pieces. Mast captains and topmen scurrying aloft to rig chain slings on the yards to prevent their being shot away and crashing down to cause damage, and injuries. Slowly, the din and the rush died away as the ship settled down, with everyone at their duty stations, and all preparations for battle were completed.
“The ship is at Quarters, sir,” Westcott shouted up to him.
“Very well, Mister Westcott, stand by,” Lewrie replied, lifting his telescope for another try.
There was no point in searching for the Spanish coast, not in such weather, even if they were in their usual ten or twelve miles offshore.
Twenty or better’s more like it, Lewrie thought; Even after a few hours on Sou’Sou’east at around six knots. Yes, I can see ’em! Sort of.
There was one there, two there, then there weren’t, but a moment later, he could make out at least five or six. He felt like he was trying to count fireflies. He was sure that he saw brig-rigged ships, and one or two that might be three-masted.
“Make up a hoist!” Lewrie called aft to the signals Midshipman by the flag lockers, turning his head just long enough to see that it was Mr. Harvey. “Pursue the Enemy More Closely, first, along with Make Sail, Mister Harvey.”
“Aye, sir … Pursue More Closely, and Make Sail!” the gangly Midshipman echoed.
“Sic ’em!” Lewrie muttered to himself.
* * *
“What’s taking him so long?” Capt. Chalmers fretted as he looked aft to the Commodore’s flagship, then ahead at the enemy ships. “Surely, he can see them by now!”
“No idea, sir,” Undaunted’s First Officer answered, shrugging.
“Don’t tell me the ‘Ram-Cat’s’ gone all house tabby on us, hey?” Chalmers scoffed, taking no notice of Midshipman Lewrie’s return to the quarterdeck. “Thought he was full of dash!”
“Signal from the flag, sir!” Hugh Lewrie took delight in pointing out as a stream of colourful bunting broke open on Sapphire’s signal halliards. “It is … Pursue the Enemy More Closely, and … Make Sail.”
“About time,” Chalmers grumbled. “Crack on sail, sir, and let’s go hunting!”
“Even if we enrich the Commodore, sir?” his First Officer said with a soft chuckle. “Sapphire will be ‘In Sight’ of all our captures, and due a share for that.”
“Then we’d best take them all, sir!” Chalmers shot back, none too pleased by that prospect.
* * *
“They’ll run right over the horizon before we get engaged,” Lt. Westcott grumbled as he watched Peregrine and Undaunted surging ahead of them, mustachios churning under their bows, the sea creaming down their sides, and spreading wide bridal trains in their wakes. He and Lewrie looked up as one to see Sapphire’s courses and top’ls wind-full, reefs shaken out, and the t’gallants had been hoisted back in place. Yet their two-decker was so slow to accelerate, then only plodded, no matter what they could do to spur her progress.
“At least she’s slow but sure,” Lewrie hopefully said.
“Sure, aye,” Westcott snorted. “Sure to be last to the party. God, do I miss our days in frigates!”
“Amen,” Lewrie heartily agreed, lifting his telescope again. “Chalmers and Blamey work well together. You note how Blamey’s goin’ more shoreward to cut off the convoy’s escape, whilst Chalmers is hot on the head of their left-hand column?”
“Hmm, looks like a gaggle to me, sir,” Westcott said, “more of a batch of colliers trying to land their coal first at Wapping Docks.”
“No National Ship in sight,” Lewrie pointed out. “None of the three-masters look to be warships, so … damn my eyes, what are the French thinkin’? If they’re in-ballast, we wouldn’t touch ’em? That we’d let ’em pass ’til they head West with full cargoes?”
“Empty and less valuable they may be, sir, but they’ll still fetch something at the Prize-Courts,” Westcott shrugged off.
“Pass the word,” Lewrie said. “If we do manage to get close enough to some of them, there’s free tobacco to the most accurate gun crews.”
* * *
Getting to grips with one of the fleeing merchant ships began to look even more improbable as the day wore on, and Lewrie felt his jaws tighten, ready to grind his teeth in envy, as first Peregrine then Undaunted overhauled the slowest, lagging ships, fired warning shots, and sent boats filled with armed boarding parties to take them as prizes, whilst Sapphire flogged away, falling even further and further astern, no matter how much sail was flown. As the faint sounds of warning gunfire grew even fainter, their long stern-chase went so boresome that Pettus and Bisquit, along with the Ship’s Cook, Tanner, came up from their shelter below on the orlop for some fresh air. The Cook’s presence out of his hidey-hole was a sure sign to all hands that there was nothing dangerous to be feared; Tanner was a perfect poltroon when it came to battle, or loud noises. He’d had his fights, had lost half a leg, thank you very much, and wasn’t required to be a sturdy Heart of Oak any longer.
“Oh, ‘give me a fast ship, for I intend to go in harm’s way’,” Lt. Westcott quoted with a roll of his eyes. “They keep this up, and they’ll all be hull-down to us in an hour.”
“At least we aren’t in the fast ships’ way,” Lewrie quipped, though his heart wasn’t in it. “Cast of the log, there!” he turned to shout aft, hoping for the best results.
“Eight and one-half knots, sir! Eight and one-half!” one of the Afterguard shouted back after a long moment.
At least the dismal rains had blown on by, rolling shoreward, and the skies were clearing; all could clearly see what they were missing out on.
Lewrie went up to the poop deck for a better view with his telescope. Sapphire was nearing the first two prizes left behind to sort themselves out, and would soon pass them. Beyond, the fleeing French merchantmen now stood out clearly, scattered cross half the horizon, with Peregrine and Undaunted coursing at their heels like a pair of wolves, their large Union Jacks and commissioning pendants colourfully streaming in the glimmers of afternoon sun that shafted through the breaking cloud layers.
If it wasn’t such a grand sight, it’d be depressin’, Lewrie glumly thought, ruing, and not for the first time, how he had been so eager for a fresh active commission that he’d leapt at Sapphire, fully expecting yet another fast frigate to command. A pig in a poke, indeed, dammit! he groused, wondering if Mr. Pole, the First Secretary of the Admiralty, was still laughing years after gulling him into taking the two-decker’s command.
“Deck, there!” the mainmast lookout shouted down. “The coast is in sight, one point off the starboard bows!”
Lewrie lifted his glass to peer forward, and sure enough, he could make out a strip of grey and green, now that the weather had cleared. Not the coast itself, but the steep mountains behind the coast, all forbidding rock and forests.
He felt Sapphire lurch under his feet, a crippled hitch in her steady, metronomi
c hobby-horsing and rolling. Lewrie looked down to the quarterdeck to share a worried glance with Lt. Westcott. He then turned to look aft, as if searching for some un-charted shoal or rock ledge over which they had sailed, and touched bottom for a second.
No, it was the sea. Following the passing of the rains, the seas were working up under the press of a rising, clear-weather gale. Far out to sea, at the edge of the horizon, the waters were wrinkling and chopping, folding and spuming blown foam in a confusing welter of white-caps and white-horses. The infamous Costa de Morte, the Coast of Death, was awakening.
“Cast of the log!” Lewrie demanded, again, then peered upward to the masts and sails, wondering how long he dared wait before striking top-masts and reefing tops’ls and courses. Already, long before the full force of the winds could reach his ship, the commissioning pendant was veering more directly towards the bows. Soon, instead of sailing with the winds large on the quarter, they’d be “Both Sheets Aft”, with the wind right up the stern.
So much for prizes, this day, he thought with a groan.
“Mister Westcott!” he called down to the quarterdeck. “Haul up abeam the winds, hands to the sheets and braces! Topmen aloft to brail up the t’gallants and royals, smartly now! We’ve a blow coming!”
“Aye aye, sir!” Westcott replied, going to the compass binnacle cabinet for a brass speaking trumpet so his orders could be made out all the way to the forecastle.
“Mister Griffin,” Lewrie bade the Midshipman in charge of the signals by the taffrail flag lockers, “bend on a hoist to Peregrine and Undaunted … their numbers, Beware, Gale, and Reduce Sail!”
They won’t love me for that, Lewrie told himself, looking ahead with his glass, again. The brig-sloop and the frigate were already level with two fresh prizes, with soundless gusts of powder smoke as warning shots were fired, and boat crews and boarding parties looked to be ready to be despatched.
A Hard, Cruel Shore Page 27
