I’m pretty sure she’s Spanish, Lewrie mulled over to himself as his First Officer tended to making more sail, and the rigging of the slings and anti-boarding nets; I don’t think there’s a Dutch warship in the entire South Atlantic, and God only knows what’d draw a French ship this far afield. A British merchant flag t’lure her on, or show them a Spanish flag, and bring her out to warn a fellow countryman to the British invasion? God, that’d be rich! And she’d be put off her guard, her gun crews stood down.
“Deck there!” a lookout called down. “Th’ Chase’z hoistin’ British Colours!”
“The Devil ye say!” Lewrie barked, going back to the bulwarks to lift his telescope once more. Sure enough, even from the deck, he could make out the merest hint of bright bunting, an imitation of the Union Flag.
“Mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie hooted. “I’ll wager ye that her captain thinks he’s a clever ‘sly boots’, Mister Westcott! Hoist the Red Ensign, if ye please. Show him we’re a fat, dumb merchantman. And everyone look relieved, haw!” he called to the officers and men on the quarterdeck. He looked aft to watch Midshipman Shannon and the hands of the Afterguard bending on and hoisting the Red Ensign on the spanker’s boom peak. “When we’ve fetched her fully hull-up, we’ll put up our number in this month’s code book, and see what the Dons make of that.”
We can fight her under the Red Ensign, Lewrie thought, tautly smiling; It’s the Navy’s Red Squadron flag, too. Nobody’ll fault me for opening fire under false colours, not this time!
In 1794, when he’d first had command of the old Jester sloop, he hadn’t had false French colours lowered and Navy colours run up before delivering one broadside, and he’d been criticized for it in enemy newspapers, and Nelson himself had torn a strip off his arse.
“Sir!” Midshipman Rossyngton cried from his perch halfway up the larboard mizen mast shrouds. “She’s almost hull-up!”
Lewrie gave him a wave in recognition, then went to the forward edge of the quarterdeck and the cross-deck hammock stanchions. “Mister Spendlove?” he called to the Second Officer, whose post when at Quarters was between the two batteries of guns. “Run in the guns and load, but do not prime … both batteries.”
“Load, but do not prime, aye, sir!” Spendlove called back.
He tried to peer at the enemy warship—for that was what she had revealed herself to be by hoisting false colours—from the larboard corner of the quarterdeck, but the fore course and billowing jibs were in the way. He crossed over to his proper place to windward, and got a better view. She was almost bows-on to Reliant, all of her sail plan now visible above the horizon, and perhaps only nine miles off. She seemed to be hardening up to the wind a point or so, trying to sneak up and steal the wind gage, intending to pass close aboard and deliver her first broadside from her starboard guns into Reliant’s starboard side.
Lewrie collapsed the tubes of his telescope, hunched into his coat, and pondered, frowning in concentration. How would he fight her? The slant of wind limited how far to starboard he could turn and surprise her by wheeling “full and by”. That morning wind was fresh enough at the moment, but could weaken before both ships got within gun-range. Serving her a broadside from his larboard guns and bow-raking her would be too chancy.
It was a given for Royal Navy captains to gain the weather gage, upwind of a foe where one’s ship could steal wind from the foe’s sails, and command when one fell down alee to musket-shot or pistol-shot. Sometimes, though, the leeward ship, heeled over to larboard in this instance, could elevate her guns higher, whilst the enemy’s guns were depressed, even with the elevating quoins fully out.
It’ll be a passin’ engagement, Lewrie stewed, pursing his lips and gnawing on the lining of his mouth; one, maybe two broadsides if we’re quick about it, and then we’re past each other, and swingin’ about t’re-engage. Once she’s past us, it might be best t’haul wind and wear alee, with the larboard battery ready for ’em that instant. The Spaniard will, too. It’d make no sense for them to turn up into the wind.
Lewrie used both forefingers to sketch out the manoeuvring on the wood of the cap-rails, supposing that the Spaniard would want to stay close enough for his further broadsides to be fired at a range of less than one hundred yards, giving his gunners surer chances of hits.
Christ, we’ll end up spirallin’ round each other like “country dancers”, Lewrie thought; but, I’ll have the pre-loaded larboard guns, and he’ll be re-loadin’ his starboard battery … and the Dons ain’t all that well drilled, in the main, at gunnery or ship-handlin’, both!
At least the Spanish were slower and clumsier back in Europe, he had to caution himself. With the Royal Navy’s incessant blockades of enemy harbours, it was rare for French, Dutch, or Spanish warships to get much sea time, or chances to practice live firing. This Spaniard, though, based out of the Argentine, or some other Spanish possession the other side of Cape Horn, might have been free to drill his crew to deadly competence.
He raised his telescope for yet another look at the approaching enemy warship, and made a decision.
“A point to windward, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered. “We are stupid, weak, and civilian … or so the Dons imagine. It’s only natural for us t’get to speakin’ distance and say hallo to another British ship, hey? I want us to pass starboard-to-starboard, damned close, so our first broadside’s a blow to the heart.”
“Aye, sir,” Lt. Westcott replied.
Might he haul his wind before then, cross our bows and rake us with his larboard guns? Lewrie had to consider; Or recognise us as a frigate, and decide t’bugger off South?
He shrugged that off, deeming that the Spaniard’s move could be spotted soon enough, and even at longer range, he still had time to turn up higher into the wind and present his larboard battery. Once the Spanish captain did that, he’d surrender the wind gage, and who in his right mind would give that advantage up, once seized?
Well, I have, Lewrie confessed to himself with a wry grimace; Hell’s Bells, I’m plannin’ on givin’ it up, this minute!
Another decision made; he would hold course.
“Mister Spendlove, my apologies to your gunners,” Lewrie called down to the weather deck and the waist, “but, I wish for roundshot to be drawn from the starboard great-guns, and replaced with chain, star, and bar shot, and double-loaded with grape canisters atop those. The twelve-pounder bow chaser, carronades, and quarterdeck nine-pounders will retain solid shot. We will pass close, and I want her rigging cut t’pieces, and her quarterdeck pummeled!”
“My, sir,” Lt. Westcott said in a whisper near his shoulder, “but how very un-British.”
“He’ll be expectin’ our usual ’twixt wind and water broadside, t’punch holes in his hull and dis-mount his guns,” Lewrie said with a wee snicker, “and, he may be plannin’ t’fire high and cripple us with his first broadside, but, I s’pose now and then we can emulate the customs of the French Navy, and his. And, there’s the biter, bit.”
“Deck, there!” a lookout sang out. “Chase is a … frigate!”
“Hull-up, sir!” Midshipman Rossyngton yelled, now standing on the starboard sail-tending gangway, having left his former perch on the shrouds.
Lewrie and Westcott could see the enemy as clear as day, by then, too, bows-on to Reliant with her entire hull in plain sight; not a now-and-then thing which depended upon the rise and scend from an active sea to shove her higher for a time. The seas were fairly calm with few cat’s paws, and any apparent waves no higher than one foot or so. The fully-risen early morning sun had brightened those waters to a brilliant dark blue, too, with no more sign of the muddy coloured outflow from the Plate River and its estuary.
Atop that brilliant blue sea, the Spanish frigate stood out starkly, a dark brown hull with a faint band of pale yellow paint, and her sails the colour of weathered parchment, Lewrie could take note after a long look with his telescope. The enemy looked a bit worse for wear, as if she had been at sea for months on end
, which made him feel a touch of uneasiness that she might be that rare Spaniard who had had time to make herself hellishly efficient, and would be quicker off the mark than he had hoped, or expected.
Devil take it, he grimly thought; we’re committed.
He lowered his glass and looked aloft to the streaming commissioning pendant. “Another point to windward, Mister Westcott.”
“A point more to windward, aye, sir,” Westcott replied.
“Once our first broadside is delivered, we will haul our wind as quick as dammit, take the wind fine on the quarter, even wear if we have to, t’keep her in close gun-range. Be ready for it.”
“Aye, sir,” Westcott said, nodding and smiling. “Chomp down on her, and hang on like a bulldog.”
“That’s my good fellow!” Lewrie congratulated him.
He raised his glass once more to watch the enemy ship close the distance between them. She was altering her course slightly, hardening about one more point to windward, and baring a bit more to see of her starboard side.
Dogged, and implacable, Lewrie thought.
“Spanish frigates, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie mused aloud. “How many guns do they mount? I can’t make a count of her ports, yet.”
“Uhm, anywhere from twenty-eight to fourty, I read somewhere, sir,” Westcott told him, after a long moment to dredge that information up. “We haven’t had much dealings with them, as we have had with the French. Anything from nine- to eighteen-pounders, or their equivalents. This one doesn’t appear all that large, so…,” he said with a shrug.
Lewrie judged the range to the Spaniard at about five miles or less, by then, and wondered just how much longer their enemy might be mis-led as to their nature, or whether the Spanish captain would stand on, thinking he would soon seize a British merchantman.
Surely, he must realise we’re a frigate, sooner or later! he thought, worried that the Spaniard would haul off and begin to flee long before they came into decent gun-range, and all his preparations would be for nought.
Why, why do I trust to my cleverness! Lewrie bemoaned; Every time, I come a cropper! Clever, me? What a sour joke that is!
“Last cast of the log?” Lewrie asked.
“Just under eight knots, sir,” Westcott reported.
“Let’s run up the main top-mast, middle, and main t’gallant stays’ls,” Lewrie ordered of a sudden. “Do we have to wheel round at short notice, we’ll need that extra canvas aloft.”
“Aye, sir,” Westcott said, raising his brass speaking-trumpet to bellow the order forward.
“Mister Simcock?” Lewrie called to the Marine officer, who was idly pacing the starboard sail-tending gangway behind his men posted at the bulwarks and hammock stanchions. “That Don yonder still thinks we’re a merchantman, so it’d be best were your Marines not visible to him ’til the last moment. Have ’em squat down, if you will.”
“Squat, sir?” Simcock asked, aghast.
“You, too, sir! Kneel, or hunch … or, as the Yankee Doodles say, hunker down, ’til we spring our surprise,” Lewrie ordered with a laugh. “Your men in the fighting tops should lie down out of sight, as well. I don’t wish your splendid red coats t’give ’em the squits!”
The gun crews and powder monkeys, who had been sitting or standing idle, and the portion of the crew assigned at Quarters to tend to the braces, sheets, and fighting tops and yards, had themselves a good, tension-relieving laugh at the “lobster back’s” expense.
“We’re closing rather fast, sir,” Lt. Westcott reported to him. “About three miles off now, she is. Both of us making the same rate of knots. The next ten minutes will tell.”
“I expect you’re right,” Lewrie said, nodding soberly. “He is either still gulled, or he’s recognised us for a frigate and doesn’t give a damn. Either way, it’s of no matter.”
He raised his telescope again to study the Spanish frigate, to try to count gun-ports down her starboard side. Closer to, she gave the impression that she had been at sea longer than most. That pale yellow hull stripe was bleached by sun and time to almost white, but her gun-ports were still closed, and the same outer colour as the hull stripe.
Lewrie crossed to the helm, and stowed his telescope away; it was no longer necessary. The Spaniard was close enough to trust his own eyes. He paced back to the weather side of the quarterdeck, and planted his feet, clasped his hands in the small of his back to seem stoic and confident, and waited.
One mile of separation, and the Spaniard began to brail up his main course against the risk of catching fire from the discharges from his own guns.
Half a mile between them, and it appeared that both warships would pass each other, starboard-to-starboard, at about two or three hundred yards’ distance. Lewrie looked to his guns, drawn up to the port sills and ready to be run out as soon as the gun-ports opened, their elevating quoins drawn back from underneath the breeches for a high angle. Could they elevate high enough to savage the Spaniard’s sails and cripple her?
“A point free, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said, his mouth as dry as dust, of a sudden.
“Point free, aye, sir.”
“Just before we open upon her…,” Lewrie further said, having a last-minute inspiration, “haul in the lee braces and flat the sails to the wind. That’ll lay us over t’loo’rd a few degrees more.”
“Aye, sir,” Westcott replied, sounding mystified.
“Once the last gun fires, ease ’em again.”
“Ah! I see. Aye, sir!” Lt. Westcott answered.
A quarter-mile apart, and the Spanish frigate at last began to swing up her gun-ports. Lewrie counted twelve of them down her starboard side, rapidly calculating. Twenty-four great-guns on her main deck, two bow chasers, perhaps two stern chasers, and at least six lesser guns on her quarterdeck … She’s a thirty-four? he thought.
“Mister Spendlove!” Lewrie roared to Reliant’s waist. “Open yer ports and run out! Stand by to fire as you bear, at the highest elevation! Mister Simcock? You can stand up, now!”
She won’t wheel cross our bows, not now, she’s left it too late! Lewrie thought; And, the Dons don’t have carronades!
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“We will be haulin’ our wind, as soon as the last gun is fired, Mister Spendlove!” Lewrie cautioned. “Serve the larboard battery, and have spare hands re-load the starboard guns with solid shot!”
“Aye, sir!” Spendlove shouted back, and Lt. Merriman raised his hat in sign that he had also heard the order and would comply.
“It looks like we’ll pass within a cable’s range, sir,” Lt. Westcott pointed out, his voice gruff. “Perhaps less than two hundred yards. Any moment, now.”
“Stand ready!” Lewrie shouted to his gun crews, and the brace-tenders on the gangways.
He’s a proper little Spaniard, at least. He’ll do things the honourable way, Lewrie thought; Religious, too!
That false British flag the enemy frigate had flown was struck down, and the horizontally-striped red-gold-red flag of Spain with the royal coat of arms in the centre of the middle gold stripe was soaring up in its place. At the same time, a large wooden crucifix was being hauled up to rest against the front face of the frigate’s fore course.
“Haul taut, the lee braces, Mister Westcott,” he barked.
“Haul taut, lee braces … ease weather braces!” Lt. Westcott yelled forward with a speaking-trumpet. and the yardarms of all three masts, linked together on each mast, were swung more fore-and-aft to point their larboard tips toward the larboard stern quarter, flattening the courses, tops’ls, and t’gallants against the wind. The deck heeled over to leeward, only a few degrees, but …
Maybe just enough! Lewrie thought.
“As you bear … Fire!” he roared, and the world exploded.
The 12-pounder bow chaser barked, then the 18-pounders down the starboard side went off with louder roars, each about a second after the first, thundering back from the gun-ports with their carriage trucks squealing, followed mere secon
ds later by the deep booms from the 32-pounder carronades and the sharper cracks from the quarterdeck 9-pounders, amid an instant bank of sour-reeking powder smoke, almost so thick that it was hard to make out the bulwark next to him. The frigate juddered and trembled under his feet, not just to the recoil of her own guns, but to the slamming impacts of Spanish roundshot in reply. Reliant was punctured! He could hear the scream of wood!
“Wear, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie yelled, finally spotting his First Lieutenant as the clouds of powder smoke thinned a bit.
“Hard up your helm!” Westcott told the helmsmen. “Stations to wear ship! Ease lee braces, haul taut weather braces, and get some drive back on her as we fall off!”
Lewrie looked out-board for the Spanish frigate, but she, too, was all but invisible in her own drifting cloud of spent powder, and that was wafting down-wind toward Reliant. At least he could see his own decks, noting that Spendlove had shifted the bulk of his gunners to larboard, leaving a few men from each gun under Lt. Merriman to see to re-loading the starboard battery. A stream of ship’s boys dashed past Lewrie, bearing the fire-proof leather cartridge cylinders to feed the muzzles of the quarterdeck guns. Jessop was among them, saddled as a “new-come” with the heavier charge for a 32-pounder carronade, his feet bare for greater traction on the sanded decks and ladderways, and a neckerchief bound over his ears to save his hearing. He gave Lewrie a brief grin as he whisked by.
Reliant was coming round, pointing her stern to the smoke bank from her own guns, and the Spaniard’s, the wooden balls strung together in the parrels crying out as the yards were swung round. With a loud whoosh, the spanker over the quarterdeck swung over to starboard as the frigate completed her wear.
“Starboard battery re-loaded and ready, sir!” Lt. Merriman reported from the waist. “Spare hands, tail onto the run-out tackle for the larboard guns!”
Hostile Shores Page 36
