“Prime your guns!” Spendlove insisted. “Open the ports, and run out!”
“There she is, sir!” Westcott cried, pointing off the larboard quarter, coughing a bit on the rotten-egg fumes that still lingered from the guns’ discharges.
The Spanish frigate had run on for a time after her broadside, slower to begin her turn off the wind. To re-engage, though, she did not have to wear but merely alter course Sou’easterly. That put both ships twice as far apart, with Reliant on a course almost the reciprocal of her original heading, now bound almost Due East. They would converge again in another minute or so.
“I think we chewed her rigging up a fair bit,” Lewrie said after a quick look, going to the binnacle cabinet for his telescope.
“I see pieces missing, sir,” Mr. Caldwell, the Sailing Master, said with a chortle. “Her fore t’gallant’s gone, her main tops’l’s shot to ribbons, and her main top-mast shrouds appear half-shot through.”
“Good Lord, we’ve be-headed Jesus!” Westcott exclaimed.
A piece of grape shot or some other bit of ironmongery which they had fired had decapitated the figure on the crucifix hung aloft in her rigging! The rest of it was still swinging like a pendulum.
“Half her stays’ls are gone by the board, too,” Lewrie said, lowering his telescope. “She’s about three hundred yards off, now? Almost too far for the carronades, but … we’ll make things hot for them.” He went forward to look down into the waist. “The larboard guns, Mister Spendlove! Serve her a broadside, ’twixt wind and water!”
“Cock your locks! By broadside … Fire!” Spendlove roared.
Every larboard gun lit off in a spectacular bellowing, rattling the air in Lewrie’s lungs and making his heart flutter, and causing a ringing in his ears despite the plugs of wax he’d inserted. Once more, the enemy frigate was blotted out by a fresh fog bank of reeking greyish-yellow powder smoke.
Three shots every two minutes, Lewrie grimly thought, sure of his gunners’ proficiency, gained through un-ceasing drill and live-fire practice. He’d loved the guns, from his first exposure to them as a raw Midshipman, loved the thunder, the power, and the very stink of them! As harsh as the sour reek was that wafted back on him, he could almost think it as bewitching as a lover’s cologne!
More guns slammed, and his ship trembled and shook as Spanish roundshot struck home. The anti-boarding nets hoisted on the larboard side twitched and thrashed, a section of bulwark and hammocks stored in the stanchions were flung apart, and two Marines were shot from their posts on the gangway to land like tossed-aside dolls on the planking in the waist. There was a Rawrk! of rivened wood as one ball struck between two 18-pounders, flinging a cloud of splinters at sailors re-loading their pieces. Something heavy hummed over the quarterdeck like a gigantic bumblebee, thankfully missing high. The cloud of smoke from the Spanish frigate was punctured by quick amber and red flashes as her guns fired, now as blind as Lewrie’s.
“Loblolly men, here!” Spendlove was yelling. “Clear those men away! Run out! Prime! Cock your locks! Wait for the smoke to clear, and … on the up-roll … Fire!”
Before his view was blotted out, again, Lewrie got a quick impression of their foe’s condition which allowed him a brief twitch of a smile. The Spanish frigate’s weakened top-mast stays had given way, and her brailed-up main royal and her main t’gallant sails had swung over like a felled pine tree onto her starboard tops’l and yard, fouling her lee braces and the work of the men in her main mast fighting top, in a jumble of spars, canvas, and rigging.
They’ll have t’chop all that away, Lewrie thought, pleased at how that would slow her down. In his head, he sketched their convergence—Reliant going East and the Spaniard going Sou’east—anticipating that his own ship could be at least one hundred yards ahead of the enemy when they closed. Could he be faster, he could contemplate bow-raking her by turning up-wind a few points.
Or, she could haul her wind near Due South and rake us right up the arse! he realised with a shock; This Spanish captain is eager enough for a fight, more so than most of ’em!
The early morning wind was cause for fretting, too. It hadn’t been all that fresh a breeze to start with, and after a few minutes of gunfire, it could be reduced by half, or so his experience told him. He could feel the change on his face and cheeks, and up from below his feet; Reliant was wallowing much less livelier than before.
“Cast of the log!” he shouted aft.
“Aye, sir!” Midshipman Shannon replied, taking his own fumbling time to cast the triangular drag and line over the stern, time it with his pocket watch, then nip it at the one-minute mark. “Five and one half knots, sir!” he finally reported.
Reliant had gotten another broadside off, by then, and her labouring gun crews were running out for another by that time, the hands streaked with sweat and powder smut, and the powder monkeys scampering like panting hounds to keep the supply of propellants timely. Idlers who assisted the Surgeon and his Mates down below in the orlop cockpit were scurrying with a mess table for a carrying board which bore a savagely wounded man, bound for a hatchway. Fresh sand was being scattered onto pools of spilled blood where the Spanish roundshot had penetrated the ship’s side between two guns.
There came a stuttering series of booms from within the smoke cloud, and more flashes of red and amber as the Spanish ship fired a ragged broadside.
“Gun-captains!” Lt. Spendlove ordered. “Aim for the flashes! On the up-roll … by broadside … Fire!”
It was utter cacophony; their guns erupting, the Spanish guns roaring, with shot splashes close aboard and rising in feathers of spray and foam, balls thudding into the hull, followed by distant thuds and parroty Rawrks of punctured planking and shattered timbers as their own shot struck home! Reliant’s guns were hot, now, leaping back in recoil, even the 18-pounders leaving the decks six inches or more, and staggering down to slue almost sideways before being snagged by their stout breeching ropes, making their gun crews hop for their lives. One 18-pounder, the anchoring ring-bolt of her breeching rope weakened by the earlier hull puncture, swung completely round to face fore-and-aft, and rolled amidships, crushing its loader!
“Secure that gun! Chock it, lash it to the foremast trunk!”
“Loblolly men, here! Quickly!” Lt. Merriman called.
Bosun’s Mate Wheeler knelt by the loader, gave him a shake or two, slapped his face, then shook his head. He waved another sailor from the idle starboard battery to come help, then together they bore him to an open gun-port and put him over the side. It was bad for the crew’s morale to leave dead men strewn on the decks, or piled up like a day’s rabbit hunt round the foot of a mast. It was best to dispose of them quickly, if the surgeons could do them no good, to be mourned by their mess-mates later. If wounded so badly but still awake, it was a mercy to knock them out with a maul before disposal.
Lewrie jerked his attention away from that scene, and looked out-board, searching for a clear view of their foe. The thick smoke thinned a little as their own bank wafted alee, and the smoke from the Spanish frigate that was blown down on them didn’t seem quite as thick as before.
There she was, still half-indistinct, no more than two hundred yards off, a bit ahead of Reliant’s beam!
“How the Devil’s she out-footin’ us?” he spat. “Half her sails are shot away! Give us a point free, helmsmen!”
“Carpenter’s sent a runner, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, “he says there’s nigh a foot of water in the bilges, and we’ve taken some hits on the waterline. He asks for spare hands to plug them.”
“Aye, give him four, if ye can spare ’em,” Lewrie agreed. “I wish t’God I’d served that bastard a second broadside in his rigging, just t’slow him down a bit more.”
“By broadside … on the up-roll … Fire!” Lt. Spendlove was screeching, his voice gone harsh and raspy, and the guns erupted with a roar, leaping back from the ports once more. Thuds and Rawrks were heard distinctly from the Spanish frigate, and ragge
d star-shaped holes blossomed down her starboard side before powder smoke made her disappear.
“She’s flying her fore and middle stays’ls again, sir!” Caldwell exclaimed. “They’ve re-roved. And, she’s bared her main course!”
“You sure, Mister Caldwell?” Lewrie asked, turning to face him.
“Sure, sir!” the Sailing Master insisted.
“Well, no wonder she’s out-footin’ us!” Lewrie groused, trying to peer out to confirm that with his own eyes. “If she gets far out ahead of us, that bastard Don could bow-rake us. Or—!”
If we can fall back far enough t’harden up t’windward, we can just squeak the jib-boom and bowsprit short of her stern and shoot her up the arse, Lewrie schemed. He looked aloft at the commissioning pendant, which was streaming towards the starboard side, a point or two abaft of abeam.
No, that won’t work, he sadly told himself.
Their course was still Due East, or a point off to East by South. The pendant showed that the wind was from the Nor’-Nor’east, and they would end up in-irons if they turned up to windward much further. He would have to continue slugging it out on this heading, with the foe slowly creeping further and further ahead towards the larboard bows.
“Mister Westcott! Soon as the next broadside is fired, haul our wind and come to Sou’east,” Lewrie ordered. “That’ll place her back abeam of us, and open the range a bit.”
And just keep poundin’ her, hopin’ that something aboard her will give way, sooner or later, Lewrie thought with a groan.
There were stabbing flames of discharge in the smoke as their enemy fired again, a very ragged and stuttering broadside. Feathers and shot pillars shot skyward, mostly ahead of Reliant’s bows, with very few shot actually striking her, for once.
“She can’t be sure of where to aim, with all this smoke, sir!” Lt. Westcott rasped out. “They think we’re still abeam of her!”
“Aim for the gun flashes! By broadside … Fire!” Spendlove cried from the waist.
“Helm up, Quartermasters!” Lewrie snapped. “Come about to the Sou’east! Hands to the braces, Mister Westcott!”
Reliant wheeled away Sutherly, wreathed in her own fresh fog bank of powder smoke, and sailing into the clouds of smoke from previous broadsides, which by now were taller than the mast-head trucks.
“Been at it for a full hour, now, sir,” Caldwell commented. “I do believe by the sound of it that the Dons are very slow to fire and load.”
“And our lads are just as tired as theirs, Mister Caldwell,” Lewrie told him, gesturing toward the ship’s waist, and Reliant’s gun crews who were streaming sweat despite the coolness of the morning, who were taking the short time between running out the guns and their firing to dash to the scuttle-butts for a sip of a water, or dip up handfuls of water from the swabbing tubs between the guns, now foul with the black nitres from spent gunpowder. “That’s not three rounds every two minutes any longer.”
“At least we haven’t taken much damage aloft, sir,” Westcott said, looking up at the masts and sails. “Our Spaniard’s playing the game fair, unlike the French.”
“And we’ve cheated, by tryin’ t’cripple his yards?” Lewrie asked with a brow up. “All’s fair, so long as we win.”
“Hold fire, hold fire, there!” Lt. Spendlove shouted.
“What’s the problem, Mister Spendlove?” Lewrie demanded from the forward edge of the quarterdeck nettings.
“Can’t see him, sir, for all this smoke,” Spendlove replied. “It’s so thick, I’m firing at his gun flashes, and I don’t wish to waste a broadside on thin air. Sorry.”
The sudden lack of ear-splitting thunder was eerie. Combined with the thickness of the masking powder smoke, it was eerier still, so when Midshipman Shannon called out a fresh cast of the log at the taffrails, everyone could make out his thin young voice. “Only five knots, now! Five knots even!”
“Ah, we’ve shot the wind to nothing,” Mr. Caldwell spat, “and whipped a fog of our own making. The air must be very humid, today.”
Boom-Boom … Boom, from out to larboard, more off the bows now, than abeam, as Lewrie had hoped his turn-away might place the Spanish frigate. It was yet another ragged, stuttering broadside, as if the Dons could see a target to engage as they bore, rather than the full weight of a co-ordinated broadside.
“I only count ten, not twelve,” Lewrie said, feeling a bit of hope. “We may have silenced two of his great-guns.”
“Speak of firing into thin air,” the Sailing Master scoffed.
All could hear the moaning of solid shot as it passed ahead of the bows, could hear the splashes as heavy iron balls slapped the sea and skipped off into the distance. Reliant wasn’t even touched!
“Mister Caldwell, the last clear sight you had of our enemy,” Lewrie posed, “you said they’d sheeted home their main course? Was it reefed, or drawn fully down?”
“Un-reefed, sir,” was the Sailing Master’s firm assurance.
“I’d hoped, by hauling our wind, t’keep her abeam, but it seems she’s sailin’ faster than our own five knots,” Lewrie plotted aloud. “She now lies more-like only three points off the larboard bows. Do you believe we have enough wind t’go back up to Due East, or East by North?”
“Aye, sir, but no higher, else we’ll almost be in-irons,” Mr. Caldwell allowed.
“Mister Spendlove!” Lewrie yelled down. “A water break for all your gunners, then man the starboard battery!”
“Aye, sir,” Spendlove replied, both weary and mystified.
“Put yer helm down, Mister Westcott, and lay us on the wind, East by North. Hands to the braces and sheets!”
If I can find you in all this, you Spanish bastard, I’ll bugger you, yet! he thought.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The decks tilted a bit, first coming upright and level from the slight heel to starboard as HMS Reliant swung back towards her original course. Her hull slightly groaned at the easing, the myriad pulley-block sheaves squeaked and chattered, and the yard parrels squealed as braces and sheets were tailed on to swing the yards to angle the sails for a close reach, more up-wind. Once the yards were trimmed, and the fore-and-aft jibs and stays’ls were drawn tauter to cup that scant wind, the decks took on a slightly greater heel to starboard, but nothing as dramatic as they would be when going close-hauled on a stronger wind.
“Five and three-quarter knots, sir!” Midshipman Shannon cried from the stern, as if thrilled by the improvement. Casting the log was a minor chore, one that Shannon’s limited experience at sea rated him, so he would perform it as best he could ’til given a better one.
“Tastes a bit healthier, anyway, sir,” Lt. Westcott commented after a deep sniff, then flashed one of his brief grins. “It hardly smells like rotten eggs any longer. We’ll be in clear air any second now.”
“The enemy’s ceased fire,” Lewrie fretted, going to the break of the quarterdeck by the starboard ladderway to peer out.
“Saving shot and powder ’til he can see, again, most-like, sir,” Westcott said with a shrug, after following him over. “Same as us.”
“Aye, but did he haul off more Sutherly t’find us, or hope to work ahead of us and wheel round t’bow-rake us?” Lewrie wondered out loud. “Or, did he come back on the wind, and sail clear of all this on the same tack as ours?”
I’ll either see his stern, open for the raking, or his larboard guns, which are fresh and un-damaged, Lewrie thought; and the range greater than before. We now have the wind gage, and can fall down on him, at the very least. Which, dammit? Show yourself!
He was too impatient to pretend to be implacable, or properly stoic; he left the quarterdeck and went forward up the starboard gangway to the main mast stays for a better view, shouldering two Marines out of the way. “Mornin’, sir,” one of them whispered.
“Ah, good mornin’, Private Dodd,” Lewrie replied without looking at him. “Enjoyin’ sea life, are ye?”
“Aye, sir!” Dodd said with a twinkle. “M
ost exciting!”
“Speak only when spoken to, Dodd,” Lt. Simcock warned.
“Thought I did, sir!” Dodd answered, stiffening his posture.
“Leg up,” Lewrie demanded, taking hold of the thick and tarry stays to scramble to the top of the bulwarks and the filled hammock stanchions. He swung out-board and began to climb the rat-lines for an even better view, ’til he was half-way to the cat-harpings.
He was in clearer air! Swivelling his head round, Lewrie saw sparkling sea to windward, ahead, and astern. They had sailed above the pall of battle, into bright blue morning skies and innocently white clouds. The only blotches of sour yellow and dirty grey smoke were to leeward, to the South, and with the suspension of fire from either frigate, that bank of smoke was thinning, and slowly scudding away.
“Mastheads!” the main mast lookout in the cross-trees shouted. “Deck, there! Mastheads, one point ahead o’ th’ starb’d beam!”
There she is, by God! Lewrie silently exulted; Her mizen and spanker … her main, and main course? She’s almost stern-on!
He quickly scrambled down to the top of the bulwarks, pointing to leeward. “There she is, Mister Spendlove! Almost abeam, and her stern open to us! There she is, lads! See her? A bit more than one cable off, but she’s there! See her?”
Gun captains, officers, and Midshipmen ducked down to peer out the gun-ports, then stood back up, shouting fierce “Ayes!” of comfirmation, growling lusty eagerness.
“Aim small, then, fire as you bear, Mister Spendlove, you lads, and tear her heart out!” Lewrie urged them, clinging to the stays with one hand and jutting his other like a pointer at the foe.
“Cock your locks!” Spendlove shrilled. “Aim for her stern … crow levers, there! As you bear … slow and steady does it, now! As you bear … Fire!”
Oh, sweet Jesus, yes! Lewrie thought as the enemy frigate came swimming from the thinning haze, becoming almost substantial, as the 18-pounders crashed and thundered below his feet, as a fresh, thick pall of smoke, bright amber stabs of explosions, left those cruel iron muzzles, and firefly sparks swirled in the new smoke. In the scant seconds between discharge and the masking of their target, he could see the Spanish frigate’s spanker boom shatter, her proud ensign go flying free of its halliards, and great holes and showers of broken stern windows be smashed into her transom!
Hostile Shores Page 37
