"A hurricane, do you think, Captain Lewrie? " Peel asked of him, clutching his wind-flagged blanket close round his chest and shoulders.
"Hurricane winds usually veer more Northerly, first, as Mister Winwood may tell you, Mister Peel," Lewrie told him.
"The counter-clockwise rotation, demonstrably proven throughout years of observation, Mister Peel, is not present here," Winwood said. "Though this is the season for them…" he trailed off, shrugging.
Damme, is he actually pullin' Peel's leg? Lewrie wondered, grinning at the seeming jape; No, just bein' his own cautious self.
"Pardons, Captain, but the hands are all on deck, and standing by braces and sheets," Mr. Adair reported.
"Very well, Mister Adair, put the helm up a point, and ease the set of the sails," Lewrie bade him, seeing Lts. Langlie and Catterall now on deck, in case something went amiss.
"Uhm…" Lt. Adair quailed for a second at the enormity of the task which had just fallen on his slim, barely experienced shoulders obviously hoping that Mr. Langlie the First Lieutenant would supplant him. "Aye aye, sir."
Lewrie paced "uphill" to the windward bulwarks to observe, with the fingers of his right hand crossed in the pocket of his storm coat, his left elbow braced over the cap-rail and his left leg straddling a taut, thick breeching rope of a larboard quarterdeck carronade. After a moment, he took his hand from his pocket, crooked a finger, and bade Lt. Langlie to join him.
"Evening, sir," Langlie said, doffing his hat, which let a gust of wind dance his romantic dark curls.
"Has to learn sometime," Lewrie commented, jutting his chin at Mr. Adair, now standing by the forrud quarterdeck rail and the nettings with a brass speaking-trumpet to his mouth and bawling orders. "Do you have any qualms, Mister Langlie?"
"He's a good, seasoned lad, sir," Langlie replied, "and just as smart as paint. He'll cope with it, I expect."
"And if he don't, well here you are, Mister Langlie, ready for anything," Lewrie chuckled, leaning close to Langlie's ear so that his words didn't reach his junior-most officer. "Soon as we've eased her, strike top-masts. This may blow out by dawn, but… better safe than sorry. I'd admire, did you oversee that, sir. And, I'd expect Mister Adair will be much relieved that you do. Take charge until we have her reefed down snug, then let him finish the Middle Watch alone."
"Aye, sir," Langlie answered, grinning in secret with Lewrie.
"Course now Sou'east by East, sir!" Adair shouted up to them a moment later. "Broad reaching. Ready to hand stays'ls and outer jibs!"
"Carry on, Mister Adair!" Lewrie shouted back, forcing himself to slouch against the railings and direct his attention outboard, far up to weather in search of the coming storm. "Though, once we've done and he's come off-watch, Mister Langlie, you will inform him that my order book requires that I be summoned much earlier than he did… gently, Mister Langlie, hmmm?" Lewrie suggested to Langlie, a sly grin on his face. "A too-confident officer of the watch is about as dangerous as one with none."
"I half suspect he's realised his mistake, sir," Langlie said in return. "And sometimes it isn't overconfidence that keeps the watch officer mum, but the fear of looking foolish, or incapable…'til it is indeed much too late, sir. I'll have him supervise the lowering of the foremast top-hamper. That's a task that won't make him feel as if we distrust his abilities, sir."
"An excellent idea, Mister Langlie, thankee. Do so."
"Aye, sir."
"Take reefs, next, so no one aloft is in too much danger, Mister Langlie," Lewrie instructed, as the first few patters of raindrops hit his bare head and face. "Get her flatter on her bottom so the hands're not flung halfway to the horizon."
A brisk and efficient half-hour's labour later, and HMS Proteus was rigged for heavy weather, with furled and gasketed t'gallants and royals, yards, and the top-masts lowered to the decks, bound snug among the piles of spare spars on the boat-tier beams, with both fore and main courses taken in one reef, and all three tops'ls at two reefs, only the main topmast stays'l still flying 'twixt the main and the fore mast, and the two inner-most jibs on the bow still standing to balance her spanker and helm effort.
By then, it was raining buckets. Whitecaps and white horses to windward rose, heaved, and curled stark close-aboard. But they weren't breaking or flying spume off the wavetops yet. And the winds, though gusting and moaning now and again, were weaker than the gust front which had preceded the rain.
Lewrie sat and steamed in his impermeable storm coat and worst, oldest hat. He'd had his canvas sling-chair fetched up and lashed to the larboard side, near the mizen-mast shrouds, where he could keep a wary eye on things. Something else for older, more senior officers to chide him for, should they ever see it, that chair. Real tarry-handed tarpaulin men lived and died on their feet when on deck, never stuck a hand in a pocket, never slouched or leaned on anything… never had a wee nap, either! Lewrie held to most concepts about how a sea-captain should behave, even the one about holding the power of life and death, of being the next-best thing to God when sailing independently… but, did God have an idle streak, well then!
Savin' m'self for important chores, he oft told himself, as he once flore did that night; fore called t'rise to the occasion. Didn't God Himself not 'Make And Mend', the first Sunday, after six days' work at creatin' the world? That hard a week, I'd've caulked away the seventh.
The striking of Six Bells of the Middle Watch roused him from a soggy "nod" with a grunted "Mmmph." Three in the morning, and an hour 'til all hands were summoned again to scrub decks. It was still black as a boot, and the seas were still lively, but the frigate was easier in her motion, no longer yawing as she scaled the waves, no longer in full cry of working timbers, nor jerk-snubbing twisting when meeting a wave as her bow dipped. She sat firmly on her starboard shoulder to the press of wind, and the faint wails aloft were the keens of passage, not torment.
He rose and stretched, undid the buttons of his storm coat, and let out the trapped, sweaty air, letting the coat be swept abaft of his hips and chest. By God, but the forceful airs were almost nippy-cool, as refreshing as a rare shore bath in a brass or copper hip-tub! Off went his hat to allow the winds to have their way, to cool his scalp, to re-comb his locks, and the fitful rain to rinse away a week's worth of oils and dander.
Fitful rain, hmmm, he took note. It no longer pummeled him or slanted in like stinging grapeshot; in point of fact, half the drops he felt were large dollops wind-stripped from sails and rigging aloft. He heard gurgles above the soughing roar of Proteus'?, hull slicing a firm way over the waves. Scuppers to loo'rd were open, and rainwater sheeted cross the angled deck to go gargling out alee; canvas scoops led fresh, clean water into spare casks and smaller kegs, and a work-party under the Purser, Mr. Coote's, direction, were trundling caught barrels on their lower rims to the edge of the companionway hatches, to be lashed or bowsed firmly in place 'til dawn, when they would be lowered down to the orlop, giving them a few more days of stores with which to keep the sea just that much longer in search of their foes.
Lewrie went forward to the nearest chute, tore off his storm coat, and bent over it for an impromptu shower, wishing he had his bar of soap handy, thoroughly rinsing his hair, scrubbing his face and chest, restoring his alertness, wishing that he could shed all of his clothing, swing the scoop over a little, and lay and wallow on deck in the steady stream without sacrificing his dignity.
The keg was full; to hell with it!
"Lift the end, there. Direct it at me," Lewrie ordered. There! Even clad in shirt and slop-trousers, he turned under the spurts, rinsing salt crystals, mildew, and old sweat from his clothes, first, then (perhaps) cleaning his skin beneath, second.
"God, that'll wake you up," he exclaimed, for the water was as cool as the dying storm winds, while his hands stood about and gawped with broad smiles on their faces. "Everyone take the opportunity for a good scrub while it lasted, men?"
"Oh, aye, sir!" a sailor agreed.
"E'en got up enoug
h lather t'shave with, sir," another said, for salt water would never lather with soap, and the usual issue for bodily use was a meagre cup a day, but for the happenstance of a rain shower.
"Drunk our fill, for oncet, we did, Cap'um," a third chortled.
"Who's got the cup, then?" Lewrie cried. "Give it here." And caught two full wooden piggins of sweet, fresh rainwater from the canvas scoop and downed them like a sweaty smith. "Ah, thankee. Rare treat, that. Carry on, men. And after we take Noon Sights, we'll double the water ration, for one day at least. Now we've enough to go around."
Sated, indeed with his belly sloshing, which forced a belch from his lips, Lewrie picked up his storm coat, draped it over one arm, put his hat on, and paced back to the helm, and the waiting Mr. Adair, who had less than an hour left of the Middle Watch.
"Mister Adair," he said, peering at the compass bowl.
"Captain, sir. The wind's easing, and the sea's not as boisterous. Course is still Sou'east by East, though I do believe she might abide our standing a touch closer to the wind, again, sir."
"Our run, by Dead Reckoning, Mister Adair?" Lewrie asked.
"Uhm… half-hour casts of the log, sir," Adair said, fumbling a soggy sheet of folded paper from the breast pocket of his coat. His marks had been made with a stub of metallic lead, and done in the dark or the faint binnacle glow, so his accounting was extremely difficult to read, but Adair found a way to decypher it.
Ten knots, then eight… nine knots, even reefed and eased… Lewrie caught himself counting on his fingers to keep track; a spell of ten knots during gusts of the storm, three casts in a row, hmmm…
"At least twenty miles alee of our former course, sir, and about thirty miles forrud over the ground, sorry," Adair puzzled out at last.
"Mister Winwood leave his precious chart, did he, Mister Adair?"
"Aye, sir, in the cabinet."
Lewrie fetched it out and knelt under the lit binnacle, straining his eyes to find the finely pencilled marks of their course, using a handy pair of dividers and a parallel ruler to estimate the deviation, and pace it out to leeward on Sou'east by East.
"Well, damme, Mister Adair," Lewrie said, rising. "Even if the wind shifts back to the Nor'east, we'll spend another day beating back West-Nor'west to make it up, or miss Antigua completely. Put us into the lee of Guadeloupe, even if we could return to our old course this instant."
And what was so important about putting into English Harbour on Antigua? Lewrie wondered. Was it a mere courtesy call to let the local admiral know that they were in his waters, but not under his command, on secret business? Did Peel have someone to meet there, with intelligence which might await him that was that vital to their mission?
He rather doubted it.
Guadeloupe, though, was South of Antigua, and not by much, just about as much as they'd lost during the storm-if they stayed on a course a little to leeward of their old one, even if the Trades swung back where they belonged. Guadeloupe, the last French stronghold in the Antilles-and now Guillaume Choundas's lair. Lewrie bent under the binnacle lamp to study the chart just one more time, tracing a nail to the East'rd…
"Aye, Mister Adair, the wind has eased," he said, rolling up the chart and stowing it away. "Try to brace her up a point to windward. A half-point, if that's all she'll tolerate, and hold it 'til the end of watch, and inform Mister Langlie when he replaces you."
He paced back up to his rightful place to windward, took hold of the bulwarks, and gripped, trying to divine what message the sea sent up his arms. They were too far out to feel the return waves from the lee shore of the distant islands, but in his mind's eye, he could see HMS Proteus at tomorrow's dawn, perhaps halfway up the coast above Basse-Terre, the main lee-side port on Guadeloupe.
Ready to raise Merry Hell with any shipping he encountered.
"Thankee, God," he whispered aloft, "for a heaven-sent slant o' wind. Now, could You give me just one more?"
CHAPTER TEN
Lt. Jules Hainaut looked about the decks of his small schooner, a captured American trader, only sixty-four feet on the range of the deck, and tried to savour his temporary "command" for as long as it lasted, tried to tamp down his disappointment that it was only for the day, and that Le Maitre, Captain Choundas, seemed averse to ever letting him free. God forbid, but ever since Choundas had learned that his bete noire was in the Caribbean, the monstrous old ogre had come over all protective, as if he'd not risk his "pet," his "like a son to me" protege beyond his sight until Lewrie and Proteus had been eliminated… by his other, experienced "pets," Desplan, Griot, and MacPherson, the talented, the promising, the mature…! Merde alors, but it made Hainaut feel like a mewling infant, a kitten with its eyes barely open and vulnerable to the back-garden crows who'd carry it off like a ripe… worm!
L'Impudente (her American name had been Saucy) was not even the Captaine's to give him, for she was basically the yard-boat Governor-General Hugues used to tour his coastal fortifications… or sail to Marie Galante Island with his friends, wenches, and baskets of wine and food for his occasional romps… a faded, neglected… yacht!
Capitaine Choundas despised long trips in coaches, and a riding horse was pure torture on his mangled body, so,.when he had decided to accompany the Le Bouclier frigate to Basse-Terre to complete her lading for her first aggressive cruise, he needed a comfortable way to return, and L'Impudente was available.
"Follow us to Basse-Terre, Jules," Choundas had ordered, "and I will take passage back to Pointe-a-Pitre with you. Try not to run her aground, mon cher. M'sieur Hugues would never forgive me if you wreck her, and he already despises me enough," he'd said-without humour.
Even that was galling; as if Hainaut had never been a tarpaulin man, a well-trained matelot, boat-handler, or Aspirant who had stood a watch by himself.
Well, for one day at least he was not a paper-shuffling Lieutenant de Vaisseau, a mere catch-fart to his master. He had challenged L'Impudent's lethargic crew to sail her as she was meant to be sailed, had infused them with enthusiasm and had heated their blood with a dole-out of naval-issue arrack, the fierce but coarse brandy, before he even got the schooner away from the dock, with a promise of double the usual wine ration with their noon meal if they showed that magnificent frigate a clean pair of heels and danced a quadrille round her.
Even with a weeded bottom and both running and standing rigging in need of re-roving or replacement, L 'Impudente could dance. Under all the sail she could bear, he'd stood out with the wind up her skirts to carve graceful figures beyond the harbour moles to wait for Le Bouclier. Then, once on course Southwest, then West, he had weaved her about from one side of the frigate's bows to the other, sometimes falling back to pace her alee, then up to windward, ducking under her stern and pretending to fire raking broadsides into her transom.
Capitaine Desplan and his officers, and the frigate's eager crew, had first good-naturedly jeered them, then later cheered them, as the aptly named schooner had taunted and flirted about her. Hainaut didn't see Capitaine Choundas peering over the side during his antics, which was disappointing, as he strove so hard to prove himself a trustworthy ship-handler, but surely the others were telling him…!
L'Impudente had threaded the middle of the five-mile-wide channel between the Vieux Fort and the island of Terre-de-Bas in the Saintes, with antics done for a while, and the frigate finally spreading enough sail to threaten to run her down, dead astern of her in the deeps that L'Impudente was sounding. She stood out a good six kilometers (Hainaut was iffy when it came to the new measurements that the Directory had invented but in the old measurements he was sure he was out far enough to miss any reefs or shoals, and would not damage their Governor-General's little "play-pretty."
He had turned North, with the Trades a bit ahead of abeam, and the lithe schooner had gathered speed and heeled, dashing spray as high as the middle of her jibs, seeming to chuckle in delight to make such a gladsome way, as Hainaut did. Onward, rocking and romping, ranting over the brig
ht sea, until he was far above Basse-Terre, and stood off-and-on to allow the frigate to sail in and anchor first, far from any risk of falling foul of her. At last, he angled in toward the harbour, which was no true harbour at all, just a lee-side road off the town and its quayside street, his crew ready to short-tack once he turned her up Eastward, planning to ghost in alongside Le Bouclier once she had both anchors down.
"Heu, Lieutenant?" the schooner's permanent Bosun said from the tillerhead. "There's something going on astern, I think, m'sieur."
"Touch more lee helm, Timmonier," Hainaut told the helmsman as he stepped past the long tiller sweep to the taff-rail to raise his telescope, a particularly fine one looted from the same disgraced admiral who had "supplied" his smallsword.
"Mon Dieu, merde alors!" Hainaut spat in alarm. "The 'Bloodies'!"
"Hard t'miss, thank God," Lewrie said, pointing his telescope, its tubes collapsed, at the volcano of La Soufriere to the Southeast, and the other peak at the North end of the island that was just about as tall. "It appears we'll make landfall just about level with a town called… Mister Winwood?"
"Deshaies, sir," the Sailing Master informed him, after a quick peek at his chart. "About seven miles offshore, I'd make it, before we bear away due South."
"Close enough," Lewrie said with a wolfish grin on his phyz as he paced about near the windward ladder-head, which would soon be the engaged side, if most French ships were inshore. "If they've watchers ashore, we'll sail faster than a messenger can ride. And if they have semaphore towers, it don't signify. Panic, and bags o' shit; that's what We're here for, after all. Though I simply don't understand why we haven't seen a single one of our warships, all the way here."
"It's possible, sir, that most of them are lurking to windward of the island," Lt. Langlie commented, "where they can snatch prizes."
" 'It is not love but booty that this iron age applauds,' do ye know," Lewrie cited, not above borrowing from Mr. Peel's stock of erudite quotes; though the Latin had quite flown his head. "Tibullus, I believe. Aha! Speakin' o' booty…"
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