Havoc`s Sword

by Dewey Lambdin

  Except for one short fight off their own coast that had netted them a French privateer, the Yankees hadn't scored any successes, yet, and were more than due one. Reclaiming their missing merchant vessels and fighting a brace of French privateers or National ships would embolden their whole nation. That a British frigate had been a supporting partner might result in an even closer cooperation in future, even a formal alliance.

  He couldn't take the lead role, though. The Americans' stubborn "younger brother" pride, and mistrust of their former enemy, would never allow him to play the old salt and senior officer on the scene. Had he tried, they'd have damned his blood and swanned off on their truculent own, Lewrie strongly suspected.

  Yet… his standing off a bit, appearing in command of Yankee subordinates, would dovetail with French suspicions to a tee, he could speculate. The French espoused a lingering liking for the Jonathons. They had eagerly bankrupted themselves to support the Revolution, sent troops and fleets to aid them, and had embraced everything rustic, plain, and Yankee Doodle (including that damned song that had driven him half-daft, when he had been surrounded at Yorktown!) along with doddering old Benjamin Franklin and his ratty raccoon caps, as paragons of simple, plebeian Virtue-which had also dovetailed quite nicely with their reigning philosophers, like that Rousseau fellow with all his cant about Noble Savages, the Common Man, and Common Sense. The French had fallen in love with that wild-eyed radical Thomas Paine, and his rantings on Republicanism and Democracy. So much so that a few years later, they had staged a Revolution of their own; one they'd mucked up, o' course… being French, and all.

  In the beginning of the French Revolution, it had been American grains, delivered in whole armadas of neutral ships, that kept them from wholesale famine.

  No, no matter their unofficial "war" against American traders, the French still partways admired them. Of course, being French, the Americans were probably seen as child-like, raw bumpkins when compared to the superiority of French society. Weak, rude and rustic in their manners, overly prudish and Puritan in their mores, so unrealistic as to expect honesty, fair dealing, and prim rectitude from themselves and others… so hopelessly naive, so un-worldly!

  Hugues, Choundas, and the Directory in Paris when word of this reached them, could never suspect the Americans of being realistic enough to make alliance with Great Britain; too weak on land and sea to take the lead. Too enamoured of, too awed by, the innate glory of La Belle France to… dare! Those hideous English, however, were just the sort of scheming, cynical master manipulators who could gull the ingenuous Americans into folly, could tempt them from the eternal gratitude the United States owed France!

  Oh, how they'd curse, stamp their elegantly shod little feet! Lewrie happily thought. How the Frogs would feel betrayed… and feel fear! Fear enough to sulk for a time (as the French were wont to do) then declare war against the United States, piqued by such betrayal?

  Here in local waters, Hugues and Choundas would be piqued, for certain, to have lost a brace of raiders, lost a flotilla of prizes; perhaps gained a new foe. It would be months before packets could carry word back and forth from Guadeloupe to France with news or instructions, and in the meantime they would operate as if befogged. They'd keep their main attention on British operations, but would be forced to keep glancing over their shoulders lest the United States launch a real war, perhaps assemble a hasty fleet to eliminate Guadeloupe as a privateering base, once and for all, by themselves, or in league with the odious English!

  And Pelham an' Peel deem me a simpleton, ha! Lewrie thought in glee. Well, they wanted Choundas befuddled, didn't they? And I can't think of a thing that befuddles him better.

  "Sumter is firing a challenge, sir!" Lt. Langlie reported, interrupting Lewrie's musings. "And the merchantmen are wearing off the wind to the Sou'west, it appears."

  Lewrie turned his attention in the opposite direction, lifting his glass again. Indeed, he could now make out the dowdiness of the prize vessels, how deeply laden and slow they were as they wore, now they'd come completely hull-up. French Tricolours flew above Yankee "gridiron" flags at their sterns denoting them as prizes. Poorly manned prizes, he was certain. The Frogs could not allot a complete crew aboard them. Even so over-manned as French warships and privateers were when put to sea in expectation of captures, if there were now a dozen hands aboard each prize, he'd eat his hat! And half of those would have to stand guard against the original crews retaking their own ship in the wee hours of the Middle Watch. And, would a privateer or a warship captain willingly give up his best topmen and able seamen into a prize, weakening her own chances of survival or freedom if they met a storm or an enemy man o' war? He rather doubted it!

  "The captor seems she'll play 'mother duck,' Mister Langlie," Lewrie said as he lowered his glass. "She's standing out to face the Sumter, to give her prizes time to get away."

  "Hmmm… now we'll see what Yankee warships are made of, sir," Lt. Langlie said, as if sceptical of their fighting prowess. "Should we not, uhm… close Sumter and give her a hand, sir?"

  "Oh, I expect Captain McGilliveray will give a good account of himself, and of his ship, Mister Langlie," Lewrie replied, chuckling almost indulgently. "Sumter's indeed fast and handy. Even delayed by a short action with yonder Frog, I'm sure he'll run all the prizes to earth by mid-afternoon. They're awfully slow. And do they see their own ship… their 'home,' taken, the French prize crews'll be so dispirited they'll most-like have themselves a little weep, smack their foreheads, say sacrebleu, and strike their colours. Nowhere to go."

  "Then shall we assist the Oglethorpe, sir?" Langlie asked, in impatience, spoiling for a good, sharp fight.

  "Does she need us, aye," Lewrie replied, looking more Easterly, nearly across the bows. "Aha! See there? Yon French 'sheepdog' will challenge Oglethorpe as well. And her prizes seem about to tack for a run Sou'east, as I suspected. Schooners will be faster. Do you haul us up closer to weather, Mister Langlie, and hoist stays'ls. We will pursue the merchant schooners, whilst Captain Randolph matches metal with the Frenchman. Our Yankee cousins might be so pugnacious and aggressive they might forget that they sailed South to recover their missing traders. Let's get some speed on and overtake 'em for them."

  "Aye aye, sir!" Lt. Langlie crisply answered, a bit mystified, perhaps, and a tad disappointed that they'd not take a larger part in the developing battle, but obedient as always.

  "And Mister Langlie…" Lewrie added, arresting the man in mid-stride, "Once we've a goodly way on, you may beat to Quarters."

  "Aye aye, sir!" Langlie said back, with much more enthusiasm.

  "Now we'll see what this new-hatched American Navy is made of," Lewrie muttered to himself, busy with his telescope, "indeed."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Cannon fire erupted to their starboard side, an ominous punctuation to the long-rolling drums and the urgent fifes summoning sailors from below, as Sumter and the French brig o' war began to trade shots. Mr. James Peel, drawn to the quarterdeck as well by their martial preparations, had learned enough by then to ask permission to ascend a larboard ladder before clumping up into the open air. Lewrie took scant note of his arrival, a brief smirk crossing his lips at the thought of Mr. Peel being driven to the deck, whether he wished to go or not. In action, there would be no sulking in his canvas-walled cabin, for partitions and bed-cot would have to come down to give gun crews room in which to serve their 12-pounder pieces aft. It was come up or get trampled.

  Lewrie looked down into the ship's waist, spotting the landsmen, idlers, and waisters who were lumbering his furnishings and chests down the companionways to the orlop. There went his own sea-chest, already locked. Peel's, however, was shut but not locked, with shirt cuffs or sock ends showing under the lid; worse than a midshipman's chest… all on top and nothing handy, Lewrie found cause to snicker. A moment later, and here came Aspinall, clutching a sea-bag filled with his pantry things and hobby things, and Toulon cradled in one arm and none too happy about it.
>
  "We'll not take part, Captain Lewrie?" Peel asked, after he had himself a good look about. "Not too active a part, I trust? Ye know what Mister Pelham'd…"

  "I intend to allow the Yankees their due honours, Mister Peel," Lewrie told him. "The merchantmen are theirs to reclaim, after all."

  "Thank Christ!" Peel muttered, sounding immensely relieved; for the moment, at least. " 'Tis bad enough we're even here, d'ye…"

  "I shan't tread on their pride, either, Mister Peel. I'll let 'em learn to toddle on their own. 'Til they look as if they've bitten off more than they can chew, then we'll wade in, if we must."

  "I was afraid you'd say that," Peel muttered half to himself.

  "For now, we're haring after yonder prize schooners, d'ye see, Mister Peel?" Lewrie pointed out, handing him the telescope. "So they don't break free whilst the men o' war slug it out."

  "Excuse me, Captain sir," Midshipman Grace said, coming up and knuckling his forehead in salute, his waist-coat and coat sleeves wet right through, "but the last cast of the log reads eleven and a quarter knots, sir! She flies like a Cambridge coach, this morning, sir!"

  "Damme if she doesn't!" Lewrie said, beaming with pride at his frigate's fine turn of speed. "She's bored, and hungry today, Mister Grace. Good ships are like fine, blooded horses. They go stale, do you keep 'em reined back. Our Proteus knows when a fight's in the offing. Like a good warhorse, she wants a part in it."

  "And bless her for her spirit, sir!" Grace eagerly agreed.

  "I'll never understand you sailormen," Peel grumpily confessed after Grace had gone back to his place in the after-guard. "What mystifying language you use, what superstitions about ships' souls…"

  "We're a contrary lot," Lewrie allowed in all good humour as he watched Sumter and the French brig o' war engaging.

  "One would think Mister Jonathan Swift used your sort for caricatures when he wrote Gulliver's Travels," Peel harumphed further.

  "Not everyone peels their boiled eggs from the pointy end, do you mean to say, Mister Peel?" Lewrie pretended to find inexplicable. "Why, I never heard the like, tsk tsk!"

  "Oh, what's the use?" Peel groaned, half under his breath again.

  "Damme, but they're good shots, our Yankees!" Lewrie exclaimed as Sumter loosed her entire broadside on the French warship at a range of about one cable. "Ev'ry ball 'twixt wind and water, by God."

  The French were replying, though with a much weaker battery, it appeared. Lewrie could detect deep bellows from some 12-pounders mingled with the sharper barks of smaller guns among the French response. Even at such close range, the French were firing high at masts, spars, and sails, as they usually did, to cripple a foe before deciding whether to close or scamper off.

  "French men o' war, Mister Peel!" Lewrie enthused, slapping his palms together with joy. "Manned by French Navy men, for certain."

  "How can you deduce that, Captain Lewrie?" Peel asked.

  "Privateersmen would never offer battle, unless you trapped 'em in a corner," Lewrie explained quickly. "They have too much financial stake in their own vessels, and tomorrow is another day. Run without shame today, take more prizes next time. Privateersmen can't risk damage, either. Repairs come out of their pockets, and time spent in dockyard is lost money, too."

  "Whereas naval types know their government will foot the bill?" Peel sardonically supposed. "And they get paid, regardless?"

  "Exactly," Lewrie said, laughing briefly. "And look you. They fire high, French Navy fashion, t'make their opponent too slow so they can get away, instead of goin' for a quick kill. There's professional Frog officers over yonder who've been schooled in their tactics maybe too long and too well. But damme, piss-poor gunners."

  Sure enough, Sumter got off a second broadside, well-aimed and laid, long before the French could. Lewrie turned and glared at Peel, pointing at his telescope in silent, urgent demand, and Peel surrendered it, albeit in sullen bad grace, then wandered about the deck in search of a replacement, headed aft towards the binnacle racks.

  The second French broadside was delayed, as the brig o' war was instantly pocked with fresh shot-holes. Chunks of gunwale and bulwark timber went flying in clouds of smoke, dust, and splinters, and the brig shuddered as if suffering the ague, sending sympathetic shivers aloft that almost spilled wind from her sails! The answering broadside, when it did come, wasn't half the strength of the first, either; ragged and stuttering, and still firing high, as if their gun-captains were too panicky to shove the wooden quoins in under the breeches to lever the barrels downward. Lewrie could gleefully think the French gunners were already near that point where the choreography of gun-drill became a teeth-chattering, snot-drooling rota; just do your small part, swab quick-duck; load quick-duck; run-out while squatting in dubious safety; touch-off without offering your body as a target, and hang aiming! Get shots off, no matter where the ball went, fast as you could, and don't dare look aside at the maimed and the dead, or let yourself think, imagine…!

  It happened to the best of crews, Lewrie knew, when things got desperate. And the way that Sumter's gunners were getting off three well-aimed and laid broadsides every two and a half minutes was creditable in anyone's navy.

  Sumter paused in her firing as she passed down the side of the French brig, larboard side facing larboard side on opposing tacks… and then swung up to windward at the last moment, slewing a great foaming froth as she performed a radical turn. Her guns were run-out anew, smoke-dulled ebony muzzles levelled like the muskets of a firing squad.

  "She'll stern-rake her, by God!" Lewrie exulted, full of admiration, and succumbing to "battle-fever," even if he was but a spectator and not a yardarm-to-yardarm participant for a change.

  And Sumter did, her gun-captains igniting their powder charges as each piece bore directly up the French brig's stern, and at a distance little over a good musket shot. He did not need his glass to see the French brig o' war shiver, again, as her main-mast came tumbling down in ruin, as round shot bowled her entire length, caroming side to side in splintery ricochets that ripped the French ship's entrails out. A round-shot came bursting out from below her larboard cat-head in an immense whirlwind of broken planking, some of the inner faces painted red, perhaps… but it looked like a spurt of her heart's blood!

  His own crew was cheering, safe themselves for a rare once, and always happy to see "Monsoor" done the dirty. A moment later, and the crew raised a louder and more enthusiastic cheer, for someone upon the French ship's quarterdeck cut the flag halliards right-aft, abaft her spanker, to let a massive Tricolour flutter down to drape her stern in sign of surrender.

  "That's the way, Sumter, that's the way!" Lewrie hooted in joy at seeing a thing done smartly and well. He pounded a fist on the cap-rail of the quarterdeck nettings' bulwark, before remembering how glum Royal Navy captains were supposed to be-far too late, as usual.

  The USS Sumter sailed on for a space, then hauled her wind and fell off in pursuit of the square-rigged prize vessels. Her late foe had struck her colours, and was so damaged she would not be going anywhere anytime soon, at any rate. A stern-rake would have killed and wounded so many of the French brig's crew, created so much havoc belowdecks, that it would take hours for those still on their feet to raise a jury-mast aft, plug shot-holes below the waterline, pump her out, and get any sort of way on her again. A painfully slow and crippled way, so slow that any real hopes of escape were foredoomed if the foe decided to renege on her honour-bound pledge of surrender A privateer might break his oath and attempt a run for it, but French Navy officers, even jumped-up petty officers made into the gentleman-officer class, might not, Lewrie thought.

  Besides, Lewrie smugly considered, the brig o' war had already been working at a disadvantage, with so many of her hands away in the prize vessels. He doubted they had enough healthy people aboard for a full rowing crew in all four of their ship's boats!

  "They are, uhm… disturbingly good," Mr. Peel commented in the relative quiet after the guns had fallen silent. "
That was a quick and brutal drubbing. Well-laid, too."

  "Did you expect any less, Mister Peel?" Lewrie replied. "They may not have had much of a navy the last time round, but they're among the world's best sailors… as their privateers and that Captain John Paul Jones proved, time and again. Not too surprising really, when you think on it. They are half-British."

  "Then surely not a people whose nautical aspirations should be encouraged… or, fostered, as it were," Peel glumly admonished.

  "But of course they should!" Lewrie enthusiastically countered. "They're damn' good, didn't you just say so? With more ships in commission, encouraged by a few more victories like this one, they just might declare war on the French, and be a tremendous ally. And they wouldn't cost us a groat, not like the Austrians or Neapolitans, 'cause they're too proud to take the sort of subsidies we toss around. Millions of pounds a year, and what have we gotten for our money? Weak-kneed fools, and utter failure.

  "Say we give, or sell dirt-cheap, modern artillery to 'em. It's all they need. They have Southern live oak for hulls, the tall, straight pines for masts and spars, the tar, pitch, and oils, the flax and hemp for sails and rope, and do they build a few more frigates like Hancock … I told you all about her!… Guns, powder, and shot are all they really lack. Say the Crown reimburses our cannon foundries so they still make the same profit as if they sold 'em direct, and that is money spent at home, not thrown away on Prussians, Hindoos, the Chinee, or… men in the Moon! The Crown would adore it!"

  "Well, given what we've seen this morning, yes, they seem to be more than capable at sea," Mr. Peel tentatively acceded. "And, yes, we do waste millions in solid coin, I'll grant you. But they're rivals in trade, Lewrie. You give 'em an inch, they'll dominate the Caribbean, the carrying trade…"