Jester's Fortune

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Here’s that wind, Mister Knolles,” Lewrie warned. “Backing!”

  “Helm alee, meet it, Quartermaster!” Knolles cried. “Nothing to loo’rd, and mind your luff!”

  Just as the shrill wind in the rigging could begin to rise in pitch, Jester wheeled slightly to meet it, to conform to it without a falter . . . and rise on a wave of that quartering sea under her cut-water to aim herself a bit to starboard of the French ship.

  “’At wind-shift didn’t reach her first?” Buchanon puzzled to the quarterdeck staff. “Ah, ’ere she comes!”

  The frigate heeled, as the change in direction and strength got to her at last. Really heeled, as if she’d been overcanvased, with a bit of her starboard side showing, trying to round up into it, nigh a broach! Myrmidon had completed her tack successfully, and now lay off her starboard quarter, with Jester just about dead astern. Close, too, Lewrie noted with a grin; well, closer. Her falter had cost her a quarter mile of her lead.

  And those two beyond she was protecting—they were heavily laden or poorly managed. Merchantmen, without a doubt, both of whom were rapidly being overtaken by their own escort and her pursuers. After a long glance, Lewrie didn’t reckon that they were more than two miles to wind-ward of the frigate—and she was now within two miles’ range of Myrmidon, with Jester a mere two miles astern of that.

  “We’ll allow Commander Fillebrowne the windward side, Mister Knolles,” Lewrie said. “Stand on as we are. Long as this breeze holds, that is.”

  Another half hour passed, every ship thrashing and panting for the far horizon, but with the British warships closing the range, and the French frigate getting close enough to run down her charges. On her present course, she’d pass between them, risking being “winded” by the massive spread of sail on the right-hand of the pair, slowing her even more. Every now and then, the impatient Commander Fillebrowne lit off his larboard bow-chaser, whenever Myrmidon’s bows were on the rise. The shot still fell far short in the frigate’s wake; a poor old four-pounder, Lewrie supposed, one that wouldn’t even smudge her paint, should it score a hit.

  Still too far apart to beat to Quarters, Lewrie had the rations fetched up, with one man from every six-man mess dashing below to the berthing deck to bring up what had been abandoned. Today, like every Friday, it was a “Banyan Day,” so the hands weren’t missing much. A portion of cheese, some ship’s biscuit, what remained of their mushy peas and their beer. More hop-flavoured water, that, than a genuine beer, a mere gnat’s piss; but it kept longer in-cask than unhopped water did, and was never reduced in amount, like real water was. A sailor, ship’s boy or bosun got a gallon a day of it.

  “Yer Shrewsbury, sir,” Aspinall offered, fetching his plate to the taffrail flag-lockers, where Lewrie could dine in a semblance of privacy.

  “Sandwich,” Lewrie countered.

  “Not th’ way I heard tell it, sir,” Aspinall countered, getting his little laugh again; his former master in London had told him that it had been Lord Shrewsbury who’d first ordered cold meat on a split half-loaf, creating the first “sandwich” at the gaming-tables, too avid on a winning streak to break it, and not Lord Sandwich.

  “Cold pork, sir, sorry. Mustard, a slice o’ mozzarella, with sweet gherkin . . . Shrewsbury, sir,” Aspinall tittered, after turning “mozzarella” into a short aria.

  “Oh, do bugger off, Aspinall,” Lewrie growled in good fettle.

  “Very good, sir!” His manservant crisply replied, as if he’d never left a great-house’s employ. “Uhm, sir ? . . . Do we catch these ships, d’ya think there’d be a payout soon, sir?”

  “Knowing the lethargy of our Prize-Courts, Aspinall, I’d not hold my breath waiting.” Lewrie sighed between wolfish bites and blissful chewing. “Why? You’re not ‘skint,’ are you? In debt?”

  “Nossir, nothin’ like that. Just like t’have somethin’ t’hand, like . . . t’send home now an’ again,” Aspinall was quick to assure him. “Never told my ma I was signin’ ’board a warship, ’til it was done.”

  “She poorly?” Lewrie enquired.

  “A tad creaky, sir. Had a good place, when I left, but . . . never know when her people’s position might change, or they take on someone younger t’do fer ’em.”

  “Better this than go for a soldier, if you couldn’t find some house yourself, to do for,” Lewrie told him. “Aye, I’ll see what the Prize-Court’s up to, if you’re worried.”

  Aspinall was such a quiet fellow, always sidling about below on his chores, that he’d never given him much thought. “Creaky” . . . that could mean rheumatic and feeble, all but unemployable when he signed aboard, and that was two years ago and more! His old clerk, Mr. Mountjoy, had written the lad’s letters for him, read the one or two he’d gotten in reply, which were surely penned for his mother by a literate neigh-bour, shopkeeper or fellow house-servant.

  Just like a ship, Lewrie thought with a sigh, washing down a bite of . . . by God, it’s a sandwich, damme’f it ain’t, and no matter what Aspinall heard it called! with a swig of small-beer; right on the verge of a fight, and there’s an hundred niggling things a captain has to give an ear to!

  “Yea!” Midshipman Hyde exulted. “Think he hit her that time!”

  Lewrie gnawed off a larger bite and set the plate down, to get to his feet and go forward for a better look. The frigate was lashing along, but still overpressed, within a half mile of her merchantmen. Myrmidon was up to Range-To-Random-Shot with her bow-chaser. And his own ship would be, in another ten minutes, should she stand on as she was. Time enough for a well-practiced ship to get herself ready.

  “Ahem, Mister Knolles,” he said, swallowing. “Kindly beat us to Quarters. I think we’re close enough, at last.”

  “Aye aye, sir! Bosun, Sergeant Bootheby, turn out your drummers! Beat to Quarters!”

  Gun crews closed up, starboard ports open and great-guns run out, Jester was up to within two miles of her foe, off her lar-board quarters, after weathering her all day. Myrmidon was up to windward, pelting away upon her starboard quarters. The French frigate must turn and fight, Lewrie thought. Which of us, though? He sketched a tack to head Sou’east, should she turn on Myrmidon. But she’d have to tack herself to do that.

  Might haul her wind, and let fly with her larboard batteries ’gainst Fillebrowne, he speculated. Point herself straight at us if he does, and . . .

  “Haulin’!” Half a dozen throats spoke at once. She was hauling her wind, falling away from the wind to take it abeam, trying for almost due North! And the taut fullness of her main-course over the middle of her gun-decks was bagging, gone flaccid as it was brailed, buntlined and clewed up. So it wouldn’t catch fire when she fought!

  “Mister Knolles, haul us two points free, and ease the braces,” Alan ordered. “But be ready to come back on the wind when I say so. Mister Crewe?” he called to the Master Gunner below.

  “Aye, sir?”

  “Ready with starboard broadsides. Load with chain, bar and star shot. Quoins out, and aim for his rigging!” Lewrie chortled. Being alee of their foe had one advantange: His windward guns would be elevated higher than the frigate’s, which would be firing her larboard battery, the lee side . . . the canted-over, low side. Even with her quoins fully out from beneath the guns’ breeches, they could not reach quite so far.

  He looked astern. Pylades and Lionheart were only three miles back now and close-hauled as dammit, coursing along on the razor’s edge of the wind with frothy moustaches of foam under their bows, intent on closing to pistol-shot range. He’d have help soon if they got into trouble. Though he didn’t plan on letting this Frenchman best him.

  “A point higher, sir. Sidle up and close the range.” Lewrie fretted, pacing the starboard bulwarks, from the gangway ladder near the trunk of the main mast, to abeam the wheel-drum. “Wait for it, Mister Crewe! Pick your moment when we round up!”

  The frigate was on Jester’s starboard quarter now, as if she had become the pursuer, not the pursued. But she
had Myrmidon alee on her larboard, abaft of abeam. Lewrie thought Fillebrowne a knacky fellow—he could have pressed on, crossed her stern, got off a quick raking broadside and rushed on to deal with the helpless merchantmen.

  ’Least he’s stayin’ to fight, Alan breathed in relief.

  “Haulin’!” those half dozen commentators shouted once more. A change in aspect, as the frigate fell away even more off the wind, her gun-ports open and filled with black muzzles. She’d turn on Myrmidon first!

  “For what they’re ’bout to receive . . .” Spenser breathed from the helm, with Brauer and two mates now manning it.

  “Better them than us’n,” Mr. Tucker the Quartermaster’s Mate completed.

  Savage bellows, far deeper than the barks of a chase-gun, those Frog 18-pounders roared out, her whole side lit up and befogged by a well-timed broadside! Huge pillars and feathers of spray rose round Myrmidon, and her masts swayed drunk-enly as she was struck, recoiling from the shock. Canted over, the frigate couldn’t hope to dismast her with guns aimed high enough, except the 8-pounders on her quarterdeck; but the brutal shock might suit their purpose just as well.

  “Close-haul, Mister Knolles! Get ready, Mister Crewe!” Alan screeched. “As she comes back on the wind!

  “Ready . . . wait’ll she steadies, lads! On the up-roll . . . fire!”

  Jester’s side turned orange for a moment, as nine 9-pounders went off as one, and a blinding torrent of spent sparks and powder-fumes burst into life, the gun-trucks growling like wounded swine as they lurched inboard ’cross the oak deck planking, to snub and groan at the full extent of the breeching-ropes spliced to the heavy iron ring-bolts in her sides.

  “Stop yer vents! Swab out! Charge yer guns! . . .” Mr. Crewe was howling, at men who’d suddenly gone half deaf to the fierce but higher barking of the 9-pounders.

  “Off the wind, Mr. Knolles. Two points free, again.”

  “Aye, sir.” Knolles coughed, turning his attention inboard after trying to see what damage they’d done.

  As the smoke thinned and drifted off alee, Lewrie could espy some damage aloft aboard the frigate, which was rounding back up to lay closer to the wind. They’d caught her at a bad angle—for her, at any rate; almost forward larboard bows-on, their iron-mongery all aimed close together. She was missing her main and fore royal masts, high above the deck, and her fore t’gallant, and fore t’gallant stays’l were holed and flapping, ready to tear apart from the bolt-ropes! They’d crippled her!

  More firing, as Myrmidon let loose with a broadside, at last. Terrierlike yips of anger, from those punier 6-pounders of hers on her gun-deck. Splashes and feathers of spray, close-aboard the enemy waterline, along her gunwales and chainwales.

  “Ready, sir!” Crewe reported from the foot of the starboard ladder. “Disablin’ shot, still, Cap’um.”

  “Very good, Mr. Crewe, we’ll be rounding up shortly.” He beamed back. Closer still, too; they were now well within Range-To-Random-Shot—less than a nautical mile! He watched the frigate go hard on the wind, to serve Jester a crushing broadside.

  “Helm a’weather, Mr. Knolles! Haul our wind, and show them our stern!” Lewrie called. “Can’t stern-rake us bad at that range!”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  Jester sagged down off the wind, showing the frigate her stern, making a slimmer target of herself, as a duelist would to expose less of himself to his opponent’s pistol. The frigate’s side lit up again, smothering her in a shoal of smoke.

  “Steady, thus!” Knolles shouted, chopping his forearm to show the course, after a glance aft.

  Spray, close-aboard, the fatal moaning and screeching of heavy shot as it missed the ship by inches, caroming off the wavetops near the starboard side. More feathers of spray to starboard and larboard, first tall and impressive at First-Graze, then ricocheting past in a series of bounds. And a quick, hard shudder, and the deadly thonk! of a ball striking Jester’s sides. And another, a twisting yaw, as if the stern had been struck so hard it had been shoved alee by main force—with the thonk! of a hit followed by the parroty squawking Rrwwarkk! of shattering timbers and punctured planks.

  “Helm alee, Mister Knolles. Lay us full-and-by. Mr. Crewe? Stand ready!” Lewrie barked, angry that his beautiful ship had been hit, and suddenly filled with a need for vengeance.

  Up to the wind’s edge they swept again, the deck canting over hard before she steadied. Mister Crewe paced aft behind his gunners, judging the best moment, kneeling to peer out a gun-port. “Ready . . . on the up-roll! Fire!”

  A monstrous jarring bellow of noise, the decks blotted out by an opaque, reeking fog. The deck shuddered in sudden recoil as she heeled once more.

  The smoke cleared quickly as Mr. Crewe fisted and shoved his men to hasten their work, kept them hopping to stop their vents and swab out, to align the run-out tackle and recoil tackle, then begin to reload.

  “Splendid, Mister Crewe! Serve ’em another!” Knolles cried, slamming his right fist into his left palm over and over.

  They’d decapitated the French frigate! Now she was missing both fore and main royals entirely, and both fore and main t’gallant sails were flagging bits of shredded laundry. Lewrie eyed her with a telescope and saw ant-figures scurrying from her main top along the main-course yardarm to free the gaskets of that large sail, to restore the power she’d just lost. The frigate rode more upright on her keel, now they’d shorn her of that overpress of sail. Slower, unable now to scamper off to weather, she’d have to stand and fight. But, like a wounded bear, she’d be a more dangerous foe, with her guns at last firing level, not heeled over and limited in range.

  “Avast, Mister Crewe!” Lewrie exulted. “Load with solid shot! We’ll pass ahead of her and bow-rake her. Mister Knolles! Haul our wind again! Two points free, for a smaller target, while we reload.”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  And there was Myrmidon, off the frigate’s larboard stern, with a broadside of her own that peppered the sea round her transom of a sudden, worrying at her flanks like a terrier.

  And astern! . . . Lewrie turned to look aft. Lionheart and Pylades had almost leapt windward, as if conjuring themselves within one mile or so of Jester. They’d be in the thick of it soon!

  Gunfire! Bags of it, as the frigate lit off a broadside, very ragged and irregular, still cocked up as close-hauled as her damaged sails would let her. Still aiming for Jester, to give as good as she got, and die game!

  Shot-splashes towered from the sea, and Alan could see one dark darting ball come bowling up from First-Graze over the quarterdeck in a shrieking bound! Black and fearsome as it sizzled past almost within arm’s length, leaving a hot gust of wind that fluttered his coat.

  The Thonk! and Rrwwarkk! of a hit that struck Jester’s weak stern! Another squawking cry as another grazed her starboard side, but didn’t penetrate, flinging a hen-coop’s worth of fractured hull-planking over the quarterdeck bulwarks. The forward gangway bulwark seemed to burst to yet another hit, bulging inward but not breaking, yet flinging foot-long splinters about in a flurry of engrained dust and smoke. A waister from the starboard fore-braces was hurled off the gangway to the gun-deck, quilled like a porcupine!

  And a last, shuddering Thonk-Rrwwarkk! as an 18-pounder shot smashed into her starboard side, down low, up forward, screaming in at over twelve hundred feet per second, and nothing could withstand that—no sloop of war ever built was made to take such a pounding.

  “Bloody . . . !” Lewrie breathed, once he knew the last of that French broadside was done. The waister was clawing at his stomach, screaming high and rabbity as Mr. LeGoff the Surgeon’s Mate and his loblolly boys came up from the fore hatchway with a carrying board. The waister’s belly was pierced by almost a baulk of oak, groin pierced as well by less of a splinter, more like a two-by-four. LeGoff looked aft and shook his head to Lewrie’s brow-cocked question; there was nothing to be done with a set of wounds like that. The Surgeon’s Mate turned his attention to those three other peop
le—a Marine private and two seamen—who’d been splintered, but stood a chance.

  “Mister Knolles, put her on the wind,” Lewrie growled in rage. “Serve her the same . . . in bloody spades!”

  “Helm alee, Quartermasters. Full-and-by!” Knolles obeyed.

  “Wait for it, Mister Crewe!” Lewrie called, eying the range. They would almost be close enough to use the 18-pounder carronades on the forecastle and quarterdeck. His cox’n, Andrews, was gun-captain on one of them. He shared a look with him, and Andrews nodded, grim and ready. “Double-shotted . . . a bow-rake!”

  Far faster than the frigate now, which was hauling her wind to aim for Myrmidon, which had gotten up almost abeam, Jester would pass ahead of her at last. Faced with the danger of a bow-rake into her frailer curved bow-timbers, the frigate must turn up almost “in-irons” to the wind, or haul her wind alee even more, to avoid it.

  “Ready, sir!” Crewe reported eagerly.

  Only two cables off, Alan speculated; a toucher under five hundred yards. “Fire as you bear, Mister Crewe!”

  “Right, lads! As you bear, hear me? As you bear . . . !” Crewe scampered forward to the Number One starboard-side nine-pounder. “Fire!”

  Bowstring-taut flintlock lanyards were pulled as each cannon came level with the frigate’s bows, even as she tried to wheel up to wind once more to avoid the fire, trying to take what was coming at an angle, so the balls wouldn’t punch through but would carom off, sparing her bare gun-deck from sudden slaughter. Carronades bellowed with deep, coughing roars, the 9-pounder artillery barking, then more carronades went off from the quarterdeck as they sailed past. There were keener gun-slams somewhere off to starboard, unseen in the clouds of powder residue. It was Myrmidon, spared by Jester’s actions from a close-range broadside that she would have had to tack to avoid. She fired her own broadside first, on a parallel course with the French frigate, adding to the carnage Lewrie most devoutly wished for.