"Ease that quoin out even more, there, lads," Lt. Catterall told his larboard gunners. "We're heeled, and shooting to leeward, so keep the barrels aimed high. We'll adjust once we're close and the ports are open, so you can mark your target and gauge the range."
"Mile and a half, I make it, sir," Lt. Langlie volunteered from his place near Lewrie on the lee rails. "Almost Range-to-Random-Shot, for the six-pounder chase gun."
"We'll wait 'til the larboard battery can bear, Mister Langlie," Lewrie countered, slowly pacing, now dressed in his second-best uniform, with his sword at his side, and the sweat trickling down his back and itching icily on his spine. "I doubt yon schooner mounts anything heavier than a four-pounder… Once we're near abeam, with the guns run out, perhaps this 'M'sieur will gain some sense, and strike before we have to blow him out of the water."
" Antigua, to leeward, there… I think," Lewrie heard Lieutenant Devereux, their Marine officer, say. "And Barbuda, off our starboard bows?" he opined, jutting his chin towards a greyish hump on the horizon. "No, couldn't be… Sergeant Skipwith?" "Sure I don't know, sir," Skipwith commented. "Still an hundred miles to leeward, sir," Lt. Langlie took time to inform their senior "Lobsterback." "Well, a day's sail, by now. I expect you're mistaking squalls on the horizon for islands. Were Barbuda and Antigua this close, we'd see them plain. The channel between is only thirty-seven miles, d'ye see…"
"Half a day, in chase," Lewrie muttered. And he still had not gotten his chin shaved! The galley fires had been doused and dinner had been delayed, the crew's hunger only slightly eased with hardtack biscuit, water, and dry, crumbly Navy Issue cheese. Of course, the rum ration had been doled out; some customs were observed no matter what. "Three-quarters of a mile, now sir," Lt. Langlie pointed out. "Mister Wyman!" Lewrie called down to the Second Lieutenant by the foremast, now in charge of the starboard guns. "One chase gun to windward! Let her know our intentions!" "Aye, sir!"
A windward gun was a challenge to battle, and a threat. Strike your colours, haul up, and fetch-to… or else!
Bang! The foc'sle 6-pounder barked out a blank charge, billowing a sour cloud of maggot-pale gunsmoke that was quickly scudded off to larboard, across the forecastle, by the Trades that were now almost abeam Proteus's deck. Lewrie, along with every senior man allowed the liberty of the quarterdeck, lifted a telescope to see what answer was forthcoming.
Like most stern-chases, hours could pass before any noticeable progress was made, then all of a sudden, the Chase would leap within spitting distance in an eyeblink, no matter that her sails still drew, her wake still seethed, the mustachio under her bows still flung spray so busily about her… as if she'd grown weary of it all, and meant to surrender to her fate.
"Quarter-mile, I make it, now, sir," Lt. Langlie observed. "Open the larboard gun-ports and run out, Mister Langlie. Hull the bitch, when nicely abeam," Lewrie coldly replied, his eyes gone as grey as Arctic ice, as was his wont when angered or in action. "Sir!"
There was a puff of smoke upon the schooner's bows, then a tinny, flat bang from a lee-side gun, the sound masked by her sails and hull, muffled by the wind's roar and the onward rushing sshhuush of Proteus's hull. She had fired a leeward gun, in sign of peaceful intent… or to signify her surrender?
A second or two later, down came her patently false British colours, as if she had indeed struck, but… up went a "gridiron" flag, a busy banner of red and white horizontal stripes, with a canton of blue, splattered with stars, in one corner!
"An American? Mine arse on a band box!" Lewrie exclaimed. "Another sham!" Lt. Langlie all but spluttered at their gall. "No, sir, look!" Midshipman Adair cried, pointing. "Her hoist! That is this month's private signal, sir."
"You're sure, Mister Adair?" Lewrie gawped at those pennants, spinning to face the midshipman.
"Quite sure, sir. See, here in my copy book, it's…" "Dammit!"
"She's let fly her sheets, Captain," Lt. Langlie said, drawing Lewrie's attention back to the schooner.
She had freed her large gaff-hung fore and main sails, letting them flag and clatter almost abeam the wind, no longer cupping power from it, keeping the outer and inner flying jibs standing, but hauling down the foretopmast stays'l and those upper gaff stays'ls. Without those sails,
she was now slowing like a bowling coach being reined in and braked!
"Well… hoist the proper damn' reply, Mister Adair," Lewrie snapped. "The gun crews to stand easy, Mister Langlie."
"Aye, sir."
"Half the damned day we've chased this silly clown, and it is only now he has wit t'recall he's a Yankee, that we're almost allies?"
Proteus would pass within an hundred yards of the schooner, and would spurt past her rapidly, with all her top-hamper still drawing, t'gallants, royals, and stuns'ls rigged on the windward yards; all that sail blanketing what wind the schooner could receive in her lee.
"Christ, it'll take an hour t'work back to her!" he growled.
He took Langlie's brass speaking-trumpet and crossed to the lee rails to speak her whilst he could, before they left her in their dust!
"Who the hell are you?" Lewrie ungraciously bellowed.
"United States Treasury Department cutter, the Trumbull!" came the thin reply. "Lieutenant Gordon, master! And you?"
"You bloody idiot! This is His Brittanic Majesty's frigate, Proteus… Captain Lewrie, commanding. You'd think you could've-"
But they were past by then, surging along at better than ten or eleven knots.
"Mister Langlie, get way off her," Lewrie snarled, turning inboard. "Strip us down to all plain sail. Then we'll wear down below her, tack and round up windward of her. I've a bone t'pick with that… that…! Mister Wyman… Mister Catterall! Worm out your shot and charges, and secure from Quarters! Goddammit!"
He'd wasted most a day's sail chasing a pluperfect fool! Even worse, he'd been made to look the fool before his officers and men!
"And Mister Langlie?" Lewrie fumed, glowering.
"Aye, sir?"
"Whilst we perform all those evolutions in plain sight of that Yankee Doodle, I'll want everything done to a very salty Tee!"
"All hands! All hands!" Lieutenant Langlie bawled, accepting his trumpet back and turning away to hide in furious activity.
As topmen raced aloft to fist and fight canvas, to haul in and reduce sail, deflate the set of the stuns'ls, clew them to the booms and haul them in along the permanent yards, Proteus slowed and soughed into the brilliant tropic waters, sighing and groaning as her timbers resettled, like a racehorse taking a cool-down lap round the turf.
Minutes later, the royals were furled, gasketed, and the thin yards lowered to the cross-trees, the t'gallants two-reefed, and hands piped to Stations to Wear. The schooner was by then at least four or five miles astern, plodding along somewhat like an ignored hound under plain sail, as if unsure of following its master all the way to the end of the drive. She continued to plod while Proteus wore downwind, took the Trades on her larboard side for the first time in weeks, and began to "reach" back across the wind on an opposing course, about two cables below the schooner.
"Mister Adair, assumin' this slack-jawed Yankee can actually be able to read, do you hoist 'Take Station In My Lee,' " Lewrie sneered.
"Aye aye, sir."
"I'll put her off our larboard quarters before we tack, sir?" Lt. Langlie asked, hands behind his back, where, Lewrie strongly suspected, he still had his fingers crossed for luck.
"Too bad we can't shave his transom, Mister Langlie. By the by. A creditable showing for our erstwhile allies… so far, that is."
"Uhm, thankee kindly, sir," Langlie replied with a gladsome grin… though tempered with a First Officer's usual quick moue for all the things that could yet go "smash," and at the very worst possible time.
"At your discretion, Mister Langlie."
"She replies 'Affirmative,' sir," Midshipman Adair announced.
The schooner began to fall off the wind, all but pointing her bowsprit and j
ib-boom at Proteus's midships!
"Damn him, I didn't mean come under my lee right bloody now" Lewrie barked. "Wait 'til she she's well off our larboard quarters before we tack, Mister Langlie. A longer board close-hauled before the tack, as well. Mister Adair, haul that signal down. Hoist 'Hold Course.' "
Aye, sir!
The schooner dithered, swinging back to abeam the Trades, while Proteus surged past once more, rapidly falling astern.
"Safe enough, now, I should think, Mister Langlie."
"Aye, sir. All hands… Stations for Stays!"
Proteus swung up onto the wind, close-hauled and heading to East Sou'east, her hands freeing braces, tacks, and sheets. Langlie left it for a long moment, rocking upward on the balls of his booted feet before opening his mouth to shout through the speaking-trumpet.
"Quartermaster, ease down the helm. Ready, ready!" Lt. Langlie cried, waiting, turning and swivelling about, eyes everywhere for this maneuevre. "Helm's alee… rise, tacks and sheets!"
HMS Proteus, for all her length and tonnage, was a lively one, and she came up to the wind briskly, jibs clattering, the spanker aft eased amidships and driving, the foretops'l flat a'back, swinging easily until… "Haul taut! Now, mains'l haul!" and she was across the eye of the wind, the deck swaying upright, then canting leeward, yards swinging, blocks clanging, and canvas rattling like musketry.
"Stars above, if he hasn't come up close-hauled!" the Sailing Master Mr. Winwood exclaimed, coming as close to blasphemy as that good man might ever dare.
Lewrie spun about to glare at the Yankee schooner, chilling, as the thought struck him that, were she truly a French privateer that had captured a set of private signals, now would be the very best time to fire, with Proteus and her crew still all sixes-and-sevens, everything in the running rigging still free, her guns unloaded, run in, and bowsed snug to the bulwarks! Even a puny broadside of pop-guns could confuse the crew, turn their tack into a bloody shambles, whilst a bold French privateersman could swing up to windward-like the schooner was doing!-and scamper full-and-by to weather, pointing higher than ever a square-rigged frigate could attain, into the open, empty seas east of Barbuda, giving them a Gallic horselaugh, and with a tale to gasconade about the entire Caribbean!
No, Lewrie took note; Proteus had completed her tack, and would block this so-called Treasury Department cutter on her present course. ' Course, does she hold her course, she'll ram us! he thought; I don't see more'n thirty hands, all told, and all o' them hangin' in her riggin' for agood look-see!
"Very good, Mister Langlie. Now, stand aloof of that hen-head, 'til we may cock up into the wind and fetch-to. Mister Adair?" Lewrie bawled.
Aye, sir?
"A second hoist, young sir. Tell that aimless bastard to 'Fetch To.' Leave 'Come Under My Lee' flyin'. Is God merciful, even he might get our intent. Then, should he actually fetch-to in our lee, I will wish you to lower both of those, and hoist 'Captain Repair On Board.' Smartly, now… go!"
Again, like a hound warned away from the promise of fresh meat when a hog was slaughtered in the barnyard, the schooner shied off the wind to roughly abeam, leaving a thankful gap between them and ending the imminent threat of collision, as Proteus began the evolution for fetching-to, with some sails still drawing on starboard tack, driving forward, and others backed to snub her progress.
"Gad, quite the quadrille we're dancin' with 'em, hey, Mister Winwood?" Lt. Catterall said as he ascended the lee ladder from below. "Thought we would do 'swing your lady,' the rest of the afternoon!"
"Mmmmmm!" Lewrie harumphed quite pointedly, though he felt like growling at him.
"Though, they aren't quite fetched-to, yet," Mr. Winwood noted.
"Save us a spot o' bother, that," Catterall breezed blithely on. "And give them a shorter row."
"And us with more rigging and sail aloft, with more freeboard, we'll drift right down aboard her, if this fellow don't…" Winwood began to fret.
"I'll skin the bastard, swear it! That cack-handed, whip-jack, cunny-thumbed sonofa… lubber! Damn him!" Lewrie swore, nigh to one of his rare foot-stomping rants or a helpless whimpering, flinging his arms up in appeal to Heaven at Trumbull's captain, and his ignorance, his clueless disregard for side-timbers, paint-work, or seamanship!
"Do we get under way once he's aboard, sir, perhaps our loo'rd drift will not be so great, before we, uhm…?" Lt. Langlie helpfully suggested, heaving a deep, speculative shrug.
"Ah, hummm… p'rhaps, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said. Helpless appeal to Heaven won over rage, as he sagged in philosphical defeat.
"Side-party for a mere lieutenant, or a putative captain, sir," Lt. Catterall casually enquired.
"Bu'ck?" Lewrie answered, with a "what can you do?" shrug, and an unintelligible little noise that sounded hellish-like a cluck.
"Very good, sir," Catterall replied, backing away with a wary look on his face.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The crew of HMS Proteus had "oohed" and "aahed" over the sights of land they had encountered as the frigate continued on about Antigua and sailed near Nevis and St. Kitts before reaching English Harbour; a pack of mostly "Johnny Newcomes" to the bleak infinity of the sea, and starved for even a hint of green. Sere as those isles were, they did have trees and bushes, and plantations that reached down near the thin sand beaches. But those appreciative noises were nothing like the ones they made when once they sighted Jamaica!
Morant Point was barely above the horizon, but the Blue Mountains stood tall and cool and bold to the Nor'west, with Blue Mountain Peak spearing over 7,400 feet into the air; smoky and hazy blue-grey, cloud-draped as if it bore a magical snowcap even in the tropics, all above a descending, hilly swath of headland so lushly verdant, land so brightly green and welcoming that the hands could almost mistake it for Faeryland, or the Irishmen in the crew could conjure that they had discovered the legendary Happy Isles that always lay just beyond a sunset, somewhere across the wide western sea.
The officers and midshipmen-and Lewrie, too, it must be admitted-stood entranced at the starboard rails or bulwarks as Proteus cruised on under "all plain sail" nearer the coast, straight West and within a bare two miles of Morant Bay and bound for Kingston. For Alan Lewrie it was almost like coming home, for Jamaica had been the scene of many of his adventures, and misadventures, during the American Revolution, where he'd won and lost a very young and missish Lucy Beauman, had gotten orders to scout the Florida coast and march inland to the Muskogee Indians, where he'd learned the war was over in the summer of '83 and knew he'd lose his brief command of HMS Shrike, the old snow-rigged brig o' war he had "inherited" from her former master, Lieutenant Lily crop. Lewrie did not need a telescope to "see" the old headlands, the planter houses near the shore, the hints of coastal road between groves of trees, or the fringe of beaches where he had once gamboled nigh-nude in shallow surf with some hired strumpet.
"I do believe that is the Palisades before our bows, sir," Lt. Langlie announced. "Just above the horizon."
"And the ruins of old Port Royal at its western tip," Lewrie said with a slow, pleased grin. "Once the wickedest town in the whole wide world, or so 'twas said. And Kingston beyond… a 'comer' on the wicked roster, itself. Let's take two reefs in the courses and harbour gasket the royals, Mister Langlie. Slow but steady, on a 'tops'l breeze.' The harbour entrance is narrow, at the western tip of the Palisades, just by Fort Charles, and I'm damned if I wish to tangle with another frigate leaving port… and both of us with a 'dash' on." "Aye, sir."
"Mister Wyman, once we're ship-shape aloft, you and the Master Gunner, Mister Carling, will have a salute ready for Admiral Sir Hyde Parker. Mister Catterall?"
"Sir?" the Third Lieutenant said, after a long moment. "Ashore and with the Jamaican ladies already, were we, Mister Catterall?" Lewrie said with a smirk, twitting him.
"Natural philosophy, sir… the flora looks quite intriguing," Lt. Catterall quickly replied. "Why, I might discover a new orchid or a sprig of Captain Bligh's inf
amous breadfruit trees, or…"
"When we enter harbour, round up into wind and let go anchors. I'll be depending on you, sir, to make it presentable. With our new admiral and two-dozen post-captains watching. Flora, indeed. Ha!"
"Aye aye, sir," Catterall answered, the underlings' best reply in such situations. "Best performance." Catterall gave the middies who would serve at both forecastle and stern kedge anchor a glare, to warn them and pass the "mustard" on.
"Mister Winwood?"
"Aye, sir?" the Sailing Master said, presenting himself.
"I think we should steer a point more direct for the entrance," Lewrie said. "Do you concur?"
"Aye, sir… we can round up abeam once we're fair in the channel. Better than coming abeam a mile or more off the entrance, and get a veer in the wind off those mountains."
"Then make her head West-by-North, half North."
"Very good, sir. Quartermaster…"
"If I wer'nt a gunner, I wouldn't be here… number five gun, fire!" their new Master Gunner, Mr. Carling, droned, pacing aft from the forecastle belfry towards the stern, one arm swinging like a bandmaster's,, now and then swinging in a larger arc to point to a waiting gun-captain in signal to trigger his fire-lock and discharge his piece. "I've left my wife, my home, and all that's dear… number six gun… fire! If I wer'nt a gunner, I wouldn't be here…"
Marines in full red-coated kit, pipe-clayed crossbelts, and hats of white-piped black felt for once, stood at the hammock nettings overlooking the waist, and along the starboard side facing Fort Charles, their muskets held at "Present Arms." Usually, they saved wear on expensive uniforms (for which they'd have to pay if faded, torn, or soiled) and wore sailors' slop-clothing when not standing guard duty by doors to the officer's gun-room, Lewrie's quarters, the spirits stores, or the ladders to the quarterdeck.
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