“…five miles leeward of convoy, sir,” Mr. Gamble concluded.
“Crack on sail, Mister Langlie, all to the royals,” Lewrie said.
“Very good, sir,” Langlie replied. “More chafing gear, Mister Pendarves, once we’re settled down. For now, I’d admire did you pipe ‘All Hands.’”
“And here we go, again,” Lewrie muttered, turning to stomp aft and peer ‘cross the quarterdeck at Grafton, now up on their starboard bows, and about five miles distant. Could he really shoot fire from his eyes like an ancient Greek god, the flagship would explode before he blinked, all his problems immolated in a towering ball of flames.
It had been like this for weeks, going on for the better part of two months since the rendezvous in mid-Channel. Did the shallows or rocky shoals of the Breton coast need scouting for fear of lurking Frog warships or privateers, one could count on Proteus to do it; were any of the towering East Indiamen dawdling astern or straying too far away, the safest wager would be that Grafton would hoist their number as the ship to dash off and play “whipper-in.” Did one of their merchantmen lose spars or sails in the generally horrid weather in the Bay of Biscay or off the equally-belligerent Spanish coasts, it was usually HMS Proteus, and Lewrie, given the task of giving her both close escort and succour, to the point that Lewrie’s carefully hoarded supply of bosun’s stores, sail canvas, light upper mast, and yardarm replacements had been sorely depleted… and would any of the other warships among the escort force whip round a share-out? Hell no, of course.
In point of fact, the only signal that Grafton had not hoisted was “Captain Repair On Board,” and an invitation to supper, as was made to every other warship captain, and even to some of the “better-behaved” Indiamen.
The third time I blink, she blows to smithereens, Lewrie fantasised, and feeling a bit of disappointment when Grafton did not, after a last shutting and snapping-open of his eyes.
Their trade was now well South of the Tropic of Cancer, steering mostly Sou’-Sou’west with the weakening Nor’east Trades fine on their larboard quarters, to churn out enough Southing in mid-Atlantic so the Westward-flowing Equatorial Current did not slosh them too far over to the New World and onto the shoulder of South America, where they could end embayed against the coasts, and hit bows-on by the Sou’east Trades. It was theoretically possible to shave the Cape Verde Islands without being forced too far West, then do a long and labourious tacking course direct to St. Helena, if the weather allowed, though that would require fighting the Equatorial Current and the Trades all the way.
Anything t’make this hellish voyage shorter, pray Jesus! Lewrie fervently prayed, and quite often, at that.
The easier way, so their Sailing Master, Mr. Winwood, insisted, would be to let the current and winds waft them West’rd, as far South as the bleak and lonely St. Paul’s Rocks, then haul their wind to fall down upon Cape St. Roque for a landfall, and coast South to Recife, in neutral Portuguese Brazil. But, somehow Lewrie just knew by then that Capt. Sir Tobias Treghues, Bart., would demand that they do things his way…the hard way. He was charged with convoying the Indiamen to St. Helena, and by God, that’s where he’d escort them.
Besides, heading over to Recife would require that their trade would have to run down the coast of Brazil, then down the hostile shore of the Spanish possessions, ‘til they could strike the strong Easterly winds round the 40th Latitude, “The Roaring Fourties,” using them to be gusted over to the Southern tip of Africa, and exposed along their way to the odd Spanish or far-roaming French warships or privateers.
At least the weather’s warmer, Lewrie could console himself.
Though it was mid-December, and the Atlantic was still a lively place, and the skies were rarely completely clear enough for reliable sun or star sights, the seas were a cheerier blue, and the rising and setting of the sun each day was dramatically and colourfully tropical. Equally dramatic were the height of the waves and the spacing between their sets that they encountered, which made both deep-laden Indiamen and sleek men o’ war wallow, soar, and snuffle atop them.
One blessing to that moderation in the weather was that Lewrie no longer had need of his coal stove for heat during the days, but for the rare night when the wind had a nip to it after sundown, and most times, one of Caroline’s quilts, and the cats, made his swaying bed-cot snug and cozy.
God, but the thought of even an extra week, an extra day, more in Treghues’s company was enough to curdle his piss, and even the sudden turn of speed that Proteus was now displaying could not cheer him, even were they ordered to take station a blessed five sea-miles ahead and apart. And, Lewrie dourly speculated, once at St. Helena, they’d take aboard wood and water, then turn the bulk of the escort force on a course for England, leaving but one ship of the line and perhaps no more than two lighter ships to see them all the way to Cape Town; and there was the strong possibility (a hellish-gloomy one!) that Treghues would choose his frigate to be his goat. Had not Twigg as much as said that he was on his way—all the way!—to Africa? And, had that perversely mischievious man sent a letter to Treghues of Lewrie’s need to be far away from England, perhaps had intimated the why of it, and had chortled over the thought of a primly-outraged Treghues deciding to make Lewrie’s life under his authority a living Hell? He wouldn’t put such dastardy beyond Mr. Zachariah Twigg… damn him!
“And…belay ev’ry inch of that!” Lt. Langlie bellowed, satisfied with the set and angle of the sails, at last, bringing Lewrie back to a somewhat pleasing reality. HMS Proteus now had a “bone in her teeth,” her cutwater, forefoot, and bows smashing a mustachio of white foam below her bowsprit and jib-boom, the seas creaming either side of her hull, and spreading a wide, white highway in her wake. In comparison to the plodding merchantmen and other escorts bound closely to them, Proteus seemed the only vessel under way, with the slow ships looking as if they merely tossed and wallowed in place. The convoy’s best speed—the speed of the slowest to which all the others conformed—was no better than five or six knots, while Proteus was in her element with the Trades on her best point of sail from nigh-astern. A quick cast of the log showed her already making nine knots, easily able to better that at the next cast, and attain ten or better. East India Company captains were even more conservative than most civilian merchant masters; they had priceless cargoes to safeguard, and paying passengers (some of them rich, titled, and well-connected, and Members of The Board, to boot!) who demanded coddling, so “dash” simply wasn’t in their Sailing Directions. They plodded mostly under “plain sail” in daylight, and dramatically reduced canvas after sundown, and drove him to testily impatient, leg-jiggling fits.
Savour it, savour it, Lewrie chid himself, determined to take as much fleeting joy of their temporary freedom as possible.
“Will ye take a cup o’ tea, sir?” Aspinall enquired, making his rounds aft from the galley with his ever-present steaming pot.
“Tea’d be capital, Aspinall, just capital!” Lewrie replied with relish, allowing his body to loose the Treghues-inspired tension of his back, neck, and jaws. Once he’d gotten a battered tin cup of tea in his hands, he turned aft to look astern, going so far as to slouch like the veriest lubber against the bulwarks. The freshness of the stern winds kissed his cheeks; and, there was the gladsome sight of HMS Grafton as she slowly dropped astern, going hull-down in Proteus’s wake.
“Mister Langlie?” Lewrie announced in a quizzical tone, and with his head cocked to one side.
“Love a cup, sir,” the First Lieutenant replied, mistaking that quizzical tone as an invitation, and grinning cheerfully wolfish.
“Oh, that, too, but…” Lewrie added, “once we’re the requisite five sea-miles alee of Horatius yonder, instead of reducing sail again, I think we should weave a zig-zag course under full sail. We could cover a wider swath of ocean that way.”
“Of course, sir,” Langlie said, holding a cup for Aspinall as he poured it brimful. “Ah, thankee kindly!”
“And, before
Bosun Pendarves overhauls the chafing gear, let us also see to the dead-eyes. On this tack, we may re-tension the shrouds on the lee side, first, then wear and tighten the starboard shrouds as they become the lee stays.”
“Very good, sir,” Langlie said with his hot cup just below his lips, and blowing to cool his first sip.
“We’ve not had a chance to exercise at the artillery of late, either,” Lewrie further decided. “Once we’re all ataunt-to, I’d like the rest of the Forenoon be spent at live-firing the windward guns of both broadside batteries, depending on which tack we stand. A little more work to run them out up a sloping deck, but good practice for our people, don’t you think, sir?”
“I do indeed, Captain,” Langlie dutifully responded, as if he’d ever demur with a hearty “Hell, no, what a daft idea, sir!,” no matter what a captain might dream up. “Good physical exercise, too, sir,” he added.
“Who knows, Mister Langlie, the crew might even enjoy the extra exertion!” Lewrie said with a chuckle. “Full sail, hearty breezes…and no more bloody… plodding! … might perk them right up. By God, it does me! All of a sudden, I feel as gingery as a feagued horse!”
“Bow to stern, by numbers…fire!” Mr. Carling, the Master Gunner, bellowed over the roar of wind and water, and the starboard gun-captains jerked their lanyards, tripping the flintlock igniters of the starboard battery’s 12-pounders one at a time. As soon as a gun fired, the first and second loaders dashed ‘cross the deck to the guns waiting down the larboard side. The gun-captains and hands on the tackles stayed at their stations at the starboard guns long enough to overhaul any potential tangles in the recoil and run-out lines; the smoking vents were checked by leather-guarded thumbs as the rammer men swabbed out with sopping wet sheep’s wool sponges; once the tubes were safe to handle, tackle-men, who normally didn’t handle loading, got a bit of cross-training inserting cloth powder bags and ramming them home to the rears of the tubes, at choosing the best round-shot from the racks about each main deck hatchway or the thick rope shot garlands between each piece. They then ran their guns up to the port sills once fresh shot had been inserted down the muzzles and tamped down atop the powder bags, stoppering the blocks so they would not roll back free, then abandoned the starboard pieces to join the men who had been readying the larboard battery.
“Wear, Mister Langlie,” Lewrie ordered.
While the gun crews panted and gasped, the brace, sheet, and sail tenders went to their stations once more, and Proteus was worked ‘cross the stern winds, again, the fourth time in a half-hour. And, as those Trade Winds swung round onto the larboard quarter, and the deck began to heel in the opposite direction, Mr. Carling was there to cry for the ready-loaded larboard battery to prime and cock and stand ready.
“Signal, sir!” Midshipman Gamble called from the taffrails. “A ‘Repeat’ from Horatius…our number. ‘Suspend Action,’ and ‘Conserve Powder And Shot,’ sir!”
“Damn that man!” Lewrie griped under his breath, hands gripped white-knuckled on the forward quarterdeck railings overlooking the gun-deck and waist. “Aw, Dad!” he said louder, for all to hear. “You just never let me have a bit o’ fun!” Loud enough for his gunners and sail tenders to hear, which drew a hearty laugh at his good imitation of an adolescent’s peevish whine. “Very well, Mister Langlie. Secure guns, seal the ports, and insert tompions. Drill’s done. Have Mister Coote fetch a fresh scuttle-butt up from below so the hands can slake their thirsts. We’ll stay on this point of sail for a while, too, once you’ve gotten everything flaked or flemished down. Mister Gamble?”
“Sir!”
“Signal to Grafton…” Lewrie began, then paused.
Buss my blind cheeks, ye spiteful bastard, Lewrie considered; Go shit in yer cocked hat an’ call it a brown tie-wig?
“Signal ‘Acknowledged,’ Mister Gamble,” Lewrie directed with a weary, and much-put-upon, sigh. No way t’put that in code, he thought.
Six Bells chimed at the forecastle belfry, and ships’ boys turned the hour and half-hour watch glasses; eleven in the morning, almost the end of the Forenoon, and a half-hour from when any Forenoon drills would end, anyway, and the rum-issue ceremony would be held.
“Mister Carling?” Lewrie shouted down to the Master Gunner. “I will join you once the guns are secured to your satisfaction, and see what needs doing, in your estimation.”
“Aye aye, Captain!” Carling shouted back, and Lewrie was sure that the Master Warrant Gunner would have his people filling that half-hour ‘til “Up Spirits” was piped with greasing, sponging, and prissy fussing about tackles and blocks. With Lewrie by his side during the inspection, Carling would most likely find a way to wheedle more goods from Bosun Pendarves’s stores, as well, and the much-put-upon Bosun still had that worn-out chafing gear to rig this morning; perhaps that task would fill the better part of the afternoon, if nothing else came up…or Capt. Treghues spotted it and chaffered Lewrie for its lack. Of a sudden, Lewrie was determined that it would be done before Grafton ordered them back within “close-telescoping” distance!
The bosun’s calls twittered in unison as “Clear Decks, And Up Spirits” was piped. The red-rum keg with the King’s seal painted on it in gilt came up from below, and the hands queued up for their sailors’ anodyne, loafing and nattering each other in “matey” camaraderie about sips or gulpers owed, debts already paid, or had they been forgotten. A pair of Lt. Devereux’s fully-uniformed Marines, complete with muskets, escorted the keg forrud, behind the young boy drummer beating a jaunty roll to announce its coming. Now that duties were done for a time, and all the hands expected for the following half-hour was their call below to their mid-day meal, it was a welcome bit of idle leisure.
Lewrie paced along the windward quarterdeck bulwarks, from the larboard ladderway to the main deck, to the taffrails and signal flag lockers right aft, his undress coat and hat discarded in his own sort of casual leisure, readying himself for participation in the measure of the sun at Noon Sights, when all his commission officers, and the Sailing Master, and his students, the midshipmen, would ply sextants together, and, at the first chime of Eight Bells ending the Forenoon, record their sums on slates or foolscap paper, then perform the “mysteries” of navigation.
Proteus was still under all sail, cracking along quite nicely, most pleasingly. This far South, the day even began to feel a touch more tropically warm, moderated by the winds, and Lewrie untied his neck-stock and opened his shirt collars. He leaned on his hands atop the taffrails for a bit of lonely peace from the demands of his ship, and his senior officer’s pique, right by the larboard stern lanthorn, slowly shaking his head at the far-off convoy.
The lead 74, HMS Horatius, still plodded along at the convoy’s head, with only her sails, at times a sliver of her upperworks, visible when pent atop a rising swell. Astern of her lay the four short columns of Indiamen, two-by-two in line-ahead, with only their beige courses, tops’ls, and t’gallants in sight. The entire gaggle was now about five miles off, as ordered, but an equal five miles off Proteus’s larboard quarter, and slowly falling to full astern.
Lewrie didn’t relish the idea of interrupting the rum issue, but in the few minutes between the issue’s end and the pipe for Dinner, they would have to come about one more time, he decided, before they sailed too far astray of the convoy’s mean course. Once settled on a long starboard tack once more, they could then eat in peace.
“Deck, there!” the mainmast lookout shrilled of a sudden. “Sail, ho! One sail, one point off th’ larboard bows!” he sing-songed.
Damn the rum, and victuals, too! Lewrie turned about, looking outward, as if he could spot their mysterious interloper from the deck. “How … bound?” he cried back, hands cupped round his mouth. “How …far…away?”
“Tops’ls an’ t’gallants, sir, ‘tis all I see! Hull-down, she is, an’… bound West!” the lookout decided, after discerning which were the leaches of the stranger’s upper sails, and how they were cupped to gather wind.
<
br /> That’d make her about eight or nine miles off, Lewrie decided to himself, nodding in agreement with the lookout as he pictured a “plot” in his head. They were sailing Sou’-Sou’east, with the Trades fine on the quarter, which put the stranger due South of them. Bound West, did the lookout say? They were close enough to the Cape Verde Islands for it to be a ship bound for Brazil from there, scudded along by wind and current. It could be an innocent merchantman, even a British-flagged ship, or … it could be a French or Spanish warship or privateer outbound from taking on wood and water, and seeking prey.
“Mister Gamble?” Lewrie shouted, stomping his way forward. “A signal to Grafton for Horatius to repeat… ‘Strange Sail, Due South. Will Investigate.’ Mister Langlie? Soon as dammit, put the ship about three points alee to South by West. There’s just enough time for our people to eat, but whoever it is down yonder, we will beat to Quarters when we’ve fetched her hull-up!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Just what in the name of God is that?” Lt. Langlie asked once they had gotten within hull-up distance of the strange vessel that they had spent most of the afternoon pursuing Westward. The closer they got to her, the odder she’d looked.
A King's Trade Page 14
