The King's Coat

by Dewey Lambdin

  Once safely in deeper waters all four ships hove to, cocked up to windward and gently making leeway on the tide to the west, while all captains were summoned to the temporary flag frigate. The conference lasted two hours, at which time Treghues came back aboard and went below with Mr. Monk, leaving Railsford to get the ship underway again. During the course of the day the squadron reached north and south behind Anegada, not straying too far north, nor coming too far south so that they could be seen from Virgin Gorda.

  It was dusk before a conference was held aft, a conference in a hot and stuffy cabin with the transom windows covered, in a ship that burned no lights except for the binnacle lanterns. Treghues had included the midshipmen, master’s mates, master, Marine officer and Railsford. Lewrie sat far back from the glossy desk, where a chart was spread out. Treghues gave him a single darting glance of malice before opening the meeting.

  “Tomorrow, we raid the Danish Virgins,” Treghues said.

  “But they’s neutral, sir,” Monk said in the buzz of excitement that followed Treghues’ pronouncement.

  “Aye, they are, Mister Monk. Neutral, but culpable,” Treghues said wryly. “Admiral Rodney was most clever to seize St. Eustatius, and keep the Dutch flag flying. He took over one hundred fifty ships intent on running our blockade. But now the word is out and that traffic has shifted to other harbors. At first the Danes winked at privateers using their islands, and the local governors had little military force to control the traffic. We complained diplomatically, and they ordered belligerents and smugglers to move their operations to Puerto Rico or Cuba, but they never seem to put any teeth in those orders as long as the privateers are subtle about their doings. Now our job is to stage a lightning raid as though we are part of the ships based on Tortola, and put the fear of God and the Royal Navy into these people, scour them until they concentrate somewhere else, and force the Danes to play fair.”

  “Most clever,” Forrester said loud enough for Treghues to hear him, which brought a smile from their captain.

  “By first light Roebuck and Amphion, with local pilots, shall be far enough down the Drake’s Passage to look into Coral Bay on St. John, and then run down to the west and snap up everything that moves off the port of Charlotte Amalie,” Treghues went on, using a pair of brass dividers to sketch a course, tapping at the great hurricane hole and bay on the southeast coast of St. John, which island had been made desolate by a slave rebellion years before and pretty much left to go to ruin.

  “We shall enter the open waters south of the island of St. Thomas, and head for the island of St. Croix.”

  Everyone leaned a little closer to look at the western end of the Drake Passage, which was littered with rocks, possible shoals and the mark of a wreck or two.

  “Mister Monk advises the Flanagan Passage for us, south of the island of the same name,” Treghues continued. “Vixen shall lead our little flotilla and shall be inshore of us, off Christiansted, going no closer than two leagues to avoid entering Danish waters. We shall be farther offshore snapping up one prize after another. Coming from the east as we shall be, with the sun behind us, with the Trade Winds behind us and with the westerly-setting tide flow, we can catch anything at sea. All ships and prizes shall concentrate here, later in the day, off the island of Vieques in the Passage Group, to the east of Puerto Rico.”

  “This’ll be a bitch, sir,” Monk said, scratching at his scruffy chin. “Drake Passage is as lumpy as a country road. Now, there’s twenty-four to twenty-five fathoms, safe as houses, down Drake’s Passage. It’s here off Norman Island, it gets tricky. The chart don’t show it but somewhere off the point here nor-nor’west o’ Pelican there’s a shoal with a deep channel between that an’ another shoal. There’s deep water between Flanagan an’ The Indians an’ Ringdove Rock, ’bout fourteen-fathom at high tide. An’ ya can’t go too far inshore o’ Peter Island to avoid the shoals. I’d feel my way down with the fores’ls, spanker an’ forecourse, an’ keep the tops’ls at three reefs until we’re in the clear.”

  “We shall be following Commander Ozzard,” Treghues said, disliking the advice. “So I think we should not have too much difficulty.”

  “But if he sets on one o’ them shoals, sir…”

  “We shall depend on your skill to guide us, Mister Monk,” Treghues said, moving on to other matters. “Prize crews. First will be Forrester and a bosun’s mate … Weems, I think, and ten hands, if she’s big. Next, Avery and Mister Feather. We’ll be in deep water, so the third crew will be Mister Monk, young Carey, and some men, depending on her size. Lieutenant Peck, if you should be so good as to provide four private Marines to each prize, in full kit to cow any resistance, I would be much obliged.”

  “Delighted, sir,” Peck said. It was rare that his Marines had a chance to wear their scarlet uniforms at sea; usually they were dressed in slop clothing much like the hands, to save wear and tear.

  “Should we be so incredibly fortunate as to take a fourth ship as a prize, I shall send the first lieutenant and Mr. Toliver, which will still leave me a master’s mate aboard. Bosun, see that each crew has a quartermaster’s mate or senior hand able to steer, and let’s get all our boats down for towing tonight.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  There were a few looks in Lewrie’s direction. He was rated as able to stand as an acting master’s mate, had done so already, in fact, and yet had been pointedly left out of their captain’s reckoning.

  “If a chase is too small, burn it. We can also ignore the many local fishing boats unless they seem to be heavily loaded, or act suspiciously, or show too many white faces.”

  “What about putting captives overboard, sir?” Railsford asked.

  “Any ship engaged in illicit trade, you may spare the blacks, Danes and neutrals. But any belligerent nationals, and especially any American rebels, or rogue Englishmen, be sure to retain so they may be taken to court for their activities. The French, Spanish and Dutch deserve to be placed in chains, as do any rebels. And any Englishman partaking in this business deserves to hang for treason.”

  * * *

  By first light Lewrie was on the gun deck below the gangways, swaying uncomfortably as the squadron seemed to fly down the Sir Francis Drake Passage. The Trades were steady and blowing quite fresh. With the wind nearly dead aft it never felt like they were making much gain over the ground since they had no noticeable breeze. The only way to judge was to stand on a gun breech or the jear bitts and watch the many isles and rocks slide past. There was a heavy chop in the passage, six-foot waves seemingly about six feet apart, and the frigate’s four hundred fifty tons thumped and pounded through them, flinging spray halfway up the jibs.

  The crew had gone through the motions of dawn Quarters, the daily scrubbing of decks, like automatons, but now there was a tingle of excitement in the air as they stood easy to their guns. They were piped below to their breakfasts but didn’t stay below long and came back up still chewing, to stow their hammocks and resume their waiting among the artillery.

  “Mister Railsford, I’ll have chain slings rigged aloft on the yards,” Treghues ordered, finding work for them to do in the meantime. “Bosun, lay out the boarding nettings and prepare for hoisting.”

  Lewrie had been on the quarterdeck earlier and had gotten a good look at Mr. Monk’s chart, much marked and doodled on from his years of experience in these waters. He could recognize Norman Island off their larboard bow, could spot the hump that was Pelican Island.

  The locations of those two shoals, of which Monk was so leery, were shadowy guesses in dark pencil markings, and Alan tried to triangulate a possible way to avoid them.

  About five cables ahead of them, half a mile, Vixen tiptoed her way a little closer inshore, and Desperate leaned slightly as she wore to follow her around. The leadsmen were alternating tossing the lead from either foremast chain platform, calling out their soundings, which had remained stable at twenty-four or twenty-five fathoms. Desperate drew nearly three, so she was still safe if the
charts were right, though that was a big if. Farther ahead and off to starboard a little, Amphion and Roebuck were threading the gap between Flanagan Island and Privateer Point and would soon be able to look into the deep bay which might shelter enemy merchantmen or a privateer ship or two.

  “God Almighty, he’s found a shoal!” Monk shouted, and Alan took a peek over the bows. Vixen was wearing almost due south, coming about hard and beginning to heel to the stiff breeze.

  There was collective relief as Vixen continued on her new course and a signal flag went up to her mizzen truck, a numeral 8.

  “Safe, by God,” Monk said loudly, leaning over his chart and pencilling in another bit of arcana for the Admiralty to peruse some day in future when he handed in all his charts upon paying off.

  Vixen hoisted another numeral group: 25. She had found their deep-water passage to the south of Flanagan Island, and from what Alan could remember, would encounter nothing shallower than twelve or thirteen fathoms from then on. Desperate wore early, cutting the corner slightly on Vixen’s course until they wore due south right in her wake.

  “Hands aloft!” the Bosun sang out. “Hands aloft an’ make sail! Lay out an’ let go tops’ls!”

  They threaded the Flanagan Passage—the Indian Rocks to their east, Pelican Island off their larboard quarter, waves breaking over Ringdove Rock and shoal water shading off from dark blue to turquoise and aqua and pale green. That they did it at nearly seven knots and gaining added a certain piquancy to it all, even though they had found deep water. By the time the preventer backstays and jiggers had been freed and triced up, and the tops’ls hauled down and puffed full of wind, they were on their best point of sail with the Trades on their larboard quarter making over nine knots, heading sou-sou’west half-west, the leadsmen steadily calling out twenty fathoms or better. It was a bumpy ride, as Monk had predicted, but most pleasant all the same.

  “Sail ho!” the lookout called almost immediately. “Two points off the larboard bow!”

  She was Vixen’s pigeon, and obviously a belligerent from the way she hauled her wind and turned to run. But there was no escaping the fleeter sloop of war, and before half an hour had passed they could see puffs of smoke as Vixen opened fire.

  Treghues had his little band strike up a tune. The young drummers and fifers countermarched back and forth by the quarterdeck nettings over the waist, and a couple of landsman-fiddlers joined them to entertain the crew.

  The seas between St. Thomas and St. Croix were working alive with shipping that fine, sparkling morning, and the crew danced their hornpipes exuberantly at the thought of action to come.

  They were bearing down on the nearest chase, a full-rigged ship painted like an Indiaman and showing two rows of gun ports. She hoisted Danish colors but continued to flee, which made her most suspicious for a neutral.

  Desperate cut inshore of her as she fled to the west, gybed to the opposite tack and began to close her rapidly. She was deeply laden, so the lower row of gunports was most likely false.

  “Still,” Railsford bellowed through his speaking trumpet, stopping the people capering and dancing. “Gun crews, stand to, to starboard!”

  Once within two cables, Mr. Gwynn was sent forward to the carronade on the forecastle and Lewrie drifted up in that direction to take his stance halfway up the ladder to spot the fall of shot. They had not used the carronades much, since “The Smashers” would have made kindling of most of their earlier prizes, but here was a suitable target for the heavy and destructive ball they fired.

  In went a powder cartridge, four and a half pounds of powder. Then a thirty-two-pound shot, hollow-cast and filled with powder and a mixture of grape-shot and musket-shot. Gwynn fiddled with the lay of the gun, and the hands tugged on the swivel platform to adjust it. Gwynn hummed along with the musicians as he slid the quoin out slightly. A carronade had little range due to the light powder charge.

  “Ready!” he called, stepping clear and raising his fist.

  “Fire as you bear!”

  The gun captain touched the vent hole. The quill took light and sparked down into the charge. The gun barked and recoiled on its wooden slide. The ball struck their chase squarely.

  The massive ball hit the foe just at the break of the larboard gangway and the quarterdeck, a little ahead of the mizzen chains, and burst with a terrific energy and a satisfying puff of smoke, shrapnel, dust and splintered wood. The chains shivered and the heavy shrouds parted. Her mizzen t’gallant and topmast snapped and heeled over to starboard, yards crashing to the deck and smothering her wheel.

  The masquerade of being Danish ended. French colors appeared for a moment, then fluttered down to the deck as people waved tablecloths in surrender. Both ships hauled their wind and rounded up. Forrester clumped his way down into a cutter and was off to take his prize. Even as the rowing boat was cast off, Desperate was paying off the wind and gathering way once more to pursue a second ship closer inshore that the Vixen could not reach.

  This vessel, they did not even have to fire into. Her crew abandoned her quickly and began to pull hard for shore, hoping the current did not set them so far west they missed St. Croix altogether. Their chances in the nasty coral reefs on the north shore were iffy enough. Before Desperate could think of taking her, a heat wave shimmered over her and smoke began to flag downwind.

  “I’d drop this’n, sir,” Monk warned. “They want off her awful bad. Might be loaded to the deck-heads with powder…”

  “Still, they won’t have her, lads,” Treghues shouted with false cheer at being cheated of a prize. “Let’s go get another.”

  It was fortunate they did, for once they were about a mile downwind of the abandoned ship, and she had become a raging inferno, she suddenly blew up, tossing timbers hundreds of feet into the air.

  The next prize came within an hour, but she was only a lugger, run by a mulatto and crewed by blacks. She was local but carried barrels of salt-meat with French markings. Being too small to bother with, she was burned, to the distress of her owner.

  An hour later they came within range of a brigantine, and after two broadsides she lowered her Spanish colors and surrendered. This time, Avery and Feather had success and took eight hands and four Marines over to her happily. Like most merchant ships she had a crew barely sufficient to work her, so Avery would have no trouble from them. They left her far behind as they chased after still another prize as four vessels came north from Fredericksted and tried to run.

  By lunch they were up to the first, a racy-looking brig with raked masts, obviously American-built. She hoisted rebel colors and wore to open her gun battery, about four cables off, on their starboard side. The other three vessels continued to flee, and this American acted as if he would trade his ship for their safety, or attempt to delay the British frigate as long as possible.

  The brig opened fire first, damned accurate fire! Desperate drummed to the shock of iron hitting her hull from the brig’s six side guns.

  “Mr. Gwynn, fire as you bear,” Treghues ordered.

  Desperate’s six-pounders began to speak; with a stern-wind taking the sound and powder cloud away, it sounded like the slamming of heavy iron doors. One at a time the guns rolled back inboard to snub against the breeching ropes, and the crews sprang to serve them while shot began to moan overhead or strike their ship once more.

  The brig was not built to take such heavy punishment. When she was struck by round-shot her scantlings were punched clear through, and clouds of splinters erupted from her.

  “Hands to the braces, Bosun. Close her!” Treghues ordered. The frigate swung until the wind was dead astern, went a point farther and swung her yards about to gybe gently. The brig wore at the same time, so that their courses were aimed for a convergence.

  At three cables the rebel brig fired again, and this time she fired high. Desperate’s foret’gallant mast came crashing down, ripping down her outer flying jib, tangling her running and standing rigging in the foremast tops’l and course yards.
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  Desperate replied with a full broadside fired on the uproll, all nine starboard side guns and the starboard carronade together. The brig staggered as she was struck between wind and water, and the carronade shot blew her forecastle to pieces of lumber. Yet there were still men over there to serve her guns, and she struck back, ripping chunks out of Desperate’s bulwarks and hammock nettings!

  Lewrie was almost downed by a Marine that was flung off the starboard gangway to drop like a beef carcass between the guns. Three gunners screamed and clawed at their flesh as long thick wood splinters were driven into them.

  “Loblolly boys!” Lewrie called out. “Here, you, take this man’s place as rammer man.”

  “Oh God, sor, don’ lemme be took ta the cockpit, sor,” a gunner said as he was picked up. One splinter stood quivering in his upper right arm, and another in his lower chest, driven sideways under skin.

  But Lewrie motioned for him to be hauled away, and kicking and fighting, he was dragged to the midships hatch. The Marine’s body was stuffed under the fore jear bitts.

  “Shot your guns!” Lewrie ordered as Mr. Gwynn busied himself at the carronade. “Run out! Number four, overhaul that side-tackle now!”

  The carronade slammed aloud once more as Lewrie supervised the battery. Gwynn gave a cheer as his latest shot went home somewhere in the brig.

  “Prime your guns,” Lewrie commanded. “We shall fire together on the uproll.”

  Carey was there at his side. “The captain wants you on the quarterdeck, Lewrie.”

  “Aye. Point your guns.”

  The range was now about two cables, and even a linstockfired gun with no sights of any kind could be devastingly accurate that close.