By dawn of the next morning, the winds had, indeed, come more out of the Sou'east, allowing HMS Proteus to up-anchor and short-tack down to St. Helen's Patch, nearer the main channel round the Isle of Wight. By mid-day, just about Four Bells of the Watch, the winds actually were coming off the distant North Sea and the Danish/German coast, and Proteus up-anchored once again, this time for good, and thrashed out an offing into the Channel.
As the last headland of the Isle of Wight slipped astern, Lewrie could admit to himself that it felt good to be back at sea… even if the weather conditions were pretty-much a pluperfect bastard! Thrice-reefed courses, tops'ls and t'gal-lants, with the royal spars and masts struck down, and HMS Proteus was still laid over twenty or twenty-five degrees, practically sailing on her lee shoulder, and green seas were shipping over the forecastle, jib-boom, and bowsprit with every plunge, sluicing down the main deck, wave-breaking round the companionway hatches, and gurgling out the lee scuppers like the town drains. The so-called "Chops of the Channel" behaved more like a series of granite terraces that the frigate clambered over, then skidded down, with many thumps and thuds, among the high-pitched whining of the Easterly wind tearing through the miles of rigging aloft, and standing upright on her quarterdeck took the skill of an acrobatic rider, with legs spread and each foot placed on the bare back of one of a pair of fractious, galloping horses… and headed for a series of log jumps.
To make matters even dicier, every bloody merchantman or naval vessel that had been stranded in every harbour east of Portsmouth had used the wind shift to make their offings, too, and scud downwind for the Atlantic. Trades, convoys, squadrons, whole fleets, or individual ships ordered somewhere round the world could be muzzled in port for weeks before the winds shifted, allowing them out, and it seemed as if half the Royal Navy and all the Merchant Service, from coasting smacks to Indiamen, had set sail that morning.
All bearing Westward, in gaggles and streams, a positive flood of hard, unyielding, impatient shipping, their captains and masters in such a hurry they'd not give opposing traffic a single inch more than absolutely necessary to avoid collision as Proteus short-tacked against the flood, seemingly the only ship headed East that vile morning.
To make matters a tad worse, Proteus had to tack rather a lot; if Treghues and his trade had already sailed, they would not venture too far Sutherly, else they'd end up wrecked on the rocks and shoals of the Channel Islands or the French coast, or run the risk of privateers operating out of Normandy or Breton harbours, so Lewrie could not let himself stray too much to the South. No, he must remain in the Northern half of the Channel, slicing 'cross the hawses of hundreds of those "running," "both sheets aft" merchantmen on the larboard tack, and the starboard gun-ports almost in the water for a time, then come about in a flurry and thrash Nor'east 'til the Kentish coast was almost in sight from the deck, making civilian captains and watch-standing officers and mates curse him on starboard tack, too!
To make things just a wee bit worse on top of all that, squalls and patches of nigh-blinding rain came swooping down-Channel, now and again, driven by the "fortuitous" wind shift so beneficial to Commerce-squalls which perfectly blotted out both Proteus and whatever high speed, Couldn't-Get-Out-Of-Their-Own-Way traffic bearing down on them.
And, as the final fillip of Fate, there were the damned tides in the Channel, which perversely seemed yoked to the winds like a pair of surly oxen. The tides had turned an hour or so before, right after HMS Proteus had cleared Selsey Bill, and going like a racehorse. But, for the next few hours, until the tides turned, all of their efforts to go East, no matter how close their frigate lay to the eye of the wind as she bashed "full and by," no matter how manfully Proteus struggled up to windward, damned if there wasn't Selsey Bill off their bows at the end of every starboard tack inshore in search of Treghues's convoy!
"Sane people go West in weather like this," Lewrie muttered to himself, "and the wise stay in port 'til it moderates."
"Gained a bit, though, sir," Mr. Winwood, the Sailing Master, assured him after a long, gloomy peek at that "magnetic" headland with a heavy brass telescope to his eye. "Might've made three miles to the good, this last tack. Speaking of, though, sir…"
"Aye, thankee," Lewrie grumbled, turning to Lt. Catterall, the officer standing the Forenoon Watch. "Time to tack, I believe, sir!"
"Aye aye, sir!" Catterall bellowed back with great glee, turning to his helmsmen and lifting his brass speaking trumpet to roar, "Stations for Stays! Tail on, and prepare to come about to larboard tack!"
As he waited for sailors to ready themselves, Catterall clapped his raw hands together before him like a performing seal, all swaddled up in tarred canvas foul-weather clothing, then turned to address both Lewrie and Mr. Winwood. "Going like a thoroughbred at Derby, she is, sir! Damme, what fun!"
"God save us," Lewrie whispered to Mr. Winwood, "but he's ready for Bedlam. Certifiable!" He plastered a broad, agreeable grin on his phyz, though, and shouted, "Carry on!" to his manic Second Officer.
All hands, and all officers, too, up from naps in the gun-room, just to be on the safe side. Judging his moment very carefully, Lt. Catterall rose up on the balls of his feet, taking a deep suck of wind into his lungs, and turning just a tad blue as he held it for a long second or two, judging the scend of the sea, the pressure on the sails from the gusting winds, the wave-sets smashing against the starboard bows, and what they might be like halfway through the evolution… and, what gaps in that shoal of merchant traffic he thought he could thread Proteus through once she got a way back on, sailing nearly 140 degrees off her present course, and lay slow and loggish before the winds snatched her like a paper boat on a duck pond, and sent her tearing off once more.
"Ready, ready… ease down the helm!" Catterall screeched, at last, loud enough for his trumpet-aided voice to carry all the way to the forecastle. Then, "Helm alee!" after a last peek, a last breath.
Proteus swung up closer to the wind, fore-and-aft headsails now "Flowing," and, in such a brisk wind, the fore bowline kept fast, and the fore sheet "checked" or "braced to" in pilot boat fashion, as they would when short-tacking in a narrow channel. "Rise, tacks and sheets!"
Tacking in such weather really wasn't recommended; steady winds and fairly smooth seas were best, but… wearing the frigate about off the wind could end with them scudded a mile or more West of where they had started, by the time they had described a full circle and pointed her bows Sou'-Soueast… and Selsey Bill even further out of reach on their larboard bows!
There was a heart-stopping moment when a series of combers met Proteus's bows with wet and hearty smacks, threatening to slam her to a full stop and put her "in-irons," unable to fall off to either beam, but the knacky Mr. Midshipman Gamble, on the forecastle, feeling what shift of wind that the men on the quarterdeck could not, ordered that the inner jib and foretopmast stays'l be flatted to larboard for a bit, which put just enough wind-pressure on her to force her over enough to cross over. Then, right-smoothly, the starboard sheets, the new lee sheets, he ordered belayed snug, and hauled in in concert with loosening the new, larboard, windward sheets, and hernias and tumbles among the foc's'le hands bedamned.
"Whew!" Lewrie, Winwood, and Lts. Langlie and Catterall all uttered, once Proteus recovered from her dramatic heel over to the starboard side, and she began to make way once more. "Whew!" again a moment later, as a heavily-laden cargo ship actually altered course to miss them, and passed down their larboard beam with at least a quarter-cable between them. With her captain and first mate shaking their fists and cursing a blue streak, of course.
"Selsey Bill… again," Lewrie muttered late that afternoon, as the headland loomed into sight once more. This time, after the turn of the tide, it was astern of them, for a wonder, could almost be said to be on their larboard quarter as Proteus angled in towards the coast on starboard tack, and readied herself to come about and hare off to mid-Channel. The winds, which had acted much like a gust-front preceding a storm, had moderated nicely, and the seas had flattened a bit, though they still broke green and white around her. When Lt. Adair, the Third Officer, directed the latest tack, the manoeuvre went off as smoothly as anyone could ask for, and the nearest other vessel that could cause a collision was at least three cables off.
"The wind seems to be backing, sir," the Sailing Master opined, with a wary lift of his nose and a deep sniff at the apparent winds. "More out of the Nor'east by East, now… well, perhaps a point shy of Nor'east by East, but trending that direction… it very well may be."
"Making our best course up on the wind East by Sou'east, aye," Lewrie decided, consulting that mental compass rose that he had been forced to memorise in his midshipman days, so he could "box" it whenever a senior asked… usually with a rope starter in his hand if he got it wrong, and a Bosun's Mate waiting to wield it, and breathing hard in expectation of the joy that came with serving Mr. Midshipman Lewrie "sauce" for his ignorance.
"About that, aye, sir… a point more Easterly, does the wind continue backing," Mr. Winwood ponderously, cautiously agreed.
"A long board, this time, I think," Lewrie further decided with a chart replacing the compass in his head. "With wind and tide since the turn early this morning, Captain Treghues's trade would most-like have headed Sou'west, at first, once clear of Dover. Hug our coasts for safety from the Frog chasse-maries through the Straits, then take a slant South of West with the wind right up their skirts. Avoiding Dungeness, Beachy Head… I don't expect we'd see them too close in-shore."
"Unless they haven't sailed at all, Captain," Mr. Winwood said with a heavy frown. "Did the East India Company wish to add one more ship or two to the trade, still lading in London, and now unable to get under way 'gainst a 'dead muzzier' up the Thames or Medway, sir?"
"The only joy we can take o' that, Mister Winwood, is in knowing there'll be fewer damn-fool merchant captains out t'ram us amidships," Lewrie scoffed with a dry chuckle. "That, and the chance to flesh out our cabin stores from the bumboats in The Downs. Even if those buggers would steal the coins from their dead mothers' eyes."
"There is that, sir," Winwood agreed with a faint simper that, on him, was a sign of high amusement.
"Two hours more on larboard tack, I should think," Lewrie opined. "Tide's with us, the sea's flatter. We should fly over the ground like a Cambridge coach, thirty miles or more. Next tack… the middle of the First Dog, most-likely, then a short board at… Due North. With any luck at all, we'll fetch some coastal mark other than Selsey-bloody-Bill! Bognor Regis, perhaps? I'll be below 'til then, sir."
"Very good, Captain, sir."
Once in his quarters, Lewrie paused to warm his hands over the single coal stove he trusted to be lit, under way, and that one lashed down tautly, and secured in a deep "fiddle-box" filled with damp sand. Even with the sky-lights in the coach-top overhead closed, all the gun-ports lashed shut, and the sash-windows above the transom settee right aft closed, it was still grindingly, damply cool in his great-cabins.
Toulon and Chalky were curled up together in a snoring bundle on the starboard-side collapsible settee in the day-cabin, faces buried in each other's fur, and had even managed to burrow a bit under the light quilt that Aspinall usually spread over the settee's removable pad, to save the upholstery from a quarter-pound of hair… left daily.
After two and a half years and a bit in commission, HMS Proteus was getting a little "ripe," despite the continual efforts expended to dispel the odours of a working vessel; they smoked her with smouldering bunches of tobacco, scoured with vinegar monthly, swept down the lower decks daily, and both swabbed and holystoned weekly, but… one could not put upwards of 150 men and boys aboard in such a confined space as the gun-deck and officers' quarters, keep six months of perishables on the orlop and in the holds, without the reek of overripe cheeses, the faint carrion-in-brine smell of salt-beef and salt-pork kegs, the salt-fish right aft on the orlop, or the stinks of the livestock up forward in the manger below the forecastle from filtering into every nook and cranny, from seeming to soak into the very fibre of the ship, and her bulwarks, beams, and frame. Add to that her "ship's people," who went without bathing for a week at a time, unless caught in a heavy rain on deck, who must fart, and belch, and sneak a pee in the holds or cable tiers when caught short when the beakheads were too far to walk. Not to mention the muddy fish-reek of the cables themselves.
At sea, Lewrie got to the point where he hardly noticed it, but a few days ashore, even in such a rancid place as London with all her garbage middens and hordes of people, and the change was noticeable in the extreme. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
There was no steaming pot of coffee or tea, so Lewrie remained wrapped snug in his boat cloak and sat down at his desk, under a swaying coin-silver oil lamp that was putting out its own contribution to the ambient effluvia, and looked over the last bits of mail that had come aboard just before they departed from St. Helen's Patch.
His ward, Sophie de Maubeuge, once French royalty but now penniless and orphaned, had written him a chatty letter, describing how his father Sir Hugo had furthered her introductions in London Society, with the promise of sending him a new oval pocket portrait that "Granpere" had commissioned. Once she had moved away from Anglesgreen-she and his wife Caroline had had a major falling-out, with Caroline even suspecting Sophie and her "faithless, adulterous pig of a husband" with being lovers, if not fellow conspirators to conceal his overseas amours, for a time-Sir Hugo had taken her in, and, to everyone's surprise, had developed quite an avuncular affection for Sophie and her welfare, and her future as an emigre. Now, he positively doted on the girl as she blossomed into a ravishingly-attractive young lady, expressing that he felt beyond "grandfatherly," perhaps had even attained "paternal" sentiments! Lewrie still suspected the old rantipoler's intentions.
There was a letter from his wife, too, in answer to his brief note hastily scribbled at the Guildford posting-house. Caroline was appreciative of what the so-far small share of his Caribbean silver paid out to him had bought to improve their house and middling tenant farm. Lord, it was dry and stand-offish, though, all sums of profits from the farm, and lists of outlays made, with a pointed direction for him to write his children at their new public school, at the least, if such a chore wasn't beyond his ability, before he sailed. And, what was this, she had asked, about rumours of some criminal deed he'd done on Jamaica? What new shame had he brought on his family name; not that it was all that good to begin with… damn him. Had he no consideration for his children's futures, for his long-suffering wife's repute?
There was an encouraging letter from the Trencher family, wife, father, and daughter, which expressed their wishes for his safety and continued success. They didn't have that much new to say about defending his "good name," but assured him that their continual prayers were with him. Their daughter Theodora had offered to send him a package of goods for the betterment of his crew: pocket-bibles, New Testaments, and chapbooks of the newest, most inspiring hymns… along with reams of tracts fresh from the printers, of course. Lewrie looked up from re-reading that letter, speculating most idly (of course) on what sort of figure Theodora Trencher might boast, feeling even a tad risable at the fantasy…'til he saw the framed portrait of his wife Caroline that hung on the bulkhead facing him in the dining-coach. Odd… he'd never noticed the leeriness the artist had captured in her expression, before!
Coughing into his fist, he lowered his gaze to the desk, again, lifting the letter that the Rev. Wilberforce had sent him, wherein he offered much the same sort of spiritual comfort for HMS Proteus's tars, both Black and White. Wilberforce had even proposed placing an eager young chaplain aboard her, his pay and his keep to be supplied by the Evangelical Society! Could the young man he had in mind be able to go aboard before Proteus sailed… could Lewrie "vet" him once he arrived at Portsmouth… and, was he not suitable to Captain Lewrie's complete satisfaction, perhaps there might be time enough for Wilberforce and his associates to select another?
Well, he'd done as Caroline had bid him; he'd written to both of his sons, Hugh and Sewallis, had even penned a loving letter to his little daughter Charlotte… all done into the wee hours of the final night in the inner harbour at Portsmouth, long past the Master At Arms' official "Lights Out" at nine of the evening. Though, what good that letter would do Lewrie rather doubted, since Charlotte was still with her mother, home-tutored, not schooled, and exposed to all the grumbles of his wife and in-laws, who'd never thought him quite "up to chalk."
There'd been that letter from his father, who had mentioned one Sunday after Services, in the churchyard, when the vicar of ivied old St. George's had preached a homily on Sinners, and little Charlotte had so taken it (and other things she'd heard) to heart that she had loudly told one and all present in the churchyard that "my father is a Sinner… and a filthy beast!" His father'd found it delightfully droll at the time, even if Lewrie hadn't, and God knows what poisons had been poured into her ears, since!
Children, well… there had only been a few years on half-pay ashore to get to know them, then the war with France had erupted back in '93, and he was back in Navy harness, and there hadn't been a whole month with them since then. Sewallis, Hugh, and Charlotte had become more the concept of children, just as he had felt himself merely the shadow of a father, and every reunion had presented him with sprouted strangers, and little Charlotte the most unknowable of all. To whom he wrote platitudes… well-meaning platitudes, but no matter how he reminded himself that he, indeed, loved them, he still felt so oddly disassociated.
There came the heavy thud of the Marine sentry's musket on the deck outside, and the cry of "Mister Midshipman Grace, SAH!"
"Enter!" Lewrie called out, sitting up straighter, and shoving his letters into the desk drawer.
"Captain, sir… Mister Langlie's duty, and he wishes to shake out to second reefs in courses and tops'ls. He said to tell you that the winds are moderating, sir," the lad said. Grace, the son of Nore fishermen, who had come aboard a ship's boy in company with his father and grandfather, who had risen to "Gentleman Volunteer" Midshipman once Proteus had been won back from the mutineers. He was upwards of sixteen, now, and shaping well to become an extremely reliable and tarry lad. His grandfather, whom they'd dubbed Elder Grace, was gone, lost to the Yellow Jack, and his father, Middle Grace, was now rated an Able Seaman, and bore the shipboard rate of Captain of the Afterguard, the petty officer in charge of the mizen-mast.
"Very well, Mister Grace," Lewrie said in agreement. "Give to Mister Langlie my respects, and permission. I'll come up, directly." Aye aye, sir.
Lewrie had himself a paternal sigh, then got to his feet, gathered up his hat and mittens, and went on deck, pausing to give Toulon and Chalky a chin and ear rub or two.
At least on deck, the nippy wind was much fresher than what he breathed in his great-cabins, and the Channel was calming, too. Where agitated green rollers and white-spumed crests had been, there were now darker green or steel-grey waves, though the "chops" still made Proteus ride like a brick mason's dray on a cobbled street. Her heel had altered to a mere fifteen degrees from vertical, according to the clinometer by the compass binnacle and chart cabinet, as well.
"We're making a better way, sir," Lt. Langlie reported, with a sketchy salute tossed up to the brim of his cocked hat. "The coast is completely under the horizon, and Mister Winwood thinks we are nearly twenty miles to the good, East'rd, and about the same to seaward."
"Came up early, did you?" Lewrie asked.
"A bit fuggy, below, sir," Langlie allowed with a wry grin. "I was in need of fresh air, and…"
Eight bells chimed slowly, in pairs, from the foc'sle belfry as a ship's boy turned the watch glass: four in the afternoon, and an end to the Day Watch, and the beginning of the First Dog.
"Carry on, Mister Langlie," Lewrie bade, and his First Officer went through the ritual of relieving Lt. Adair and his watchstanders. The men of the larboard division shuffled up to take the place of the hands in the starboard division, the men going off watch lingering to savour fresh air, themselves.
"Very well, sir, I have the watch," Langlie intoned, saluting Adair with a doff of his hat. "All hands!" he bellowed not a moment later. "Mister Pendarves, Mister Towpenny, mast captains! Trice up and lay aloft to make sail to the second reefs!"
Lewrie paced up to the larboard, windward, quarterdeck bulwarks to watch things done, as spry topmen and older yard captains climbed the ratlines in the weather shrouds; out to the mast-tops' edges and for a time upside down on the futtock shrouds before some scampered up higher to the tops'l yards, whilst others scooted out the course yards, carefully balanced on the foot-ropes with their chests pressed to the canvas-bound main and foremast course yards.
Lewrie thought to remind Langlie to overhaul the spiral set of the yards once more sail had been made, but forebore; that would just be "gilding the lily," an unwanted intrusion on a competent officer's performance. Good and trustworthy lieutenants could almost make his job irrelevant, at times, which suited Lewrie's well-hidden lazy nature right down to his toes.
"Sails, ho!" the mainmast lookout cried, pointing up to larboard. "Deck, there! Ships in comp'ny… nine, ten, or more! Three points off th' larboard bows, an' hull-up!" he sang out as the clutch of ships appeared from the misty rains.
"Glass, please," Lewrie called over his shoulder, and thought of going aloft as high as the futtock shrouds, but decided not to; it was already too crowded aloft, and he'd just be in the topmen's way. Midshipman Larkin fetched him a day-glass, and he had himself a good and long look at them.
"Deck, there!" the lookout far aloft wailed. "Eight Indiamen, a frigate, two sloops o' war, and a Third Rate in the van!"
"Our 'John Company' trade, sir?" Lt. Langlie took time from his duties to enquire, with excitement in his voice.
"Unless they're running more than one a month, aye, sir," Lewrie told him. "And, on the leading seventy-four, I do b'lieve I can make out a flag with yellow-red-yellow stripes… East India convoy in the code book they gave us. Mister Larkin! ' East India ' flag to the foremast, the Union flag to the mainmast halliards, where they can see it, and know we're not a Frenchman. And hoist our number to the peak of the mizen signal halliards."
He counted off the massive East Indiamen, admiring their glossy and rich hulls and fresh canvas, so big and impressive that they could be mistaken for 74-gunned ships of the Third Rate, though the 74-gunner leading that "elephants' parade" was the genuine article, and could be discerned as such after close inspection, for her own sails were worn, mildewed, and parchment tan by comparison, and her hull did not glisten as the others did; too much wear, salt water, and not enough linseed oil or tar and paint, and that not refurbished lately. By comparison, his frigate, relatively fresh from the Halifax yard, gleamed like a bright, new-minted penny.
A flurry of flag signals from the lead 74 created an answering blizzard of bunting from the frigate on the forward Southern quarter of the convoy, was repeated by the trailing sloop of war to seaward of the trade's stern quarter, and answered by the other Third Rate that brought up the rear, which, after a long moment, made a new hoist that the lead frigate repeated as she wore a bit off her "soldier's wind" and started to come down nearer Proteus.
"Can't read 'em, sor… sir, sorry," Midshipman Larkin said as he stood atop the bulwarks by the mizen shrouds, a telescope to his own eye. "They're streamin' right at us, but I think she's askin' just who we are, I do! 'Tis in the private signals for this month… I think."
"Must believe we're a French fraud," Lewrie agreed. "Mine arse on a bandbox, we've our Number aloft, already. Can you read his?"
"Er, aye, sor… sir," Larkin, the Bog-Irish by-blow, replied, drifting back into brogue as he always did when flustered. "She's ah, HMS Stag.. . Fifth Rate, thirty-eight-gunner, Captain John Philpott," Larkin stammered, fumbling through his bundle of lists and almost losing both his telescope overside and his grip on the shrouds.
"Last Stag would know, we're still in the Caribbean, sir," Lt. Langlie commented by Lewrie's side. "A good ruse for a French raider."
"Aye, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said. "Mister Larkin, hoist that we are ordered to join the escort. Perhaps the latest signals book'll convince them. 'Tis only three weeks old, after all."
"Aye aye, sir."
A long minute or two passed as Larkin and his "bunting tossers" made their hoist, which was acknowledged by Stag; then, they had more minutes to wait 'til Stag made a reply, for she had to pass the message back to the repeating sloop of war, which passed it to the trailing 74-gunner, which was obviously the flagship. More time was taken for the flagship to hoist a new order, which had to come down the chain to the sloop, to the frigate, to Proteus.
And, all during that time, the convoy was plodding along under reduced plain sail, bound roughly West, Sou'west, while Proteus still was on larboard tack, heading about Sou'east by East and drawing apart slowly.
"Wear her about to West, Sou'west, Mister Langlie," Lewrie told his First Officer. "Nothing more convincing than showing leery people your arse. Like a dog rollin' over on his back."
"Aye, sir. All hands! Stations to wear, ready…!"
"What did they ask that time, Mister Larkin?" Lewrie asked.
"Order, sir. 'Come Under My Lee,' the flag said t'do," Larkin puzzled out at last. "HMS Grafton, seventy-four. Captain Sir Tobias… Trey… Gwees? Triggers?"
"Truh-Gewz," Lewrie corrected him. "An old captain of mine, me lad. Damme, they didn't do him too proud, did they? Grafton was commissioned in 1771. Why she hasn't been hulked… or rotted apart…"
"Ready to wear, sir," Langlie reported.
"Very well, Mister Langlie. Once about, reduce sail so we may fall astern of Grafton yonder, then come up under her lee. With winds full astern, I s'pose he means come alongside her inshore beam. Might be, either'd do," Lewrie said with a shrug. "Mister Larkin, alert yon suspicious frigate that we're wearing about. Try not to make it look like an order to Captain Wilkinson, hmm?"
"Aye aye, sor," Larkin sheepishly replied.
"Wear about, then, Mister Langlie."
"Aye aye, sir."
Perhaps half an hour later, HMS Proteus had fallen far enough towards the tail-end of the trade to make a bit more sail so she could angle in towards HMS Grafton. When she was close enough, it was an easy matter to duck under her high, old-fashioned stern and make a brief dash before the sails were reduced once more, so that she ended up off the 74-gun ship's starboard quarter, about half a cable inshore of her.
Lewrie left the details to Langlie, busy with his telescope by the larboard bulwarks to study the people gathered on Grafton's quarterdeck. Officers, sailors of the afterguard, some gloomy-looking corn stalk of a fellow in drab, dark clothing, and… a woman? An officer, perhaps Grafton's First Lieutenant, lifted a brass speaking-trumpet to his mouth to shout across. The swash of the sea between the two ships, the wind, and the normal creaks and groans of Proteus's hull made what he shouted quite un-intelligible.
"Croror? Is'll pot?" Lewrie mimicked, cupping a hand behind an ear and shrugging at that worthy. "What the Devil does he mean by that, I ask you? Must be a Welsh insult," he japed to his own officers.
"Come… up… to.. .pistol… shod" Grafton's senior officer cried, again, all but screeching this time, and waving an arm to direct them to sidle up alongside Grafton, almost hull-to-hull.
"Ease a spoke or two o' lee helm, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said, tossing back his boat cloak so the single gold epaulet of his rank on his right shoulder could be seen, as Proteus tentatively angled a bit to larboard, closing the distance between the ships to about twenty or so yards. "Ah, there's the bugger," he muttered under his breath.
Capt. Sir Tobias Treghues, Baronet, had thrown back the wings of his own cloak, to display his pair of epaulets, with his chin high, as if he'd smelled something rank. Treghues had always been lean and tall, and so he still was, though his aristocratic face was thinner in the cheeks than Lewrie recalled, and there was a hint of the beginning of a gotch-gut 'tween groin and chest that strained his pristine white waist-coat, the sign of good living, Lewrie surmised, once Treghues had inherited his father's estates and title… though Lewrie also could recall that Treghues was the first son from a poor holding, forced to sea to earn the better part of his living.
Lewrie lifted his cocked hat to doff it in salute, and after a moment, Treghues lifted his in response, revealing that his formerly dark brown locks had receded above his temples, and were now streaked like a badger's pelt with grey.
"Captain Alan Lewrie, is it?" Treghues shouted across, after he had replaced his hat on his head. "Will wonders never cease!"
"To the life, sir!" Lewrie shouted back, wondering what sort of answer one could really make to that opening sally. He would have said that it was good to see Treghues, again, but didn't have a clue whether the man was in the proper half of his wits to accept it.
"You are late, sir!" Treghues primly said.
"Only got our orders yesterday, sir, and had to wait on the wind in Saint Helen's Patch!" Lewrie replied, his own hands cupped to make a trumpet. "I thought I'd catch you up, at sea, once the wind arose from the East." I'm tryin' t'be jolly, he told himself.
"You should deal with your signals midshipmen, Captain Lewrie!" Treghues instructed. "They are… slack in their duties!"
"Dead downwind of you, sir, all signals were edge-on to us!" he explained, "The leading seventy-four did not repeat them!"
"Just like the old days!" Treghues seemed to scoff at that. "As I recall, you always had glib and ready answers!"
And bugger you, too, ye prim turd! 'Lewrie silently fumed.
"Take station out yonder, sir!" Treghues cried, pointing off to the Southwest corner of the convoy. "Tell Captain Hazelhurst, of the Chloe sloop, that he is to re-position himself ahead and to larboard of Horatius!"
"Just asking, sir, but my orders did not list all the ships in the escort!" Lewrie yelled over to him. "May I assume Horatius is the van sevety-four?"
"Aye, she is!" Treghues shouted, sounding both impatient and petulant together. "You will learn them soon enough! Make all haste to your proper station, Captain Lewrie! It is growing dark, sir!"
"Aye aye, sir!" Lewrie replied, doffing his hat once more, in sign of departure; and, hopefully, that his "joyful" rencontre with a shipmate of old was mercifully at an end.
"Clew up, Mister Langlie… Spanish Reefs, to slow us. Helmsmen, helm hard up and slew a knot or two off us," Lewrie snapped.
Proteus swung wide away, acting as if she'd been stung by the flagship. Course sails were briefly gathered up in their centres to spill wind, until she'd fallen far-enough astern of Grafton to avoid a collision when she swung Sou'-Sou'easterly, putting the wind on her larboard quarter to fall down towards the distant sloop of war, clews freed, and her course sails now drawing taut and full.
"Me pardons, sor," Midshipman Larkin meekly muttered, wringing his hands over his supposed faults. "But I really couldn't read 'em."
"No one could," Lewrie gently told him. "Not your fault."
"Uhm, not a horrid beginning, was it, Captain?" Langlie queried in a soft voice at his captain's elbow. "After what you said of…"
"But not a good'un, either, Mister Langlie," Lewrie resignedly replied, turning to look astern at the flagship in the gathering dusk. "I fear this'll be a hellish-long voyage. And feel twice as long."