It was a rather abstemious little gathering for supper in the great-cabins: the Sailing Master, Mr. Winwood, who never drank much at all, seated to his right; Lt. Devereux, in charge of Proteus's Marine detachment, to his left, and (for a sea-soldier) never known as one who over-indulged in tipple; and his three midshipmen, Mr. Gamble the older, Mr. Grace, and wee Mr. Larkin, at the table's foot, as the Vice. All of whom were so daunted by Mr. Winwood, who was the midshipmen's tutor in matters navigational and mathematical, and by dread of making a fool of themselves by taking too much "aboard." Mr. Win-wood's grave, mournful scowl when his sense of primness was offended could make the "middies" scurry like cockroaches. Lt. Blase Devereux was a languidly elegant sort, whose gentlemanly mannerisms they wished to emulate, anyway, and the captain was, well… the captain, not a man to disappoint, if they wished to stay in his "good books."
Once Capt. Treghues had signalled that the trade would, indeed, stand "off-and-on" the coast 'til dawn, they had sailed legs North and South abeam the wind, with the Indiamen back to their usual custom of reducing sail to bare steerageway, which had let the avid fishermen in the crew dip a line, ending in the catch of a middling-sized tunny, which had been shared between the gunroom and the captain's table.
They had had reconstituted "portable soup," a sea-pie made from shredded salt-beef and salt-pork, diced potatoes fried with bacon, and the tunny for the last course, great slabs of it, dredged in flour and crumbled biscuit, spices, and lemon, then fried in oil. There had been a decent claret with the sea-pie, and an experimental white wine bought off a homebound Indiaman. One of the first things the Dutch settlers at the Cape had planted was vineyards, though with mixed results, so far. The white had gone well with the fish, though not as smooth or sweet as a German hock, but miles better than the Navy-issued "Miss Taylor," the thin, vinegary, and acidy wine that could double for paint thinner, and Lewrie was intrigued enough to think of buying more, once at anchor.
There had also been the promise of an apple stack-cake to come, a dessert that his wife Caroline had brought from her native Cape Fear in North Carolina, shrivelled and wrinkly older Kentish apples that had not gone over, or been wormed, pulped and boiled with dollops of molasses and sugar, then spread thick between several layers of pancakes. Once the tablecloth would be removed, there would have been a tray of "bought" sweet biscuits, nuts, and port. Midshipman Larkin to propose the King's Toast, Mr. Winwood to make one to the Navy, and, as it was a Saturday evening, it would have fallen to Lewrie to propose a traditional Navy toast, "To Our Wives And Sweethearts, May They Never Meet!," which Lewrie found excrutiatingly apt.
But, just as Aspinall was lifting the cloth cover from the cake, the Marine sentry slammed his musket butt on the deck outside, with a strident, rather urgent, cry of "Second Off 'cah… SAH!"
"Enter, Mister Catterall," Lewrie bade, cocking a brow over Lt. Catterall's exquisite timing, imagining that the Second Lieutenant, who had the appetite of all three midshipmen together, had thought to wangle himself a hefty slice of cake, or at least a free cup of coffee.
"Signal rockets from the convoy, sir!" Lt. Catterall announced, though, his usually saturnine demeanour much agitated. "Fusees and an alert gun from Horatius, as well!"
"Pipe 'All Hands,' Mister Catterall, and Beat to Quarters, at once," Lewrie snapped, rising and tossing his napkin into his plate. "Sorry 'bout the cake, gentlemen, but it appears there may be Frogs in the offing. Your posts… shoo, scat, younkers!"
As they quickly rose and tumbled out without ceremony, Lewrie went aft for his baldric and hanger-sword, looking about for Aspinall and his Cox'n, Andrews.
"Andrews, do you fetch up my pair of pistols, soon as you can. Aspinall… save the cake, if that's possible. Then, see yourself and the cats to the orlop, with the Carpenter's crew."
In a twinkling, sailors would rush to man the 12-pounders mounted right-aft in Lewrie's cabins, knock down the deal partitions, and bundle fragile furniture, sure to be turned into deadly flying splinters in battle, below. One last snatch off a rack in the chart-space for his cocked hat, and he was off himself, out onto the main deck and up the windward ladderway to the quarterdeck, amid the mad, but well-drilled, bustle of sailors clearing their ship for action. Off-watch men rushed up with the long sausages of their hammocks and bedding, perhaps not rolled as tightly as they would each morning to pass through the ring-measure, to stow them in the iron stanchions and nettings, to turn them into a feeble defence against grapeshot, splinters, and musket fire.
"Where away?" Lewrie demanded, grabbing a spare night-glass by the binnacle cabinet. The Marine drummer was beating the long roll, bosuns' calls were peeping, hundreds of feet, shod or bare, thundered on oak decks, and Proteus nigh-shuddered to the sounds of loose items, sea-chests and stools being rushed to the orlop or holds, mess-tables being hoisted to the overheads on the gun-deck, of gun-tools removed from their overhead racks.
"Starboard side of the convoy, sir," Lt. Langlie breathlessly reported in the dark. He and the other officers and warrants had come in a rush from their own suppers. "Lieutenant Catterall reported that he'd seen a rocket and fusee from Stag, then heard the night signal gun 'board Horatius, before he summoned you. Ah, there's another!"
One Indiaman, then a second astern of her at the forward end of the starboard-most of two columns, both were now burning blue warning fusees high aloft, and launching amber rockets from their swivel-guns.
Lewrie lifted the night-glass to his right eye, straining ahead and to starboard. The convoy was at present bound South, about twenty miles off the shore, a dark coast lit only by a single, feeble bonfire atop either the Lion's Rump or Green Point, near the entrance to Table Bay, high enough above the sea to still be somewhat visible. They had nearly sailed that sea-mark below the horizon, and within the hour had need to come about and plod North, but for this.
Lewrie picked out ships by their large taffrail lanthorns: HMS Horatius far ahead, and now sporting a blue fusee at her main-top, and four Indiamen astern of her, the "threatened" pair that sailed on the starboard flank also lit up with the bright, blue pinpoint lights on their mastheads. They were turning away to larboard, pairs of stern lanthorns pinching together, and the vaguest hints of canvas growing like spectral spooks in the faint starlight, and what was thrown by a mere sliver of moon. Farther out lay Captain Philpott's HMS Stag, a black smear of hull, a pair of taffrail lights, and her upper sails visible by the burning fusee at her mainmast tip.
Damn this bloody thing! Lewrie furiously thought, cursing the night telescope, for its series of lenses was one short to allow more light into the tube, making everything appear backwards, and upside down. With the glass, Stag was headed North; without, she was headed South… foreshortening as she turned up into the West wind to face… something. HMS Horatius was also turning Sou'-Sou'west, as close as she could lie to those winds unless she tacked and came about.
"Can't make out a bloody thing," Lewrie griped aloud, lowering the telescope and rubbing his offending eye. "There's something up to the West of them, but damned if I can spot it. Any word from Grafton?"
"None, sir," Langlie was forced to say. "Same flares as us."
"Well, of course," Lewrie said with a frustrated sigh. Captain Treghues possessed the customary Navy signals book, as well as the one of his own devising, but both of them were based on the precondition of daylight! Nighttime signals could alert the merchantmen and warships to threat, but could not convey any tactical orders as to which action they might take, together. It was up to each captain's judgement as to how he might respond from his own, scattered, position at one of the convoy's four corners. Here, on the larboard, and landward, flank of the dark ships, it was up to Lewrie alone how best to act.
"Now, the near-hand column's hauling their wind, sir," Langlie pointed out. With his naked eyes, Lewrie took note of the two nearest Indiamen's lights; their hulls were beginning to occlude the starboard lanthorns, the blue masthead fusees swinging almost atop their glowing larboard taffrail lights.
"We're going t'get trampled, are we not careful," Lewrie griped. "Shake out the reefs in courses and tops'ls, Mister Langlie, and get a way on, so we pass ahead of those tubs."
"Aye aye, sir! Topmen! Topmen aloft, trice up and lay out!"
"Great-guns manned, loaded, and ready, sir!" Lt. Catterall said from the foot of the quarterdeck ladder. "The ship is in all respects prepared for action."
The gun-deck forward and below Lewrie's post amidships by those freshly hammock-stiffened quarterdeck nettings was dimly lit for night action. A well-spaced row of battle lanthorns marched down each beam, thickly-glassed and made of heavy metal, so gun crews could have just enough illumination to see to their duties, robust enough to resist a spill of the candle flames inside them, and create a fatal fire or an explosion of a serge powder cartridge after it had been removed from its wood or leather carrying sleeve. Beside them, tiny red "fireflies" glowed between the glossy, black-painted artillery; smouldering ends of slow-match coils wrapped round the tops of the swab-water tubs by each piece, the last-resort means of igniting the priming quills full of the finest mealed gunpowder, should the flint in more modern flintlock strikers break or fail. Far up forward, there were another pair of small lights by the forecastle belfry, normally used by the sleepy ship's boys, whose duty it was to keep track of the half-hour and hour glasses, turn them, and ring the bells of the watch.
"Charge both batteries, Mister Catterall," Lewrie ordered. "We don't wish to be taken by surprise. Open the ports and run the guns into battery, both sides… just in case."
"Aye aye, sir!"
A quick look astern satisfied him that the convoy was turning alee, all of them, earlier than scheduled. A quarter-hour longer, and they would have been alerted by Grafton to "Ready About," and, at the proper night signal-a fusee at the end of each foremast royal yard-would have hauled their wind and worn off the wind, as much as one might be expected from civilian shipmasters. Now, they were wearing individually, the most threatened bearing down on the larboard ships, startling them to haul off and fall alee like stampeding sheep, order lost, and if this turned out to be nothing, they'd be half the following day rounding them back up!
"Both the near-hand merchantmen seem to be bearing astern of us, sir," Lt. Langlie announced, with the faintest bit of relief apparent in his voice. "Should we be going about as well, Captain?"
"I've a mind to let 'em fall far enough astern, then tack, and see what aid we may give Stag and Horatius," Lewrie decided, looking forward and to starboard, again, noting where Capt. Graves's lumbering two-decker had gotten to in the meantime. "A moment, Mister Langlie."
The threat seemed to be from seaward, but… on such an ebony night, nothing could be taken for granted. The French squadrons that haunted the Cape passage and the Indian Ocean were rumoured to be at least two large 36-gun or 38-gun frigates, operating separately, but paired with one, possibly two, corvettes apiece, three-masted, full-rigged, equivalent to Sloops of War in the Royal Navy, armed with a battery ranging from 14 to 20 guns, and sometimes sailing in concert with well-armed, over-manned privateers, as well. Such a pack could prowl like wolves-sea wolves!
And, like wolves, Lewrie realised with his "wary bone" wakening, could attack from all quarters, not just the one, dashing in to nip or intimidate, 'til their quarry was encircled and doomed.
"Mister Winwood?" Lewrie called over his shoulder.
"Aye, sir. Here," the Sailing Master reported, coming to join him from his usual post before the binnacle cabinet and double helm.
"We've a goodly way on? Sufficient for a quick, clean wear?"
"So I would adjudge it, sir, aye," Winwood ponderously answered.
"And, no reefs, rocks, or shoals to loo'rd?"
"Not for at least sixteen or seventeen miles, no, sir," Winwood was forced to avow, after a wince and a tooth-sucking noise, obviously much more comfortable with such a statement after a long perusal over his charts, a set of fresh star sights, taking the height of the moon by back-staff, and auguring the entrails of the odd passing gull.
"Very well, sir, we'll come about," Lewrie announced. "Mister Catterall? Check tackle, and be ready for a wear. Mister Langlie, I wish hands to stations, ready to come about to larboard, then steer a course Nor'easterly." "Aye aye, sir! Bosun! Pipe 'Stations For Wearing Ship'!" Lewrie paced to the leeward bulwarks to study the ocean where they meant to go as the fresh bustle broke out round his ears. With the heavy night-glass to his eye once more, he saw grey-black sea and a few white-flecked rollers, that now and again caught the faint glim of the waning moon, a complete pall of utter blackness that showed the veriest upper tier of far-off African cliffs, thin on the horizon. A complete sweep from Due South to Due North showed nothing else.
"Up mains'l and spanker, clear away the after bowlines! Brace in the after-yards! Up helm!" Langlie was bawling through his speaking-trumpet, and Proteus began to swing, to heel over as she slowed, bowsprit and jib-boom sweeping alee across the black face of the night.
The winds dead aft, now. "Clear away head bowlines, lay the headyards square! Shift over the head sheets!" Lewrie walked over to the starboard side with his telescope, looking into the stern quarter, and abeam as Proteus continued to swing, the wind now striking her on her larboard quarters. "Man the main tack and sheet! Clear away rigging! Spanker outhaul! Clear away the brails!"
There seemed to be nothing dangerous to landward. Lewrie eased his straining eye by lowering the night-glass for a second, as sudden gunfire rolled down on them from windward!
He spun about to catch the ruddy after-flash from gun muzzles, the briefly-lit spurts of whitish-grey smoke from some ship's pieces, and the pyrotechnic, spiralling yellowish embers from cartridge cloth. Distant as that gunfire was, his ears could discern the deep boomings of 24-pounders of Horatius's lower-deck artillery, the crisper barks of what he took to be HMS Stag's 12-pounders, and some light, terrier-like "yaps" from even lighter guns!
"Missing all the fun!" he heard Midshipman Grace whisper in the relative silence, once those distant guns fell silent.
"Brace up headyards, overhaul weather lifts… haul aboard!" Lt. Langlie bellowed, as the ship came rapidly back to early abeam of the winds.
"Mister Catterall," Lewrie called down in the tumult. "Man the starboard battery. Excess hands to chock trucks and snug the run-out tackles, then re-join their mates!"
"Aye aye, sir!"
"Steady out bowlines, haul taut the weather trusses, braces, and lifts!" Lt. Langlie concluded, at last. "Clear away on deck, there!"
They were about, bearing off the night wind to the Nor'east, and, by the sound of the hull, making a goodly way, again, well clear of the ships of their convoy, now fleeing North in no particular order, with, as Lewrie could espy, the sluggard Festival and HMS Grafton now ahead of them all.
"Thankee, Mister Langlie, well done," Lewrie took time to say as he took one last, long sweep of the sea to the East and Sou'east, but was drawn back to larboard by a new storm of gunfire, sounding as if Horatius had spotted something and had loosed an entire two-deck broadside at it.
"Deck, there!" a lookout atop the mizen shouted down. "Black ship astern the starboard quarter, close in!"
"Up helm, Mister Langlie! Stand by, the starboard battery, and be ready to engage, short range!" Lewrie cried, whirling about, again. "Get her bows down and-!"
But, it was too late. Somehow, a ship had sneaked up on them, all her lights extinguished, perhaps with her sails sooted, or so old that dark tan, weathered canvas would not reflect enought light to see her by! Even as the wheel was put hard-over, more gunfire split the night! Until the very moment that her guns lit off, no one on deck could have spotted her, not the night lookouts normally posted at the bulwarks, not the watch officers, not even Lewrie, for all his urgent peering! He froze, caught, like his frigate, with his breeches down, and there was nothing else to do but stand and take it!
BAM-BAM-BAM! Eight guns hammered out a slow, metronomic broadside as the hostile ship crossed Proteus's stern, serving her a vicious rake, by the size of the muzzle blasts at a range of about two cables! Round-shot screamed or moaned, the howling rising in tone as they lashed towards them. Then came the crashing noises, the sound of timbers being smashed with the parrot "Rawrk!" of rivened wood, the shattering of glass sash-windows a few feet below the taffrails as the round-shot pierced through Lewrie's great-cabins to bowl, richochet, and carom past where the temporary partitions that normally shielded his privacy had stood, down the gun-deck among sailors standing by their pieces, shattering truck-carriages, glancing off pristine white-sanded decks, thudding into the mizen-mast trunk, sparking off gun tubes with deep, bell-like Bongs!, and raising a cloud of splintered wood flying like terrified pigeons into flesh!
Eight guns… corvette! Lewrie's panicky brain told him as he stood stiff-legged, almost unable to move, to think of much more; She shot her bolt! Minute and a half t're-load. Good as our Navy?
There was a great pall of spent powder smoke astern, the hint of masts and sails above it, and the fore end of a warship emerging from behind it, sailing what looked to be Nor'westerly.
"Belay the last helm order!" Lewrie shouted, forcing himself to motion, seething with sudden rage for being caught so flat-footed, so stupidly, and with shame for letting it happen, to him, to his ship! "Put yer helm down, steer Due North!"
Might open us to another rake, but, do we get a bit off from her… / he thought. Open the range, duck into the gloom, and hope the French corvette- for what else could it be?-lost sight of them for a moment. The wind was from the West, and the corvette was close-hauled, steering no better than Nor'-Nor'west, six points off of the wind, and obviously trying to get after the convoy and take at least one prize. With a relatively clean bottom and "all plain sail" aloft, she might attain nine or ten knots, slightly better than what Proteus was making, Lewrie's senses told him. They could not hope to surge up abeam of her to swat the corvette with their heavier broadside, but… what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander!
"Mister Langlie, you still with us? " Lewrie called out. "Aye, sir. Still here," came a reassuringly firm reply.
"Good. I want that saucy bastard! Free the last of the night reefs from the t'gallants, let fall and sheet home the royals, and let the main course stay full, fire hazard bedamned," Lewrie schemed aloud. "That Frenchman's after an Indiaman, hard on the wind, most-like, and should be about… there," he said, pointing out into the darkness off the larboard quarters. "Perhaps three or four cables off. With luck, we may be able to out-reach her and tack 'cross her bows, then serve her a bow-rake!"
Taunt me, will ye? Lewrie thought, in fury to be fired upon by a lighter warship, one that usually would shy away from action with a frigate… if the Frenchman had not mistaken Proteus for a Sloop of War or gun-brig, then his feat of tweaking the "Bloodies' " noses with such daring could get him dined-out for years.
"With a knot or two more in-hand…" Lewrie began to say, but a fresh series of explosions split the night; another eight bursts of hot, white powder smoke, bright amber juts from muzzles, and showers of embers! "There she is!"
The corvette was, as he'd speculated, about three cables astern and farther up to windward than before. At that range, in the gloom, the Frenchman's new broadside was more of a threat than a killing blow. Reverting to the usual French Navy practice, these balls were fired at full elevation, on the up-roll, meant to dis-mast and cripple Proteus, not hull her, forcing her to fall away Eastward and astern to let the corvette get on with her depredations without further interference.
Lewrie involuntarily flinched into his coat as the round iron shot bowled overhead, ahead, and astern in a hopeful spread, but all of them clean misses, this time. And, by firing that broadside, "M'sieur Frog" had given away his best weapon… his location and the direction of his course. He was still close-hauled, bound Nor'-Nor'west.
"Signal rockets, Mister Langlie," Lewrie snapped. "Let Grafton and the others know there's a wolf 'mongst the sheep, and carry on."
"Aye aye, sir."
Swivel-guns on the midships larboard gangway bulwarks were made ready by the few brace-tenders and waisters not part of the gun crews below on the main deck. Four yellow-white rockets flung themselves to the skies with sulfurous whooshes, slanting out over the dark sea that lay to the West, creating brief golden sparkles and fire-glades on the waters… faintly illuminating their foe, as well. Most-hearteningly revealing a frigate off to the West, as well, one which flew the Red Ensign of the Royal Navy, which looked to be sailing Due North or one point alee, a little ahead of Proteus and in a prime position to haul her wind and fall down to counter the French corvette, too!
"Mister Catterall!" Lewrie shouted down to the deck below him. "Chock and check, starboard, and be ready to engage the Frog corvette off our larboard quarters when we wheel up to windward!"
In the last lingering glimmer of the signal rockets, Lewrie had time for a look into the waist, and was appalled. The 12-pounder gun nearest to the larboard ladderway sat on a shattered truck-carriage at a crippled angle, and there were two bodies beside it, in the awkward sprawls of the dead that could be mistaken for piles of old clothes! Four more corpses had been laid out round the trunk of the main mast, the broad pools of spilt blood glittering evilly in the light of the battle lanthorns. Even as he watched, Mr. Hodson's loblolly boys were bearing a gasping wounded man to the main hatchway ladders on a mess-table for a stretcher, a sailor so quilled with finger-thick splinters he more-resembled a hedgehog! A bit farther forward, another gun had not only been dis-mounted, but had been struck so hard with a cannon ball that a large divot had been taken from its thick breech!
Thirteen guns left? No, Lewrie fumed to himself; Ten, more-like, for God knows what happened to the ones in my cabins, aft!
"All sail set, sir, ready to go about," Lt. Langlie reported. "Begin, Mister Langlie," Lewrie ordered, tight-lipped. "Mister Catterall, we're bearing up! Fire as you bear!"
"Stations for stays! Quartermasters, put your helm down!" Proteus was now sailing at nearly ten knots, her bottom was as clean and swift as could be expected, so recently after a re-coppering, and her turn up towards the wind was quick. Leaving that to Langlie, Lewrie went to the larboard, soon-to-be engaged, side, gripping at the cap-rails and peering wide-eyed into the night, and, yes!, there she was, four cables off, but making a goodly way, her location revealed by the creaming white swash of her wake and bow-wave! Lt. Catterall's gunners groaned, grunted, and cursed as they levered their loaded guns about to point so far aft in the gun-ports, lifting, bodily shifting the rears of both gun and carriage to the right, heaving on the run-out tackle and breeching tackle so, when fired, those monsters didn't slew about and crush their tenders, or snap free. At this angle, the guns' right-hand second re-enforcing rings were out the ports, the trunnions, upon recoil, might barely clear the bulwarks. The gun-captains urged them on with shouts and fists, blows un-noticed by the sweating tars, for all of them, just as much as Lewrie, craved at least one broadside for revenge… for pay-back! And, to prove to the world, and to themselves, that they could give as good as they got.
"Ready…!" Lt. Catterall was bellowing, stepping well clear of his charges, the crews gathering well away from the possible result of recoil, too, each gun-captain standing with one fist in the air, with the triggering lanyards to the cocked flintlock strikers taut in the other. "Well, damme!" Catterall barked, frustrated.
As Proteus came up on the wind, as waisters and tenders braced her sails and yards up sharper, she began to wallow as if sailing with the wind nearly right-aft on a long-scending following sea. Lewrie looked to the helm, of a mind to curse the four helmsmen on the double wheel for the worst sort of lubbers, to see them heaving away, making the spokes blur… first to helm down, then to helm up!
"Steady her, dammit!" Lewrie bawled. "Thus!" he snapped, using his right hand to indicate the best course. By the light of the blue fusee at the main-mast top, he could see the commissioning pendant, so why couldn't they, for God's sake? "Steady on!"
She did steady up, though with a manic effort on her helm; she came to a constant course, at last. "As you bear… fire!" came the eager and relieved shriek from Lt. Catterall, and the 12-pounders began to bellow! Lewrie turned back to watch the corvette, picking her up by her frothing wake along her water-line, again, as the first round-shot was fired. There! A tall feather of water leaping up under her bows, a second about amidships of her length, a "short," but close enough to graze up and hit her 'twixt wind and water! Her forecourse twitched as a ball punched right through it; there came a faint "Rrawk!" from a direct hit into her scantlings or timbers; he saw her foremast shiver from top to trunk, vibrating like a harpsichordist's tuning-fork as a ball struck it! Another feather of spray from a ball that just barely cleared her starboard quarter, another close-aboard her after thirds, and caromed off her at a shallow angle, ripping side planking to bits!
Proteus began to wallow, again, bowsprit and jib-boom swinging and hunting left and right in wide and lazy yawings, with the convoy's stern lanthorns, now faint and far-off glows, to track by.
"Dammit to Holy Hell, what…?" Lewrie roared, about ready to strangle someone.
"No helm, sir!" Quartermaster Austen shouted back. "No helm!"
"Christ shit on a biscuit," Lewrie muttered. "See to it, Mister Langlie!" he shouted back, though fearing the worst. That stern-rake surely had blown away steering tackle, smashed into the tiller-flat or the rudder, itself! Could relieving tackle be rigged and re-roved… else, Proteus would go from warship to drifting hulk in a twinkling. A helpless hulk, at the mercy of a pitiless Frenchman's guns!
The last gun in the larboard battery erupted, even though a hit was out of the question as Proteus fell off the wind. Only nine had fired, by Lewrie's count… even worse than he'd feared. On this wind and without steering, Proteus could do nothing but slump shoreward, her stern and weakened gun battery open to the foe.
Lewrie turned back to peer after the French corvette. Her wake still gave her position away, but she seemed farther away, not quite as long as she'd been before, perhaps, that creaming froth too short for a ship within four cables, he speculated. There came a bellowing up to windward, a series of gun flashes that revealed HMS Stag, which was on a course of about Nor'east, now, sailing to interpose herself between the convoy and the intruder. Moments later, far-distant HMS Horatius lit up the seas to the West with another full broadside of her own at something beyond her, silhouetting herself for several long seconds.
"Deck, there!" a main-mast lookout shouted down. "Th' enemy's goin' about! Tackin'! Two point off th' larb'rd quar-ter!"
"Thank God for small mercies," Lewrie whispered, no matter how ignominious it was to be "rescued" by a sister ship. It felt much like playing the role of a breeding bull being saved from the terror of a vicious, marauding terrier by the arrival of a cow from his own herd!
Sure, I'll never hear the end of it, Lewrie bemoaned.
"Pardon, sir," Lt. Langlie said, coming to his side and tapping the brim of his hat in salute. "The Bosun's Mate has been below, with the Carpenter, Mister Garroway. Mister Towpenny reports that all the steering tackle is taut and sound, with no shot holes near the tiller head. He fears 'tis the rudder itself, sir." "Mast-head!" Lewrie barked aloft. "Where away that corvette, now?" "One point off th' larb'rd quar-ter, six cable'r more, sir!" an anonymous cry came back. "Might jis' be past Stays, an' bound to th' Sou'west! Breakin' away, looks like, sir! Made a big, frothy patch!"
"Very well!" Lewrie shouted, then turned to his First Officer. "In that case, get the way off her, 'fore we rip what little's left clean off, Mister Langlie. Bosun and Carpenter to the quarterdeck at once, and I'll have a battle lanthorn fetched with 'em. Order Mister Catterall to secure his guns, and stand ready to assist where he can." "Aye, sir."
When a ship tacked, she slowed, wheeled 90 degrees or more, created a large patch of disturbed water, and fell off the wind for a spell before firming up on a new course; that was what the lookout had seen, that pale phosphorescent half-acre of foam of a ship gone about, daunted from her desires by the presence of two frigates, and unready to trust her luck against the second one. This brief fight was over.
As the guns were levered back to right angles to the hull, and swabbed clean, tompioned, and bowsed to the bulwarks, as freed sailors went aloft to take in the royals and t'gallants, and once more reduce the tops'ls, Lewrie, Mr. Towpenny, and Mr. Garroway went aft with the lanthorn and a coil of light rope to inspect the rudder.
"Sonofabitch… sorry, sir," Towpenny gasped as the lanthorn bobbed, dangled, and swung, lowered halfway to the waterline under the frigate's counter. "No wonder she's yawin' like she's drunk as Davy's Sow… th' lower part o' th' main piece's swingin' like a barn door!"
"Upper stock of the main piece is nigh shot clean through, sir," the Carpenter also marvelled, " 'tween the second and third pintles and gudgeons, and, I suspect the lowermost's been torn completely away."
"Else she'd not sway like that, aye," Mr. Towpenny spat. "Fir baulks t'th' trailin' edge has been shot off, too. Hangin' on by less than a fingernail, she is, sir." He shifted the lanthorn lower, and then slowly raised it, bumping up along the sternpost. "Ah, 'tis bad. Horrid bad, that," Towpenny sorrowfully commented with a wince, and a sucking hiss. "Nigh shot through 'twixt the second an' third pintles, an' both fourth an' fifth torn free, too, sir. An' wot's left o' th' sternpost below th' waterline's anybody's guess. Bronze gudgeons, an' pintle arms…"
"Seasoned oak for a replacement…" Carpenter Garroway mourned. "Fir's no problem, perhaps, but… there's no oak in Africa, is there?"
"Good, dense English elm f'r sole an' back, an' wot them balls did t'th' fayed triangle strips o' th' sternpost an' rudder, both…" Mr. Towpenny added.
"Could it be 'fished,' like a broken yardarm, Mister Towpenny?" Lewrie hopefully enquired, ready to all but cross his fingers behind his back. "Some vertical iron strips, bolted through, 'stead of fore-and-aft strapping like the tiller head?"
"Might could try, Cap'm, but I'd not trust it in anythin' more than calm seas," Towpenny said with a sad sigh. "Do it get boist'rous, th' rollin' gits too heavy, she might snap like a fresh carrot, an' then where'd we be, sir? Nossir, we need a whole new main piece."
"Any other wood besides English oak that might serve?" Lewrie asked him. Towpenny hoisted the lanthorn up to the taffrails, with a distant look on his grizzled face, waiting 'til the lamp was in-board before he spoke.
"Mahogany or teak, sir," Towpenny speculated. " 'Tis dense an' stiff enough, but th' findin'o' such, long an' broad enough… an' seasoned enough, not green, wellsir. That'd be a real poser, Cap'm."
"Damn!" Lewrie spat, clapping his hands behind his back, pacing forward and away. There were Cuban-built Spanish ships fashioned from truck to keel of mahogany, and the envy of anyone who captured them, for they were incredibly strong and long-lasting. He'd seen merchant vessels in the Far East, "country ships" in the local trade, made from teak, and they bore reputations for strength, too, but… India was a long way off, and without a rudder, they'd never get there to find the material necessary to fashion a new rudder! And, Lewrie rather doubted there were any Spaniards still in the Far East trade, who might put in at Cape Town and just happen to have a spare rudder gathering cob-webs in their bosuns' lockers!
He spun back around. "I take it we've not enough seasoned oak of the proper size to fashion a new'un, either, Mister Towpenny?"
"Nossir, we've not," the Bosun's Mate replied, after sharing a quick, silent conference with the Carpenter. "Nothin' thick or long enough t'make new, Cap m.
"Well, damn my eyes," Lewrie growled.
One good point, he thought, taking what wee scrap of fortune he could from raw-fortune; 'thout a rudder, surely to God, we'll not have t'go on to Bombay or Canton in Sir Tobias-bloody- Treghues 's company!
Assuming they survived 'til dawn, for Lewrie was reminded that Proteus, with the way now almost completely off her to save what was left of her shattered rudder, was still prey to the West wind and the Eastward-setting current. Mr. Winwood had thought them about twenty sea-miles offshore when the action had begun, and they had worn away to leeward and steered Nor'east for a time before coming back to Due North to follow the convoy, which might have resulted in their losing a mile or better shoreward… a high-cliffed, rocky shore where the bottom rose up steeply and quickly, and the waves crashed with a fury, even on the best days. There would be no chance to come to anchor as they drifted ashore with the sea-bottom so far below.
Neither could they come up to the wind close enough to attempt a tack, or even fetch-to, for God's sake! Such a swing might rip the tatters right off the sternpost. Besides, it took a sound rudder for fetching-to, to maintain her head when the fore-and-aft sails and the back-braced sails on the yards countered each other in a constantly-shifting balancing act! Are we fucked, or what? Lewrie miserably thought. "Mister Langlie," Lewrie called out. Aye, sir?
"I think it's time we fired some more of those signal rockets," Lewrie said, admitting to himself that he could think of nothing else to do, for once. "What is the number to convey 'Need Assistance'?" "Five at once, sir," Lt. Langlie quickly replied.
"Make up a sea-anchor, get it over the side; and we'll hope for the best, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said, glad that no one could see him blushing with embarrassment in the dark. At once, sir.
About a half-hour later, HMS Stag came looming up in the gloom, surging alongside under reduced sail, but still going a lot faster than Proteus, within a long musket shot of her larboard, seaward, beam.
"Hoy, Proteus!" Capt. Philpott cried through a brass speaking trumpet. "You there, Captain Lewrie? Something amiss, is there?"
"Hoy, Captain Philpott!" Lewrie shouted back. "I'm still here, but we've a wee problem with our rudder. Shot halfway off!"
"That's what happens when you let a bad'un sneak up and spank you on the arse, aye!" Philpott cried, sounding like he was chortling.
God, I didn't know how much I despise him, 'til now! Lewrie took a moment to think.
"Do you request a tow, Lewrie?" Philpott offered.
"Aye… we need a tow into harbour, Philpott!" Lewrie shouted, figuring that if Philpott would drop the honourifics, he would, too, no matter did he outrank him on the Captain's List.
"Be ready when we come round, again, sir!" Philpott ordered. "I'll fetch-to off your bows, do you reduce to bare poles, and lower a boat to transfer the towing cable. Your cable, or mine, ha ha? "
"I will supply!" Lewrie replied.
"Good-ho! Mind, Lewrie… towing you in, I'll not demand that you fly my flag over yours, as my 'prize'!"
Choke on it, an' damn yer sense of humour, ye bastard! Lewrie furiously thought, wondering if it could get any more humiliating.
After a moment, Lewrie took evil glee in the comforting thought that whilst Proteus swung to her anchors at Cape Town, making repairs, it would be Philpott who would have the utter delight in accompanying Grafton and Horatius 'cross the Indian Ocean, with not a jot of shore liberty… and Lewrie would have free access to the Cape, "the tavern of the seas"!
Do I thank that Frenchman for that? Lewrie wondered; Mine arse on a bandbox if I will!