A King's Trade (53 page)

“What in the name o' God is that?” Lewrie yelped, like to leap out of his boots as an unholy, piercing wail arose from below.

“Ah, that'd be our bushbaby, sir,” Lt. Langlie told him with a wince of his own as the high-pitched caterwauling continued. “I wish we'd known what a racket it could make, before allowing it aboard. A member of the Lemur family, I'm now told. And able to hoot, cry, and screech half like a howler monkey, half like a human infant. Eerie!”

“Eerie,
and
irritating,” Lewrie growled, already miserable, and that damned
thing wasn't helping. “It keeps that up, it'll end up in a pie, ‘fore the
next
Dog Watch. Eerie, aye, and…ominous.”

T'Hell with this,
Lewrie thought;
suff'rin ‘ like this is what lieutenants are
for! “Mister Langlie, you have the deck ‘til the end of the Dog. I'll be below.”

“Aye, sir. I have the deck,” Langlie crisply responded.

He clattered down the larboard ladderyway to the main deck just as the bushbaby's cries set off the parrot, which began to squawk, and then scream its few English words, which consisted mostly of curses or blasphemies, which squawking frightened the other caged birds atwitter, which tumult made the goats, lambs, cattle, and piglets bleat, bawl, or squeal. And, it really couldn't be, not with
Proteus
up to windward of
Festival,
but Lewrie could almost swear that he heard a lion's roar and some baby elephant trumpets in answer!

Ain't a warship, it's a bloody Ark!
he fumed as he got near his sopping-wet Marine sentry by the doors to his great-cabins. To punctuate his escape from foul weather, there was a first flash of lightning, and a not-so-far-off roll of thunder. The storm was getting worse, and Lewrie resigned himself to a quick meal, then a whole sleepless evening on deck, sodden to the skin.

“D'ye hear, there!” came a thin cry from one of the on-deck lookouts on the quarterdeck that he had just quit. “Dark ship on th' starb'd quarter, mile'r two off! Off'cer o' th' Watch, they's…!”

“Deck, there!” the lookout atop the main mast cross-trees added with the same urgency. “Three-masted ship, four points orf th' starboard quarter! Looks t'be a
frigate!”

“Beat to Quarters, Mister Langlie!” Lewrie bellowed after he had slammed to a stop, and whirled about to swarm back to his quarterdeck. “Now!” he added, as he got to the top of the ladderway by the uselessly-empty hammock nettings. “Night signals, quick as you can, to warn the convoy. Someone lay aloft and light the fusee on the main truck!”

He jogged over to the starboard bulwarks, stoicism and a serene demeanour bedamned, to add his own eyes to the frantic search as harsh voices and bosun's calls shrilled. A curtain of heavier rain blotted out the sea for a long and frustrating minute, then…
there!
In the split-second flash of another lightning bolt, several lookouts yelped discovery, just as the Marine drummer began a long roll, and the ship began to drum as well to the stamping of running feet, inspiring that bushbaby to even louder cries.

The lightning bolt struck up to windward in the East-Sou'east, a sizzling, actinic blue and writhing fork of fire that silhouetted a lean three-masted ship so thoroughly that her sails momentarily turned ghostly white.

Not a mile off, more like three,
Lewrie thought with a shuddery feeling of
relief, and fear, under his heart;
Big enough a bugger, but we just may have enough time, thank God!

“Topmen aloft, Mister Langlie,” Lewrie said over his shoulder, sure that the reliable First Officer would be nearby. “Trice up, and lay out t'loose tops'ls,
with
‘quick-savers,' then shake out the main course to the third reefs. Let's get some speed in hand!”

A second, closer, lightning flash lit up the enemy warship, letting them all see that she was flying full tops'ls, a full fore course and main course, and what looked to be three-reefed t'gallants, along with almost her full set of heads'ls.

“How the Devil did she
find
us in all this, sir?” Langlie asked in puzzlement, once the requisite orders had been passed, and the crew had thrown themselves into well-drilled action.

“Inshore of us, round dusk,” Lewrie rasped, shrugging his own puzzlement. “Stalked us as the weather made up in late afternoon, on the front edge of the storm, perhaps? Came closer as the visibility reduced, figuring the convoy would hold the same course all day and all night. Second lookout aloft, Mister Langlie, on the mizen. The last time we met these shits, they were working in pairs. He's t'keep his eyes peeled astern, so we don't get buggered a
second
time.”

“Aye, sir!”

Even as the peal of thunder from the last lightning strike was dying like a titanic game of bowls, a third bolt far to the South lit up the sea. A quick measurement against
Proteus
's stays and stanchions told Lewrie that the enemy ship had only out-footed them a trifle, and he frowned and pursed his lips in furious scheming.

The convoy had been making about four or five knots in typical Indiaman night fashion, but were now spreading more sail, and might be up to six knots, by now. The enemy frigate
might
have two knots more in-hand, and could catch them up on her present course, eventually…but—another lightning flash!— she seemed to be steering with the gusting, rising winds directly astern, not hauling off a point to fall down on them, not yet. As if the French captain over there
wished
to dash in and wade into the merchantmen, but might plan to race up abeam of the starboard column before hauling his wind. To alter course two points to the West would put the wind fine on her larboard quarter, so…why hadn't her captain already done so? That could boost her rate of advance two more knots, easily, and
still
place her alongside that starboard column of Indiamen without losing the weather gage.

Lewrie swivelled about to peer forward, over
Proteus
's bows, to see what he could espy of the convoy whose safety he was supposed to be guarding. He
could still make out the dark bulk of
Festival
and a pair of taffrail lanthorns, now with a fusee alit atop her main mast. Other tiny glims of amber oil or blue pyrotechnic lights looked all a'gaggle, in no particular order as individual merchant masters swooped about to either flank to put the storm's wind fine on
their
quarters so freshly-spread sail could snap and strain completely full to give them just a knot or two more speed, free of the wind-shadows cast by the Indiamen behind them, up to weather. It was like peering through a filthy pane of pebbly glass, in a driving night rain, to try and count the number of cigar smokers on a hill a mile off.

Small red-amber-yellow signal rockets went soaring up, from the lead ships or HMS
Jamaica
Lewrie surmised, too many to count, or make a conjecture as to what signal Capt. Leatherwood's 64-gunner had meant to convey. Lewrie thought that Leatherwood was a sensible sort; once he'd seen
Proteus
's alert rockets, relayed to him by even more rockets, that doughty fellow
should
be trying to order all ships to bear off to the West, wind fine on their quarters to try and outrun the French ‘til the storm passed, or the dawn came. With any luck, the worst of the storm was still to come, and the convoy could break away as visibility shrank to nothing, never to be found again. HMS
Jamaica
should also be coming about to deal with the threat out of the East-Sou'east and Sou'east, to bolster
Proteus
and daunt the French, but Lewrie saw no sign of that, either. And, on these winds, and butting against the making seas, HMS
Jamaica,
already admitted to be a slow sailer, would make but a snail's progress, steering Full And By.
No help there,
Lewrie sourly thought;
And, in this gloom, one of the Indiamen pretendin' t'be a seventy-four won't work worth a tinker's dam, either … if it ever did. If Froggie didn't see through it all along! Just thankee Jesus!

“A point to starboard, Mister Langlie,” Lewrie ordered after he swung back about to catch another eye-blink lightning flash of the foe. “Crowd her a little, and let's see what ‘Jean Crapaud' will do.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Langlie replied, sounding all business-like, now that the initial shock had worn off.

“And somebody strangle that damn' bushbaby,” Lewrie griped as the beast began a new “aria.” He peered upwards in satisfaction to note that his frigate now sported more sail, that the fusee was lit and burning, and that the topmen were already shuffling inwards along the foot-ropes to the cross-trees and tops.

“Guns manned and ready, sir!” Lt. Catterall reported from below in the waist, in his usual eager bawl. “The ship is at Quarters!”

“Very well, Mister Catterall!” Lewrie called back, stepping up to the hammock nettings, which were once more stuffed with the sailors' rolled up
bedding and hammocks, not only on the quarterdeck, but along the bulwarks, as well. Perhaps not as tightly-rolled as they might be to pass through the ring-measure each morning in the crew's haste, but there was now some level of protection for waisters and brace-tenders on the gangways, the Marines prepared to volley behind the thick oaken bulwarks, and for the vital command group on the quarterdeck. Lewrie had been so absorbed with his own concerns that he hadn't paid attention to the slams, bangs, and thuds of a warship being stripped for action. The red glows of battle-lanthorns between the guns, and the weak sparks of lengths of slow-match, coiled about the tubs of swab-water that would be used to douse any lingering embers in gun barrels before re-loading, gave him a momentary reassurance that, this time, they'd be ready for whatever came at them, from whichever quarter. And if the rain slicked the flints so they did not spark-off the igniting quills stuck down through the touch-holes to the powder bags, the slow-match could be jammed onto them, and his artillery most likely would still fire.

A stillness fell over the frigate, now that the din of preparation was over, and the only sounds to be heard were the keening of the wind in the miles of rigging, and the snuffly thunder of the hull that butted its bows through the long-rolling, white-flecked, waves; that, and the crack and rumble from the storm, of course.

“The French, out yonder!” Lewrie bellowed down to his crew, his hands gripping the cap-rails of the hammock nettings. “Mean to screw up their courage, and try a second time to finish what failed, before! They might've given us a
little
dusting, then…but, now it's
their
turn t'taste iron! If they dare! Are ye ready t'kill some Frenchmen, lads? Ye ready t'get some of your own back?”

The snarling, vengeful cheer that arose told him all he wished to know of the mettle of his crew. Lewrie looked over towards the foe to judge her distance, and how long they had before they came to grips.

“Fiddler, fifer! Desmond! Give us a tune, a lively one!” he roared, and the ship's finest musicians got with the Marine drummer, and launched into “The Stool of Repentance,” then “Lord Dunmore”!

“Yah sword an' pistols, Cap'm,” Cox'n Andrews said at his side, and helped him jam his pair of double-barreled Mantons into pockets in his uniform coat, beneath the tarpaulin foul-weather coat, where their primings might stay dry. “Cats is below on th' orlop with Aspinall, sah, an' he said t'send ya dis,” Andrews added, once he'd also helped Lewrie strap on his hanger. Andrews held out a large tin mug of soup and stew combined, with some stale, toasted rolls crumbled up and sopping juices in it. A cheap, older horn spoon jutted upwards
from one side, both mug and spoon no loss if Lewrie had to throw them overside or let them fall to the deck to get trampled.

“Thankee, Andrews,” Lewrie said, looking him square in the eyes. “And, give me thanks to Aspinall, should you see him first when this is done. And, I expect t'see your ugly phyz amongst the living, then, hear me? Have a care with yourself.”

“An' don' ya go bein' too bold yahself, sah,” Andrews replied with a shrug and a sketchy smile. “Beggin' ya pahd'n fo' sayin' such, Cap'm Lewrie, sah.” Andrews knuckled his forehead in salute, then he was off along the weather gangway with both Lewrie's breech-loading Ferguson rifle and the Girandoni air rifle he'd gotten in New Orleans for a little “man-hunting” should the French come within near shot.

“Cast of the log, Mister Langlie,” Lewrie snapped, coming back to proper concern. Lightning flash, and a crash of thunder! Lewrie snapped his attention to the French frigate, the sea astern, the sea abeam, for all that he could glean from that finger-snap of revelation.

Might be as fast as she is, or soon will be,
he told himself;
I could stay ahead of her a bit, block her direct approach. Looked t'be no more than a mile off our starboard quarter, that time. Do I slow, let her rush up abeam?

Were
Proteus
a bit slower over the ground, it might be possible to get to grips quicker, then wheel a point or two more to starboard, and
force
the enemy frigate to accept battle, broadside to broadside.

Or, the bugger ducks under our stern and goes for the merchantmen,
Lewrie thought with a scowl;
shoots right up our transom, again, then dashes past with the wind right up his own arse, and I'd have to wear t'catch him up. Have the
weather
gage, but… No. By the time we got worn about, we'd be lucky to
spot
her again in all this. Chase the gun flashes half the night, same as we did before.

Proteus
was out on the starboard quarter of the convoy, after her turn up more Northerly. And the convoy was doing something right, wearing off slowly and cautiously more Westerly, out into the open Atlantic. With their much smaller civilian crews, and so much sail, the Indiamen were taking a hell of a risk of dismasting to alter course, even so slightly, to take the hard wind on their larboard quarters; a single mistake, and one of them could end up lying crippled, and lost to the French. To broach, get shoved on their beam-ends … would be even worse, for then they'd be lost to the sea, and the storm!