King, Ship, and Sword

'Larboard-battery, Mister Spendlove, and it'll be a proper bow- rake this time!'

The French flagship was losing way, painfully turning alee and sagging towards Modeste's, waiting guns as Reliant came off the wind to a reciprocal course, Due South. The enemy's bows were square-on to her and the range…! Slow as all the manoeuvring had made her, Reliant would be very close this time, no more than 150 yards under her bows for the broadside.

Ruin yer digestion, aye! Lewrie thought in murderous joy, hammering his fists on the cross-deck hammock nettings to urge his gunners to take advantage of this sudden change in fortune; rip yer bloody guts out, morelike! Blow yer bloody heart out! Come on, come on!

The last of the round-shot was being rammed home; the wads were being shoved down the muzzles; quills were inserted; flintlock strikers were cocked, and trigger lines hauled taut!

'As you bear… fire!' both Spendlove and Merriman shouted.

'I think she's struck, by God!' Lt. Westcott exclaimed, opinion lost in the deafening bellows of the guns. 'Sir? Captain, sir?'

Ignore him! Lewrie told himself, eyes intent on the damage they were causing as each piece erupted in smoke, flames, and sparks, then leaped rearwards; I want gore!

Reliant sailed on past the devastation, the broadside done.

'Mister Westcott, up-helm and steer Sou'west before we tangle with Modeste.'

Their own flagship was only a cable off their larboard beam as they swung away alee of her, scampering to avoid being trampled.

'You say something, Mister Westcott?' Lewrie asked, massaging his ringing ears as if he hadn't quite heard what he'd said.

'I think she's struck, sir. Yes! There's all her colours on the way down, sir! We've beat them, sir! They've struck to us!' Lt. Westcott came close to say, to point his arm at the foe. 'Glorious!'

'Ah, well. Hmm, in that case… Mister Spendlove, Mister Merriman… stand easy!' Lewrie ordered, taking out his pocket-watch to ascertain the time, as if it was no great matter at all, although he felt sudden rage to be denied complete vengeance. He had to play-act a proper, phlegmatic sea captain!

'Deck, there!' a main-mast lookout shouted down. 'T'other frigate's struck t' Cockerel an' Pylades!'

Fourty-five minutes! Lewrie marvelled; not a whole hour, and it's done? Goddamn the cowardly…!

'Secure from Quarters, sir,' Lewrie told Westcott, who was congratulating the men of the Afterguard, the quarterdeck gun crews, and the helmsmen. 'And ready the ship's boats to take charge of the foe. Mister Simcock? Work for your Marines, t'guard the prisoners.' 'Most welcome, sir!' Simcock crowed back.

Lewrie went to one of the larboard quarterdeck carronades and clambered atop it to the bulwarks, then into the mizen stays and rat-lines so he could ascend a few feet above the deck to look things over with a glass. Cockerel and Pylades lay to either beam of the trailing French frigate, all three warships fetched-to, and boats already working between them; she looked mostly undamaged, with all her masts still standing and her sails whole. The first frigate was still wallowing and rocking, and Lewrie could see gushes of water jetting overside from her bilge pumps.

'Two frigates and a Seventy-Four, why, that has t'be worth at least fifty, sixty thousand pounds for the lot!' the Sailing Master was speculating aloud. 'Two years' pay for every Man Jack, I wager!'

'Goddamned sham sailors, you bloody, cowardly… bastards!' Lewrie muttered under his breath. 'Mine arse on a band-box, is that all the fight ye had in ye?' he said, louder. 'Over four thousand or more miles we came… for this, damn yer thin French blood?'

'Sir?' Lt. Westcott asked from below him. 'You said something?'

'I said the Frogs are a lot o' poltroons who don't have grit enough for a real fight, Mister Westcott,' Lewrie gravelled, descending from his perch. 'I s'pose we should come about and work our way under Modeste's lee.'

'Marvellous, sir!' Lt. Merriman was saying as he mounted to the quarterdeck. 'D'ye know… we've but two hands wounded, none dead? One fellow was splintered in the foremast top, and one of my gunners had his ankle broken in the recoil tackle. Bloody miraculous, what?'

'Signal from the flag, sir… our number!' Midshipman Grainger intruded with a sharp cry. ''General Chase' and 'Transport,' sir!'

'The Indiaman, too, hmm,' Mr. Caldwell, the Sailing Master, speculated further. 'That might mean another ten thousand pounds, all told. Head-and-gun money on all their soldiers, too, what?'

'She can't be more than… an hour ahead of us, sir,' Westcott said, consulting his own timepiece. 'Crack on for Pass a La Loutre, sir?'

'Aye, Mister Westcott,' Lewrie agreed, pretending to perk up in false glee… when what he wanted to do, most dearly wanted to do, was send his hands back to the guns, barge up to the nearest French ship, and finish the job, the prize-money bedamned! 'Mister Caldwell… the best, direct course for Pass a La Loutre, if you please. We've a ship to catch up 'fore dark.'

'Aye aye, sir!' the Sailing Master responded, still rubbing his hands together as he turned to the traverse board to consult a chart.

'Three cheers, lads!' Midshipman the Honourable Entwhistle was urging down in the waist as the last cannon was secured and cleaned. 'Three cheers for our good Reliant!'

'Three cheers for Captain Lewrie, huzzah!' Midshipman Houghton added. 'It's victory!'

Bloody toady! Lewrie sourly thought, squirming inside to hear that burst of cheering, hooting, and clapping in his honour. Oh, he had to recognise it, standing at the forward edge of the quarterdeck, and look down into the ship's waist, where his crew capered and danced in joy of their first battle together, and their victory. He had to doff his hat to them, nod his head, yet keep a stern demeanour. That wasn't all that hard, for anger still rumbled in him for being cheated of the ocean of French gore he so heartily desired.

'Three cheers for yourselves, men!' he shouted as the din died down a bit. 'For three rounds every two minutes, and good gunnery!'

That went down like a Christmas pudding, and pleased them right down to their toes. He envied them their jubilation.

'Now, lads… we've a last ship t'take, over yonder,' Lewrie told them, pointing Westward with his hat. 'and that'll make it a clean sweep. Are ye ready for one more?'

'Aye, sir! Aye! Let's be at em!' they shouted back.

'Then, let's be about it!' Lewrie shouted. 'Soon as we're steady on course, we'll splice the main-brace!'

'Best course will be Sou'west by West, sir,' the Sailing Master supplied as he turned away from their last cheers.

'Make it so, Mister Westcott.' Lewrie ordered. 'Sou'west by West, and crack on.'

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

And take her they did, sixteen miles from the entrance to the Mississippi, out of sight of land and any watchers from Fort Balise or the delta shoal islands. She was a converted two-decker Third Rate, sailing en flute with only half her lower-deck guns and none of her upper-deck artillery. Even before Reliant fetched up to her at Range to Random Shot, she struck her colours and reduced