would soon serve would be infinitely better than the cheese, sausages, and vin ordinaire carried aboard the schooner in a palmetto hamper. He was waving, even if the schooner was nearly a mile or more off, all of them…?
'Mon Dieu!' Captain Desplan suddenly exclaimed, grunting as if suddenly punched in the abdomen. 'M'sieur Choundas, the semaphore, it sends the alarm signal. What…'
Choundas slowly turned to watch the long arms of the semaphore tower swish, pause, then swish to a new bit of its message; an urgent signal that repeated-Enemy In Sight!
'Capitaine Desplan,' Choundas growled of a sudden, stamping the ferrule of his cane on the deck, 'get this ship underway, at once. If you have to cut your anchor cables, do it! Vite, vite! Before you lose her. The 'Bloodies' are paying us a visit!'
Ponderously, Choundas turned to look out to sea once more; out beyond the canted masts of Hainaut's onrushing schooner. He could see a pall of sour grey-brown smoke a few miles away, could see the tops'ls and courses of a three-masted ship headed South, see a smaller ship to the left of the smoke pall that was turning to run, one that would be a prize capture before the half-hour glass would turn.
Sudden boiling rage surged up his throat, made him wish to howl and jibber at the slackness, the inattention of the signal stations up the coast, the idle, work-a-day shamblers pretending to maintain watch!
And where was that commandeered schooner he had posted to the leeward coast of Basse-Terre to guard against such a raid? If, despite his sternest warnings and implied threats, those hapless island-born Creole time-servers had decided to tuck into the lee of Pointe Allegre and fish, or go ashore for a leisurely three-hour meal, they would learn that his threats were not empty, that even close ties to Governor Hugues would not save them.
But, no-he could not, must not bellow and stamp as he wished. Le Bouclier, caught in the middle of the evolution of anchoring and taking in all sail, was already a madhouse. Her captain, mates, and senior officers already made enough noise to interrupt their matelots' work, then rush to undo all their labours of the past quarter-hour and get way on her again.
Besides, he was Guillaume Choundas, Le Hideux, the ugly monster whom all feared. One thoughtless rant, and that useful aura of terror would evaporate, leaving him recalled as just another panicky officer who'd windmilled his arms and floundered; then, people would laugh at his haplessness and his disfigurements, making him a pitiable object :: of fun with no real authority or respect. No, he could only stand by the flag lockers and taff-rail lanthorns, leaning his bad leg against them, and drum impatient fingers on the silver handle of his cane in an outward sham of calm, as if he were quickly scheming. But aflame with murderous rage. The slack captain of that guardship would pay… and this 'Bloody' anglais, too! Once this marvellous frigate got sorted out and under sail, there was still a chance to salvage things… such as his successful reputation, and his continued career!
'Helm down, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie ordered, as the struggling merchantman pressed on Westerly. 'Course, due South for a bit. Lieutenant Catterall? Rake her as you bear.'
'Aye aye, sir,' Catterall shouted back, as mystified as anyone else aboard, aghast at the idea of passing up such a rich prize, of not even firing a warning shot to force her to strike.
Proteus hauled up more to windward, sailors on the sail-tending gangways freeing braces to let the yards swing to ease the press of the wind, and the increasing heel that might angle the artillery too low.
'Open ports!' Catterall cried. 'Run out, and gun-captains, aim low!
As you bear… fire!' He slashed down his sword, though no gun had yet crossed the Dutch ship's stern, just a few breaths more and… Standing between the guns, Catterall's view was limited to the bulwarks and the open gun-ports, the cross-deck beams over his head with rowing boats stowed in chocks. To starboard, there was the gangway now full of Marines with their levelled muskets, the end of Proteus'?, main-mast course sail, the ordered tangle of the Dutch ship's mizen-mast rigging, spanker, tops'l and t'gallant, and that Batavian Republic flag that was just starting to be lowered…
Catterall glanced aft at Captain Lewrie, standing four-square by the rolled-hammock re-enforced quarterdeck rails and netting that overlooked the gun-deck. Surely, he'd call for fire to be checked, before it was too late, before… now they'd struck!
The 6-pounder bow-chaser and 24-pounder carronade mounted on the forecastle went off almost as one, a sharpish barking, instantly echoed by a titanic booming, followed by the foremost 12-pounder long-barrel gun in the starboard battery as it slammed backwards in recoil, double-shotted.
Catterall turned back to the target, even more mystified, mouth open to reduce the pummeling on his eardrums as guns closer to him lit off and hurled themselves inboard, looked up as the Marines with their 'confiscated' Yankee-made rifles chose targets and volleyed. Up above them and the gangway bulwark, rather significant chunks of timbers and gilded pieces of the Dutch merchantman's stern were soaring skyward in a cloud of gun-smoke and punched-free dirt and paint chips! Catterall heard the Dutch ship scream as her entire stern was hammered in, could hear the slamming and rending of the merchantman's guts as round-shot, langridge, and grape-shot eviscerated her innards as far forward as her foremast, snapping stout carline posts, knees, and hull timbers like so many frail toothpicks! The broadside swept past him, sternward, gusting hot, foul winds, gushing grey thunderheads of spent powder, and the quarterdeck carronades bellowing last, put paid to the foe. Catterall could hear human screams this time. Their flag was down, blown down, but the Captain was not calling the Cease Fire. Proteus wore about to the West as Catterall's gunners reloaded and ran out once more, to fire into the stricken ship along her larboard side this time, leaving him gaping open-mouthed, unable to feature such deliberate destruction!
'On the down-roll, Mister Catterall! Sink the bitch!' he heard.
'Not bad, not bad at all,' Lewrie allowed as Proteus wore about Sutherly after her second crushing broadside. They had blown her stern in shot away both rudder and transom post, then punched great holes on the waterline, where the ever-hungry sea now sucked and surged into her, remorselessly. The merchantman's mizen-mast had been sheered off belowdecks, had swivelled and fallen forward into her main- mast's rigging to drag that shot-torn assembly into ruin as well, to drape her larboard side like a funeral shroud.
'She's afire, too, sir,' Lt. Langlie pointed out, his arm extended toward her bows, where her galley fire, still smouldering under the steep-tubs and grills so soon after feeding her complement, had spilled from the brick-lined pits, catching fresh fuel alight. Hot air rippled up from below, distorted and wavering like the air over a forge. Thin skeins of smoke jetted from the gaps in her deck planks or side scantlings as if bellows-driven, with now and then a wink of tiny yellow flamelets peek-a-booing over the bulwarks.
'Saves us the trouble of stopping to light her ourselves' was the grimly satisfied reply he got from Captain Lewrie.
'She began to strike her colours, Captain Lewrie,' Peel accused. 'I don't see why you had to-'
'Damn you, sir!' Lewrie barked, turning on him. 'My word is law aboard this ship, and I'll thankee to remember it! Her flag still flew, her captain had not yielded her up, and I've no time to line my purse, with an enemy man o' war in the offing. D'ye hear me plain… sir?'
'I will be forced to report that,' Peel retorted, stung to the quick by such harsh, ungentlemanly language, such a sudden challenge.
'Damn what you report, Mister Peel!' Lewrie sneered, his hands clasped behind his back, leaning forward from the waist, his face close to Peel's, forcing him to take half a step backwards. 'We came here to inspire terror, Mister Peel… fear of us greater than any that bogeyman Choundas carries with him. In their navy, their privateers, their merchantmen, alike…
