sir!'
'But…' Peel was weakly forced to object, taken aback by this new, bloodthirsty aspect to a man he'd always considered competent but too… flibbertigibbet. 'The consequences, our repute…'
'Now you just contemplate the implications of that, why don't you, Mister Peel,' Lewrie continued, in a softer voice, with slyness creeping onto his face, 'while we try our metal with yon Frog frigate. Mister Langlie,' Lewrie barked, spinning away, 'shape course to stand seaward of the port with the wind a touch forrud of abeam for greater speed. I want us at close quarters with that frigate before she gets a goodly way on. She's still bows-on to the town, maybe had anchors down before being alerted.' He lifted his glass to peer hungrily at her measuring speed and distance, warily over-estimating how quickly she could cut cables and make sail, giving the French the benefit of the doubt as to how well-prepared they would be by the time Proteus was level with her. Choundas was rumoured to have come in a frigate. Was this his, under his direct command or not, her captain and officers had to be a cut above the usual jumped-up radicals, with skills gone rusty for spending too long in harbour. Lewrie hoped the enemy frigate was the one based on Guadeloupe before Choundas arrived-but he wasn't ready to wager the lives of his crew on this being the case. 'Mister Catterall, load and then secure the starboard battery,' Lewrie called to his Second Officer, 'then double-shot the larboard to the muzzles with grape, langridge, star-shot, bar-shot, and chain-shot. Hop to it, lads! We're going to skin the Monsoors alive!'
' Vite, vite, vite!' Choundas muttered under his breath, as if he could will Desplan and his crew to quicker preparation. The cables had been cut, anchors bedamned, and the bitter ends not even buoyed for later recovery. They could always take new ones from a fearful merchantman. Courses had been freed by energetic young topmen, who had slashed the gaskets away. Clew lines had been freed by men on deck, and the sails let fall on their own, not eased down. Fore course and tops'l were now laid flat aback their masts, and the jibs were fully hoisted, then drawn by human force to starboard to get their frigate's head down alee. The spanker over the after quarterdeck shivered as men of the after-guard tailed on the sheets to drag it over to starboard, as well, to force Le Bouclier's stern to walk windward and twist her more wind-abeam to work her off the town. Blocks' sheaves cried and squeaked as her main and mizen tops'l yards crept up off the rests one snail-like foot at a time, to Choundas's impatient eyes. The enemy ship was hull-up, now, dashing down upon them with a bone in her teeth, all but her main course drawing well, and that sail showing but a single reef, so far. Was Fate merciful, Choundas thought, they might brail it up to reduce the threat of fire from the sparks of her own gunnery, reducing her speed, giving his own frigate a chance!
He looked over the stern, down the long transom post, past the massive pintles and gudgeons and the wide, tapered slab of the rudder. Choundas felt a cold, bleak despair settle in his stomach, as if he'd gulped down a sorbet too quickly. Even with the rudder hard-over, the sea round its blade only barely swirled, little stronger than a spoon in a cup of coffee. A flowing tide would spin eddies greater than that!
He stood erect, shambled about to his right to lay hold of the larboard taff-rail lanthorn-post-and found a cause for sudden hope. The steeple of a church ashore was no longer pinned over the larboard cat-heads but was now roughly amidships, right over the larboard entry-port. She was moving, falling off and making way!
'Vite, vite, sacrebleu, vite!' he urgently whispered.
'What should we do, m'sieur?' the petty officer normally in command of L 'Impudente asked of his temporary, amateur captain.
'Get ready to fight, of course,' Lt. Jules Hainaut responded.
'Mon Dieu, merde alors' the petty officer almost whimpered, 'but with what, m'sieur?' He waved a hand at L'Impudente's open deck and low bulwarks, where nested a pitiful set of six 4-pounder pop-guns, the shot racks beside them holding a skimpy allotment of balls. There were iron stanchions set into the railings for swivel-guns, mere 1-pounders or 2- pounders, so light that a single man could heave them up from below-empty, at the moment, as bare as a whore's arse.
'With what we have, marinier,' Hainaut chuckled back. 'Honour demands it. Are the swivels below? Not rusted in a heap?'
'Oui… some,' the petty officer shrugged in reply.
'Shot and cartridge bags?'
'Uhm… oui, aussi. But…'
'Then fetch them up, at least four of them, if we indeed have four,' Hainaut patiently ordered, 'and place them two to each beam for now. I might wish all four on one side, later, depending. Load them, then man the deck-guns.'
The petty officer's jaw dropped; he almost dared to roll eyes in derision-did roll them, as he swung an arm at the fifteen men in the crew.
'Officeur, uhm…' Hainaut more sternly said.
'Gaston, m'sieur,' the burly man supplied.
'You have met my master, Capitaine Choundas. What do you think he would do with the Frenchmen who shied away from battle? How angry do you think that he already is? After this, he'll be looking for any one or any thing on which to work off his wrath.'
'Eu, merde!' the petty officer gasped, paling quickly. 'Oui, I see your point, m'sieur Lieutenant. To arms mes amis, to arms! Fetch up the swivel-guns, vite, vite!'
Hainaut held his amusement in check as he watched his 'crewmen' scurrying to cast off the bowsings and lashings on the deck-guns, scuttling below to fetch up swivels and powder charges, gun-tools, and more shot.
L'Impudente still stood outward on starboard tack, with the wind a bit before her beam, and with the British frigate bearing down on her like Nemesis, Hainaut thought of a sudden, recalling a scrap of classic lore that Capt. Choundas had crammed into his head whether he liked it or not. His schooner would pass out to sea a good mile before the enemy's course and his could intersect, and L'Impudente could be well out of her starboard battery's certain range. The frigate might try her eye on him, but it would be random and poorly directed, with low odds of a hit. He would be as safe as a babe in its mother's arms.
No, it was the appearance of bellicosity that was needed here, he smugly told himself. Once the frigate was off his own stern, as he held this course, he would tack L'Impudente and come about to tail her.
A few pin-prick irritations up her stern, enough to be seen and remembered by others-such hopeless bravery against such horrid odds!-and his master Capitaine Choundas could no longer deny such a plucky fellow a ship of his own, could he? Even better, Lt. Hainaut fantasised, it didn't look as if today would be a good day for the doughty Capitaine Desplan; his dashing frigate was going to be pummeled unless she got under way a lot faster, and she would barely have time to settle on a course and get her people to their battle stations before the foe was on her.
Poor, poor Navy, Hainaut more-soberly contemplated; always the butt of the joke. Not like the tales I heard, coming up, in the Royal French fleet. Not like how equal the challenge we could make, during the last war. Now… the Republic needs dashing, plucky captains to take on the Bloodies. Captains like… moi!
And if his master was slain in the battle to come (or crippled even more, to the point that he could no longer function), well, what a pity, quel dommage. If Le Bouclier lost a lieutenant or two, resulting in a shuffle from the corvettes to staff her, leaving vacancies on the other warships, his chances for advancement would be just as good.
'What is that British toast I heard?' he muttered to himself as he manned the tiller- bar alone. 'Ah! 'Here's to a bloody war, or a sickly season!
