Havoc`s Sword

take a larger part in the developing battle, but obedient as always.

'And Mister Langlie…' Lewrie added, arresting the man in mid-stride, 'Once we've a goodly way on, you may beat to Quarters.'

'Aye aye, sir!' Langlie said back, with much more enthusiasm.

'Now we'll see what this new-hatched American Navy is made of,' Lewrie muttered to himself, busy with his telescope, 'indeed.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Cannon fire erupted to their starboard side, an ominous punctuation to the long- rolling drums and the urgent fifes summoning sailors from below, as Sumter and the French brig o' war began to trade shots. Mr. James Peel, drawn to the quarterdeck as well by their martial preparations, had learned enough by then to ask permission to ascend a larboard ladder before clumping up into the open air. Lewrie took scant note of his arrival, a brief smirk crossing his lips at the thought of Mr. Peel being driven to the deck, whether he wished to go or not. In action, there would be no sulking in his canvas-walled cabin, for partitions and bed-cot would have to come down to give gun crews room in which to serve their 12-pounder pieces aft. It was come up or get trampled.

Lewrie looked down into the ship's waist, spotting the landsmen, idlers, and waisters who were lumbering his furnishings and chests down the companionways to the orlop. There went his own sea-chest, already locked. Peel's, however, was shut but not locked, with shirt cuffs or sock ends showing under the lid; worse than a midshipman's chest… all on top and nothing handy, Lewrie found cause to snicker. A moment later, and here came Aspinall, clutching a sea-bag filled with his pantry things and hobby things, and Toulon cradled in one arm and none too happy about it.

'We'll not take part, Captain Lewrie?' Peel asked, after he had himself a good look about. 'Not too active a part, I trust? Ye know what Mister Pelham'd…'

'I intend to allow the Yankees their due honours, Mister Peel,' Lewrie told him. 'The merchantmen are theirs to reclaim, after all.'

'Thank Christ!' Peel muttered, sounding immensely relieved; for the moment, at least. ' 'Tis bad enough we're even here, d'ye…'

'I shan't tread on their pride, either, Mister Peel. I'll let 'em learn to toddle on their own. 'Til they look as if they've bitten off more than they can chew, then we'll wade in, if we must.'

'I was afraid you'd say that,' Peel muttered half to himself.

'For now, we're haring after yonder prize schooners, d'ye see, Mister Peel?' Lewrie pointed out, handing him the telescope. 'So they don't break free whilst the men o' war slug it out.'

'Excuse me, Captain sir,' Midshipman Grace said, coming up and knuckling his forehead in salute, his waist- coat and coat sleeves wet right through, 'but the last cast of the log reads eleven and a quarter knots, sir! She flies like a Cambridge coach, this morning, sir!'

'Damme if she doesn't!' Lewrie said, beaming with pride at his frigate's fine turn of speed. 'She's bored, and hungry today, Mister Grace. Good ships are like fine, blooded horses. They go stale, do you keep 'em reined back. Our Proteus knows when a fight's in the offing. Like a good warhorse, she wants a part in it.'

'And bless her for her spirit, sir!' Grace eagerly agreed.

'I'll never understand you sailormen,' Peel grumpily confessed after Grace had gone back to his place in the after-guard. 'What mystifying language you use, what superstitions about ships' souls…'

'We're a contrary lot,' Lewrie allowed in all good humour as he watched Sumter and the French brig o' war engaging.

'One would think Mister Jonathan Swift used your sort for caricatures when he wrote Gulliver's Travels,' Peel harumphed further.

'Not everyone peels their boiled eggs from the pointy end, do you mean to say, Mister Peel?' Lewrie pretended to find inexplicable. 'Why, I never heard the like, tsk tsk!'

'Oh, what's the use?' Peel groaned, half under his breath again.

'Damme, but they're good shots, our Yankees!' Lewrie exclaimed as Sumter loosed her entire broadside on the French warship at a range of about one cable. 'Ev'ry ball 'twixt wind and water, by God.'

The French were replying, though with a much weaker battery, it appeared. Lewrie could detect deep bellows from some 12-pounders mingled with the sharper barks of smaller guns among the French response. Even at such close range, the French were firing high at masts, spars, and sails, as they usually did, to cripple a foe before deciding whether to close or scamper off.

'French men o' war, Mister Peel!' Lewrie enthused, slapping his palms together with joy. 'Manned by French Navy men, for certain.'

'How can you deduce that, Captain Lewrie?' Peel asked.

'Privateersmen would never offer battle, unless you trapped 'em in a corner,' Lewrie explained quickly. 'They have too much financial stake in their own vessels, and tomorrow is another day. Run without shame today, take more prizes next time. Privateersmen can't risk damage, either. Repairs come out of their pockets, and time spent in dockyard is lost money, too.'

'Whereas naval types know their government will foot the bill?' Peel sardonically supposed. 'And they get paid, regardless?'

'Exactly,' Lewrie said, laughing briefly. 'And look you. They fire high, French Navy fashion, t'make their opponent too slow so they can get away, instead of goin' for a quick kill. There's professional Frog officers over yonder who've been schooled in their tactics maybe too long and too well. But damme, piss-poor gunners.'

Sure enough, Sumter got off a second broadside, well-aimed and laid, long before the French could. Lewrie turned and glared at Peel, pointing at his telescope in silent, urgent demand, and Peel surrendered it, albeit in sullen bad grace, then wandered about the deck in search of a replacement, headed aft towards the binnacle racks.

The second French broadside was delayed, as the brig o' war was instantly pocked with fresh shot-holes. Chunks of gunwale and bulwark timber went flying in clouds of smoke, dust, and splinters, and the brig shuddered as if suffering the ague, sending sympathetic shivers aloft that almost spilled wind from her sails! The answering broadside, when it did come, wasn't half the strength of the first, either; ragged and stuttering, and still firing high, as if their gun-captains were too panicky to shove the wooden quoins in under the breeches to lever the barrels downward. Lewrie could gleefully think the French gunners were already near that point where the choreography of gun-drill became a teeth-chattering, snot-drooling rota; just do your small part, swab quick-duck; load quick-duck; run-out while squatting in dubious safety; touch-off without offering your body as a target, and hang aiming! Get shots off, no matter where the ball went, fast as you could, and don't dare look aside at the maimed and the dead, or let yourself think, imagine…!

It happened to the best of crews, Lewrie knew, when things got desperate. And the way that Sumter's gunners were getting off three well-aimed and laid broadsides every two and a half minutes was creditable in anyone's navy.

Sumter paused in her firing as she passed down the side of the French brig, larboard side facing larboard side on opposing tacks… and then swung up to windward at the last moment, slewing a great foaming froth as she performed a radical turn. Her guns were run-out anew, smoke-dulled ebony muzzles levelled like the muskets of a firing squad.

'She'll stern-rake her, by God!' Lewrie exulted, full of admiration, and succumbing to 'battle-fever,' even if he was but a spectator and not a yardarm-to-yardarm participant for a change.

And Sumter did, her gun-captains igniting their powder charges as each piece bore directly up the French brig's stern, and at a distance little over a good musket shot. He did not need his glass to see