mounted on her stout and wide gangway, went off together, stabbing hot amber and red daggers at the corvette, creating a pall of gun-smoke that drifted down on the French warship. And the corvette's sails and yards were savaged, spindly top-masts and shattered yardarms sent flying in ragged chunks, her dun-coloured sails clawed and bitten into great rents, whipping and collapsing in on themselves.
Hancock altered course in the last seconds as the two warships images overlapped, laying her beam parallel to the French ship's side, and then…
'God help the Frogs,' Lewrie muttered; rather insincerely, that.
Hancock's heavy lower-deck 24-pounders raged, and even at that distance it looked as if the corvette rocked and tipped, bobbing like a folded-paper boat on a pond, assailed by a heaping handful of pebbles flung by a spiteful child. Then, almost mercifully, all sight of her was blotted out by a titanic pall of powder smoke that blew down upon her, hiding her hurts from view. Even hidden, Hancock's massive guns, firing as they bore and not in broadside, still thundered.
'Gawd!' was all that Lt. Langlie could say after seeing that.
'Exeunt, one French corvette, stage left,' Lewrie said, awed by such a powerful display. 'Damme if she ain't completely dis-masted… right down to the level of her bulwarks,' he pointed out, as the smoke drifted alee and clear of the corvette, which now wallowed with all her motive power, and most of her way, stolen.
For their own part, Lt. Catterall was getting off another broadside at the French schooner, gnawing her just a bit more, peppering the sea about her, but inflicting no lasting harm. Proteus had to turn up to windward two more points to keep her guns aimed at her, but at the same time the schooner was hardening up to the Trades, too, and was in the lead, curving out a course ahead of their frigate's starboard bow.
Lewrie grimaced in frustration. The schooner would prove to be handier and more weatherly. Proteus could press up another point, and then she'd be close-hauled, sailing on the ragged edge of the wind and could go no higher. The schooner with its fore-and-aft sails could go at least a point higher, and end up directly ahead of them, where only the pair of chase-guns could worry at her, and not very effectively at that, as the bows plunged and soared, bludgeoning their way windward.
Within an hour, Lewrie knew, the schooner would be far enough up to windward on the larboard bows that only one chase-gun could fire; a swing to leeward to use all his larboard battery would put Proteus even farther behind and alee. One hour more, and the schooner would be out of gun-range.
He looked about for aid, but there was none. Oglethorpe was now back under sail after securing her two prizes, but was too far down in the South, alee of Proteus, to be of any avail. Oh, he could continue to chase the schooner, but he doubted he could catch her this side of Guadeloupe, unless something in her rigging carried away.
Lewrie drew a deep breath, held it, then let it out in a bitter sigh. He had the Americans to flatter and congratulate, in hopes that their sudden and complete victory might make them so giddy they might leap at continued cooperation, even alliance; and that was worth much more in the long run than a puny armed schooner taken as prize.
A lack of gunfire turned his attention Westerly. Far off, now almost hull-down, Sumter and the other French corvette had ceased firing, and were now cocked up to windward, fetched-to. No flag flew on the Frenchman's masts.
'Well, damme,' Lewrie groaned aloud. 'Might as well secure the guns, Mister Langlie. We'll not overhaul our Chase before beaching us on Guadeloupe. Do you concur, sir? Or do you prefer a shore supper? '
'Sadly, I do, sir,' Langlie said, pouting with distaste and disappointment. 'Game's not worth the candle. That is one fortunate Frog captain, out yonder. Skillful, too, sir.'
'Aye, damn him… whoever he is,' Lewrie spat. 'I fear we will hear more from him, in future. Very well, sir. Secure the guns, then get us about and lay us alongside Hancock. Where I must come over all 'Merry Andrew' and back-slap 'em. Makes me wish Mister Pelham had got aboard before we sailed… he'd know how to 'piss down their backs' in the proper manner. He's the smarmy skill to appear sincere.'
' 'Til they serve him boiled okra, sir,' his First Lieutenant chirped, tongue-in-cheek. 'Green, boiled, disgusting… did he not say, Captain? With a dash of ground coal stirred in, too, sir.'
'Hey?'
'Okra, and ashes from a coke furnace, Captain… okra-coke, do ye see?' Langlie further japed.
'Now you're really reaching, Mister Langlie. Lame, lame, lame!'
'Very good, sir.'
It was a rather crowded little assembly as Lewrie's gig stroked over to the USS Hancock. Oglethorpe had fetched up her two prizes, as had Sumter, now looking a little worse for wear after fighting the longest engagement of the day with her French corvette. Eight vessels, now cocked up to windward within the compass of a quarter-mile, with boats bearing victorious officers back and forth, other boats transferring a host of prisoners into custody aboard the Yankee ships, or transferring U.S. Marines aboard the prizes to guard captured ships' companies.
Hancock's wide weather decks were crowded, too, as Lewrie stood atop the entry- port lip to receive the side-party's salute, smiling as pleasant as anyone could wish as he doffed his hat and looked about to see what damage the two-decker frigate had taken.
None, was his assessment! What little harm the corvette's lone broadside had done aloft had already been most efficiently re-roved and only a few hands were still in her rigging, tidying up with paint, tar, or galley slush.
'Ah, Captain Lewrie!' the stern Capt. Malachi Goodell bellowed with uncharacteristic good cheer. 'The author of our triumph over the idolators, I am bound, the very fellow who drew us on, like the pillar of smoke by day drew Moses through the Wilderness. Welcome aboard to thee, sir. Wilt thou partake in a celebratory cup of cider, Captain?'
'I would, Captain Goodell, and gladly offer you and your fellow captains my congratulations,' Lewrie replied as a steward offered him a mug of something wet from a handsome coin-silver tray. Goodell's cider potation was cool, sweet, yet sprightly on the tongue… and vaguely alcoholic? Lewrie noted.
'Normally, I eschew befuddling spirits, sir,' Goodell explained, to answer Lewrie's mildly puzzled look, 'and encourage others to shun the demonic lure. A home-made and slightly aged apple cider, though… in strict moderation… may, on certain rare occasions, prove harmless. Though I still lament how prodigally our honest Americans imbibe the harder ciders, ladies, men, yea, even suckling babes in their cradles.'
'Quite tasty and refreshing, Captain Goodell,' Lewrie complimented him, despite the sermonising. 'And with a full measure, may I propose a toast, gentlemen?' he said, perking up the assembled officers-McGilliveray, Randolph, and their first officers, along with commission officers in Hancock. 'To the gallant Navy of the United States of America… may today's victory be but the first of many!' 'Hear, hear! Aye! Huzza! Yyee-hahh!' The last from the plum-phyzzed Georgian, Captain Randolph and his First Lieutenant; evidently Goodell's mildly aged cider was more inspiriting than Captain Goodell imagined, if taken aboard in sufficient quantities. And since cheers made for dry throats, the servants were hard-pressed to refill all the empty mugs.
And aye, McGilliveray had had a hard fight of it, for his opponent, La Resolue, had resisted bravely 'til her unfortunate Capt. MacPherson had perished, and all his deck officers had fallen, leaving it to a wounded Master Gunner to strike her colours, and her slaughter had been simply frightful, McGilliveray relished to inform him, but 'Have no fear, Cap'm Lewrie, Desmond came through without a
