H.M.S. COCKEREL

wishes a name for himself, he'll follow along.

'Mister Spendlove! Mister Porter!' he bellowed from his perch. 'Hands to the braces! Lay her full and by on the larboard tack! Close-haul!'

'Aye, aye, sir!'

'Deck, there! Cockerel's goin' about!' the main-mast lookout screamed, his voice cracking. A tone of wonderment in his voice which drew Lewrie's attention aloft first, before he turned to eye his former ship. Cockerel had been reaching across the wind, now out of the sou'east, her bows pointing nor'east. To harden up close-hauled would lay her just a little north of due east, should she remain on the starboard tack, with the wind across her right hand first.

Sure enough, she was foreshortening in the ocular of his telescope.

Should have waited, should have waited, Lewrie fretted, growing uncertain of Braxton's tactical skills. Harden up on the starboard tack first, then cross the eye of the wind to larboard tack, and beat up to me, cross their bows before they get anywhere near you…

This early tack would put him a couple of miles away, on the same course as Radical, but out of gun range. Damme! He'd done that before, hadn't he-last year, that Frog convoy, and that big forty-four-gun frigate…! Lay off and be safe. Appear like he was doing something positive but… avoid action? The shrouds swayed as Radical leaned to the force of the winds, decks and masts angling to leeward as she hardened up to weather. Lewrie had to take both hands to secure his perch, to slip his arms in around the stays and ratlines for a firmer stance for a moment.

When he raised his telescope again, Cockerel had just completed her tack across the wind, sails luffing and spilling, shimmering like a heat wave in the ocular, like bed sheets in a stiff spring breeze out on a line to dry, before her hands could wheel her yards about, haul taut on braces and sheets. And kept on turning!

'No, you bastard!' Lewrie muttered in surprise. 'Close-hauled, at least, you…!' For a hopeful moment, he thought Cockerel was just clumsy and slow. Every ship usually fell too far off the wind for an instant upon tacking, before hardening back up to the proper course, as close to the wind as she might bear.

But, no. Cockerel kept on wheeling about, her yards going farther round until they were almost end-on to his view, courses, top'ls and t'gallants bellying taut and full, the profile of her low, sleek hull entirely presented. Cockerel had come about, aye-tacked since it was the quickest maneuver-and was now sailing west-sou'west, not to join forces with him, not to stand off on a parallel beat, downwind and safe. She was running!

'Oh, you bloody man, you perverse, bloody man!'

Didn't matter, he grumped; me aboard this tub, nor anyone else. 'Least it ain't personal, the… ah! He'd never know who he abandoned. Couldn't care less!

All his plans in shambles, for the moment without a clue, faced with the prospect of fighting those three French ships alone once more. Let down by his own Navy.

'You filthy bastard!' he yelled, just for the temporary relief. 'You bloody… coward!'

Chapter 7

Calmly, Lewrie thought, as he climbed down to the quarterdeck; calm and deliberate. They're not Navy, they're not used to my ways… Hands behind his back, chin tucked in low, eyes down in thought, pacing to the wheel to look into the compass bowl for a moment.

His natural reaction, so untypically English, as Charles pointed out, would be to curse and rave, gibber with anger, foam at the mouth or fall flat on the deck and pound upon it Which would set off panic, by the bagful. And there would go any thoughts of resistance from all his already barely willing volunteers.

What to do, then, he asked himself, scheming in a fury, conflicting notions at odds in his head. Hold this course, keep the wind-gauge? He turned to glower aft.

The two hired transports were astern, just a little left of dead-astern, still running with the sou'east winds large on the larboard side. Close-hauling would make no sense for them. They were on their very best point of sail already, and to claw up to windward to try and escape made them slower, their capture even more certain. And sooner. Farther left and beyond were the French warships, astern of the transports, a little downwind of them, sailing only a touch closer to the wind, making rapid time, even so.

They hadn't gone close-hauled? he frowned in puzzlement. Waiting another half-hour before they came level with 'em, passed them, really… before they turned up towards them, or tried to cut ahead of their bows and take them? Leaving it damned late, when they could do it now…

Another half-hour, and Radical would be so far to windward of the transports, and the French, no one could ever touch them. Though Radical would have abandoned them, letting them take the brunt of things, like a sledge in a Russian winter would throw meat scraps to slow down pursuing wolves. Throw out servants, he'd read… yum, yum, hot and tasty!

Stacked almost overlapping from his angle of view, frigate in the lead, echeloned down to leeward so each would have clear air on her quarter. Why to leeward'! he asked the aether. More speed, aye, but… for what purpose? Shouldn't they be rushing right at the transports, and at him, too? Beam-reach in line-ahead, and still have clear air, no blanketing…

'Damme!' he laughed of a sudden. 'You greedy pigs!'

The transports were meat on the table, the French could scoop them up anytime. They were standing on, going for the horse transport and the tantalizing glimpse of that two-decker on the sou'west horizon far ahead. And suddenly it came to him-they would separate. With Cockerel running away, the lead frigate would dash on, overhaul the two-decker horse transport because she looked such a rich prize, and leave the corvettes to face off with him, then take the two ships astern!

'Bosun Porter?' he called. 'Hands to the braces. We'll haul our wind. Quartermaster, new course, sou'west Trim for a beam-reach.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' Porter replied obediently. Yet sounding dubious, as if he was of a mind that sailing high upwind was much safer.

Radical came off her laboured beat, sloughing and slowing, yards re-angled to cup the wind that now blew at right-angles across her decks. Those decks levelling as she sat down flat on her keel, on the easiest point of sail. And Lewrie waited, pacing aft to the taffrails, then to the starboard gangway ladder, over and over.

'Deck, there!' the lookout shrilled a few nervous minutes later. 'Two chase goin' close-hauled astern! Lead ship, standin' on!'

The frigate had left her consorts, stuns'ls and stays'ls still flying, t'gallants and tops'ls bellied wind-full. The corvettes, though, had drawn level with the stern of the trailing transport and had turned upwind.

'Mister Porter, hands to the braces! Stations to close-haul!'

Radical had slowed on her beam-reach, the transports had made up some ground on her, still labouring, though, about a mile and a half astern, almost in line-ahead behind her.

Right, you bugger, stay greedy, he sneered to the distant frigate, standing on so swiftly, so effortlessly. Swung away as she was towards the wind once more, Radical would soon have her abeam of her last position. Up to windward of the transports. Two or three miles of hard distance between the more powerful ship and where Radical could be in ten minutes. And the corvettes would still be to leeward of him, too.

He waited a little longer, fingers fretting against each other, peering stoically at the frigate, which was now off his starboard quarter. Now? No, not yet. Wait a bit… breathe deep to shout? No…

'Mister Porter, stations for stays!' he boomed at last. 'Ready to come about to the starboard tack! Mister de Crillart, secure your gunners, all tackles a'taut! Bowse the starboard battery secure!'