H.M.S. COCKEREL

'We might have about ten minutes, Mister Porter. I wish you to be ready with at least four grapnels. Two light'uns, for tossing, when I give you the order. And two more on heavier lines… three' r four-inch manila that can take a strain. About half a cable each for the heavy ones… ready round the capstans, fore and aft. Got that?'

'Aye, sir, I think so. Scandalise, brail up… the first order. Stations for stays, the second. Two light grapnels, and two heavy, to the capstans. Then 'All-Hands' to the gangways as boarders.'

'Until the heavy grapnels are across, and a strain taken, leave a crew at the capstans, Mister Porter. Three men each, even after, so we stay put. More important, she stays where we put her.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' Porter agreed, though mystified.

'I'm giving her the wind-gauge, Porter,' Lewrie explained, with a hand on the man's shoulder. 'She'll take it, certain. Then, when we are too close and she's going to shoot us to flinders… we'll brail up and slow down like we just threw over a sea anchor. Tack right up, in-irons, across her bows, and grapnel to her. With our guns, Charles…' he said, turning to look at de Crillart… 'with our guns aimed point-blank, in a bow-rake, and none but her bow-chasers able to bear upon us And Major de Mariel?' he called, letting Porter go. 'Then your sharpshooters will clear her fore decks, and we will board. My sailors first, with pistols and cutlasses. And the heavy grapnels… then, Lieutenant Kennedy, your company after us. Cover my men with volley-fire, whilst we affix the grapnels. After that, gentlemen… it'll be bare steel, and Devil take the hindmost! Then we all board her, over her bows, to support my sailors and Lieutenant Kennedy's 18th Foot. To take her, gentlemen. To take her, before she can hope to take us! A fight to the finish, toe to toe. And no quarter until we stand upon her quarterdeck… and cut her colours down!'

Chapter 9

Soldiers gathered to larboard, huddling below on the gun deck or hunkered down behind the bulwarks, on their knees. Aristocrats in the tops, cautioned to clear the enemy's foredeck; rifled hunting guns loaded and primed. Once again, Lewrie deplored his stupidity, dearly wishing he had but three light swivel guns aloft, one in each fighting-top, to spew clouds of pistol-ball or langridge.

Lieutenant de Crillart was admidships in the waist, his gunners low to the deck behind the guns of the larboard battery, which had been run-in, charged and shotted, primed, and runout to the port sills, double-shotted with their few precious grape-shot loads atop solid-shot, with the powder-monkeys ready with only one more cartridge bag, the gunners ready with only two more round-shot for a second double-shotted broadside, before they'd abandon their guns, take up small arms and board.

It was a slender hope, he knew, a tenuous, neck-or-nothing act of desperation, no matter how enthusiastically he had couched his plan to the others. He paced to the windward bulwarks of the quarterdeck, studying his command, looking astern at the French corvette. She was now within two hundred yards of Radical's stern, banging away with her starboard bow-chaser about once a minute, and employing her two for- rudmost main-battery eight-pounders which could be crowed or levered about to bear. Whilst his own gunners had been reduced to the single twelve-pounder in the great-cabins of the larboard battery, and the lone eight-pounder stern-chaser to larboard, as well.

The frigate? He turned to look to the north, downwind. There she was, overhauling the trailing transport at last, gun-smoke shrouding her side, the transport attempting to shoot back. But too far off to even hear the reports of their guns.

The corvette, again-perhaps twenty yards closer, up to windward by about a single musket-shot.

'Quartermaster? Nothing more to loo'rd,' he called. 'Begin to luff up, spoke at a time. Very slowly.'

He heard the clinking of bottles somewhere.

Damned good idea, he thought; someone's thinking. Liquor your boots for this madness. And wishing he had a glass of something, too.

'Sir?' Cony called to him from the waist.

'Aye, Cony?' He forced himself to grin, going forward to look at his long-time man. 'Bloody Hell, Cony, there a dram left for me?'

Will Cony held an entire armful of squat port bottles, swaying a bit more than the sea demanded, as if he'd been into all of them. With him was an older French gunner, who bore a short, smouldering linstock with slow match coiled about its length, and laid in the top fork.

'Nary a drop, sir, sorry,' Cony laughed. 'Me an' monsooer Ahnree, here… sorta sampled it, like.'

'Sampled, aye, you rogue,' Lewrie scowled.

'Aye, sir… sampled. But poured h'it overside, mostly. Sir, do ya 'member Spratly Island, sir? Them pirates' wine bottles, an' th' whale oil we foun'?'

'God's sake, Cony, we don't wish to burn her!'

'Nossir, but Mister Bittfield, 'e cut me some slow-match fusees, an' 'twixt us, 'im an' 'is powder yeomen, we made up some grenadoes. Oncet we're aboard, sir… thought they might come in 'andy.' Cony chortled, quite half- seas-over after his 'sampling,' and full of cherry-merry bonhomie. 'Mayn't kill too many, do they work. But they might put th' wind up 'em, yonder. Keep 'em from rushing th' foc's'le too eager.'

'Cony, you're a godsend. Aye, good thinking,' Lewrie praised. 'Wish I'd had half the wits to think of 'em, myself! Go at 'em, man. And Cony?'

'Aye, sir?'

'I expect to see you among the quick, once we're done. I don't relish breaking in a new bosun's mate after all this time, any more'n you… well,' Lewrie said, turning sombre. 'God go with you, and all good fortune, Will Cony.'

'Same t'yew, sir,' Cony chirped. 'B'sides, sir, z'much trouble I'm in back in Anglesgreen? I reckon the Good Lord knows a rogue and a weed when 'E sees one, Mister Lewrie. An' 'E jus' might get a laugh outa seein' me try t'wriggle, when we gets back 'ome.'

'True enough,' Lewrie laughed, turning back to his worries.

Dear Lord, You know Your weeds, don't You, Lewrie addressed his Maker silently; You know me for a rogue, already. I'm sorry 'bout my doin's in Naples. I'm sorry for… well, no, I'm not really sorry 'bout Phoebe. Plain truth, Lord? Started out of sympathy-pity for her. Now… God save me, I think I'm half in love with the little mort! I fall before the hour's out-thankee for Caroline, and the children. Look after 'em for me, as best You're able. And-thankee for Phoebe, Lord. You made a poor rakehell sailor damn'… awfully happy, for a few days. Don't let any harm come to her. I left a note, should I not be 'mongst the quick when this is over. Let 'em find it, so she could draw on my funds, start over somewhere. Not be…

He shook himself all over, lifted his head and took a deep lungful of air to clear his gloomy thoughts. There was the corvette, close now. Less than one hundred yards astern, less than fifty yards upwind. More of her starboard gunports were opening as she ran them out to fire. They'd bear now, levered to the forrudmost rims of the gunports. But even with quoins fully out, breeches hard on the carriages, she'd not be able to shoot high enough to damage rigging or harm the upper decks, as heeled-over as she was by the press of wind. Another advantage to be below her, he took time to gloat, the one thing he had over which he could gloat. These last few minutes of stern-chase they had not been able to fire at anything but his water-line or his stern. Up to windward, the lee guns were always canted too low for good gunnery.

He squatted down as the corvette let fly, even so. Four balls struck almost immediately, thanking into Radical below the quarterdeck. There were screams, womanly cries, grunts of alarm from men. But his ship had taken the corvette's best fire, and his frigate's timbers had proven tough enough to hold.

He stood back up, wincing as some French marksmen began to fire with their muskets. A ball whistled past his ears like a bumblebee. Alan ignored it, judging his moment. Lifting his arms slowly, taking in a breath with which to scream… wait for it… wait for it…!