A King`s Commander

last over-under turn around belaying pins and bitts.

'No more than half-a-point free to ease her around, Quartermaster!' Lewrie snapped. ' 'Tis all the leeway we may spare.' Ships were usually eased a full point off the wind, to gather an extra surge in speed to assure a clean tack.

'Helm alee!' Knolles screeched, at last.

Around she came, driving back up on the wind with a quarter-knot more speed, jib boom and bowsprit sweeping like a pointer across the embattled warships before her bows. Jibs and stays'ls fluttering and canvas popping like gunshots as Jester neared the eye of the wind, as sails lost their luffs-yards creaking and wood-ball parrels crying as they were swung around. For a heart-stopping moment, she slowed to a crawl, everything aloft aback and banging, before the fore-and-aft stays'ls and jibs whooshed across the deck to larboard as she took the wind fine on her starboard bows. The spanker over the quarterdeck and the royals and t'gallants rustled, flagged, then filled, with the hard crack of laundry airing on a line.

'Sou'east-by-east, Quartermaster!' Lewrie cried. 'Meet her!'

The wheel spun, spokes blurring as they tried to catch up with her momentum, as she paid off half-a-point to the new lee in spite of their best efforts, as the hands braced hard on the gangways to make a proper spiral set aloft, royals more sharply angled to the wind than t'gallants, t'gallants more than tops'ls.

From his position at the new windward, starboard, rails, Lewrie espied their pursuing frigate, which now lay just a touch to the right of Jester s bows. It would be a damned close-run thing, but sou'east-by-east would take her clear of the last struggling behemoth line-of-battle ship in the French line. And cross the frigate's stern, if she didn't alter course.

'Shit,' he muttered, though, as the frigate opened fire!

It would be a bow-rake on Jester as the frigate crossed her T, employing every available gun in her starboard battery, while Jester's two shorter-ranged carronades on the forecastle would be the only guns that could respond! Round-shot tearing through the curving bow timbers, frailer than her sides, rebounding and tearing down the complete length of her gun deck, and down her gangways!

He winced into his wool broadcloth coat, as if it might be some protection, flinching from the avalanche of screaming iron, the jagged metal shards, whirlwind cloud of wood splinters, and the sagging ruin of masts to come. Though feeling an urgent desire to fling himself to the deck, like a sensible person!

The air trembled and moaned above the general cannonade between the fleets, a very personally directed moaning and fluting, as fifteen or more twelve-pounder balls bored their way toward Jester. Before their Revolution, France had possessed the finest guns, the finest school of naval gunnery in the world, with a dedicated corps of lifelong professional artillerists. And frail little Jester was about to receive…!

Nothing, pretty much.

A ragged line of feathers erupted from the sea, to either side of her bows, as irregularly spaced as a London urchin's teeth. Great, and rather pretty, pillars of spray and foam leapt up where the round-shot struck the sea at first graze. More feathers abeam, or astern, as cannon balls caromed and bounded over the wave tops like a young lad's stone might skip across a duck pond. Lewrie was sure he heard one or two howl overhead like extremely fat and fatal bumblebees… but so high above the royals they didn't even spill an ounce of wind from frail canvas, or sever a single stay in passing!

'Well, damme!' he cried in befuddled exaltation. 'Those poor buggers couldn't hit the ground, if they dropped stone-cold dead!'

A first broadside, usually the best-laid and pointed, at less than three-quarters of a mile… and they'd missed completely? Lewrie jeered. Now, stand for mine, you poxy clown!

'Mister Knolles, give us a point free! Mister Bittfield, the starboard battery… fire as you bear!' he shouted.

Up the fairly steep slant of the deck to windward, nine-pounders on their heavy truck carriages rumbled and growled, foot at a time, as the hands ran their pieces up to the ports and beyond, to point deadly black-painted hog muzzles at the foe. A tug on the side-tackles, or a lever with a crow iron for aiming. Fists raised in the air, from the foc's'le to far aft in the great-cabins beneath his feet, as the gun captains drew their flintlock lanyards taut and stood clear of their charges' recoil.

'On the uproll… Fire!' Lewrie howled, primed for vengeance.

The foc's'le eighteen-pounder carronade began it, with a deep bark of displeasure. Then, a stuttering series of roars rippled down the starboard side. Lewrie looked aft to Andrews, serving as captain to a quarterdeck carronade. He jerked his lanyard and the piece erupted a short, stabbing flame, and a corona of muzzle smoke. It snubbed to the rear on its slide-carriage, greased wood compressors smoking, too.

'We fired under the French flag, sir!' Knolles cautioned. It was a grave breach of etiquette, that. A ruse de guerre was accepted practice, right up to the moment of initiating combat.

'Get that Frog rag down, Mister Spendlove, and hoist our true colors!' Lewrie yelled, not caring much beyond witnessing the strike of his shot. 'Swab out, and give 'em another, Mister Bittfield!'

Glorious!

Feathers of spray, close-aboard the French frigate; short, some of them, but grazing along at reduced speed for a solid hit on timber. The sort of low-velocity hits that smashed more hulls in than faster strikes, which might punch clean through. The frigate's sails, yards and masts quivering and twitching as guns fired from leeward, up that slant of the deck even with their quoins full-in, went high. Spanker holed dead-center, mizzen tops'l winging out free of its weather brace, and the main course ripped in half!

The frigate stood on, stolid in spite of her hurts. Cannon appeared in her ports again, and a second ragged, ill- spaced broadside erupted from her. With little more success than the last one! And then, she was forced to tack. She could stand-on on the larboard tack, sail up to her fellows, or she must come about to continue the fight.

Tack, or wear, Lewrie mused, even as his guns spoke again. To wear would put her even with Jester, well-astern after completing the twenty-four-point circle. No, she must tack, he decided, or throw her hand in as valueless. And that'll silence her guns, for a bit.

'Our ensign's aloft, now, sir,' Spendlove told him.

'Very good, Mister Spendlove. One hopes the Frogs'll take our error as a minor slip in punctilio.'

'It appears they've worse things to worry about, at the moment, sir!' Midshipman Spendlove japed, pointing to the French battle line. Close as Jester had come to the fighting, they could now take gleeful note of British men-o'-war through the thick banks of powder fog, up almost yardarm to yardarm with the French, blazing away at pistol-shot range. 'Oh, there she goes, sir… coming about!'

The frigate was presenting her stern to them, swinging up onto the eye of the wind, yards all a'cock-bill and canvas slatting.

'Took 'em long enough,' Lewrie sneered. Jester's gunfire was splattering all about her as she slowed and turned. Sails caved in on themselves as they were punctured, to refill lank and disheveled, and Alan frowned as he thought he saw a round-shot strike her foremast's tops'l yard, spilling a wiggling speck or two loose. Two topmen who'd just fallen to their deaths on the hard oak below, or into the waters alongside, where they'd plunge deep before surfacing, to watch their ship sail on, uncaring, just before they drowned.

'Mister Knolles, harden up! Full-and-by!' Lewrie ordered, to put Jester back onto the wind, and wring out every foot of advantage above the frigate, which was visibly struggling to get around to her tack. The last French 74-gunned 3rd Rate at the tail of the enemy battle line was off Jesters starboard bows by then. Still with her offside gun ports closed, thank God! A minute or two more, and she would be too acutely angled to take Jester under fire-out of her gun arcs in the narrow ports. And that 74 was punch-drunk and reeling, her lower masts sprung and shivering to every new blow, ready to go by the board, any moment.

'Mister Spendlove, perhaps you might oblige me?' Alan inquired casually, in a moderate voice, as the gunners