A King`s Commander

'Carronade, Mister Lewrie!' Cony screeched from the gangways, reverting to his old form of address to him. 'Th' buggers got a carronade'r two, yonder, sir!'

The French warship was blotted out of sight by the blossoms of gun smoke as Bittfield got off his broadside. A ragged effort, starting amidships of the waist, and stuttering left or right from there, or from the far ends to the center, the gunners half blinded and pulling their lanyards as quick as their sweating crews could stand clear.

Jib boom tip, poking through the sudden pall, abaft the mizzen stays! Jester heeling hard to starboard, as her wheel was forced hard-over. Square-rig canvas aloft shivering and flapping.

'Carronades!' Lewrie screeched. 'Load with canister… grape-shot! Mister Rahl, hear me? Clear her decks with canister! And her quarterdeck, when we're close-aboard! Ease your helm, Quartermaster. Steer due west, as best you're able.'

'Aye aye, zir!' Brauer, the Hamburg seaman replied crisply.

Jester had just worn from one tack to the other, off the wind, everything crying and screaming aloft, as out of order, and confusing as a rioting mob, yards cocked any-old-how, some tops'Is and t'gallants aback against the masts, others flapping useless.

Aye, canister, Lewrie thought grimly! Murder that bastard over there who outsmarted me! Powder monkeys staggered under the weight of the canister tins come up from the lower deck shot-lockers as the guns on the quarterdeck were loaded.

'Ready, larboard, Mister Bittfield! At 'close pistol shot'! Fire as you bear!' he cautioned. 'She's coming up, fast!'

And did his foe have men enough to man both his own batteries, Lewrie gulped with a sudden cringing, in a throat gone bone-dry from shock, and excitement? And, did that Frenchman have his own artillery loaded with canister and grape, to return the favor? If he was smart he did. And this'un was bloody clever!

'Christ.' Alan sighed as the poleacre loomed up, as if sailing through a parting in a stage curtain. Not sixty yards off, larboard to face the poleacre's larboard. Gunners and sailors lined her bulwarks, French Marine Infantry with muskets leveled. Her antiboarding nets were down, and her guns were run out in-battery; at least one carronade on her foredeck to fear, Lewrie saw. Another aft on what passed for a quarterdeck. And five long guns amidships, upon that flush spar/gun deck; Frog eight-pounders, thank God, no heavier than his.

'Feuer!' Quarter-gunner Rahl shouted up forrud, and the larboard eighteen-pounder carronade lit off with a deafening roar.

'Fire as you bear!' Mister Bittfield screamed, as soon as the first larboard gun could bear in its port, and the long guns began to bark like ferocious guard dogs.

Out of my hands, now, Lewrie groaned to himself, heaving a philosophical shrug; our weight of iron prevails… or theirs does. Sweet Jesus, just a little help, here, he prayed. Let 'em not have thought to load with grape or canister!

Jester bucked and trembled like a first-saddled colt as her guns, the enemy's guns, filled the short space between the racing hulls with hot gushes of gray-tan smoke, as both ships screamed in agony as heavy iron took them in their vitals!

Lewrie could barely see enemy sailors at her rails, being tossed aside; bulwark timbers flying, bodies flying, hear the stupendous boomings of guns fired straight into his face. Oak screamed, masts cried, short stabbing blooms of pink fire lilies and swarms of amber-reddish sparks swirled spent as dazed lightning bugs in the smoke wall! Quick splinters of wood flew from Jesters wounds, flicking past, whickering and fluting, a giant's toothpicks, their sharp edges hungry for flesh!

The high, terrier-yip blasts of swivel guns at the rails, which spewed loose bags of pistol shot and langridge- scrap-iron bits-at the French. And then the blessed barroomingl of the quarterdeck carronades, as the enemy command staff came abeam!

Lewrie shut his eyes, staring directly down the barrel of their quarterdeck carronade the instant before the sight of his own death was blotted out, and he was staggered almost off his feet by the noise and the shock waves. Another shock wave, which made his heart flutter and pause, the breath stop in his chest! Turned half sidewise, and hammered to his knees for real, this time, as a round-shot passed within a few feet of him, howling over the quarterdeck, ululating off into the distance like an irate eagle robbed of its prey at the last moment!

'Jesus, sir, ya hurt, sir?' his cabin steward whimpered, coming to his side with a box of pistols. Aspinall was shaking like a sodden hound might just after leaving a stream, terror-tears streaking, lower lip blubbering.

'Don't think so, Aspinall.' Alan grimaced, as if in real pain, feeling himself over quickly. 'But thankee for askin'. Bloody hell, what're you doing on deck?' Aspinall's post during quarters was down on the orlop, to assist 'Chips,' Ship's Carpenter Mister Rees, as a dumb carrier and fetcher should any repairs be necessary.

'B… bosun's mate, sir,' Aspinall wailed, his teeth chattering so badly he could barely avoid biting his tongue. 'Mister Cony, he toP me t'fetch ya yer pistols, sir. Said 'e thought ya'd be needin' 'em, so I did, an'. kin I go below, agin, Captain, sir? Now ya have 'em, like?'

'Aye, with my gratitude, Aspinall, me lad. Just help me to my feet, first. Mister Knolles?'

'Aye, sir?' the first lieutenant rasped back, his throat raw with gun smoke, and his hat gone somewhere on its own.

'Helm down, sir!' Lewrie ordered, once he'd gotten erect. 'A tack, cross the wind, and keep the wind gauge 'bove that bastard! My telescope.'

So close, one bloody instant; so far apart the next. The Frog poleacre had fallen off the wind, was running large to the nor'east-minus her mizzenmast and lateen spanker. In the round ocular, Lewrie saw she'd been beaten to a pulp by that broadside, fired so close they could have spit at each other. Her larboard side was bashed in, with several large punctures below her gun ports, and about a third of her bulwarks had been torn away, merging two gun ports into one long tear. Larboard mainmast stays were sagging loose, the chain platforms, and the deadeye blocks that tensioned those shrouds savaged! And on her quarterdeck! That mob on her stern, her officers and after-guard, were gone! Barely half a dozen figures could be seen moving about, mostly throwing themselves on the abandoned helm. Topmen were sheeting home her main course and tops'l, not trusting the upper t'gallant mast with the pressure of canvas, her foremast lateen sail swung almost athwartship. Trimmed for a run!

' 'Ware, below!' Bosun Porter shouted, as Jester swung up close to the wind. There was a rending screech of pine as top-hamper ripped, as Jester's own royal and t'gallant topmasts sagged backward, shedding blocks and rigging. Crosstree slats snapped like twigs, freeing tension on shrouds, and the entire mess slowly inclined farther astern, until everything above the crosstrees sagged back into the mainmast stays, and hung up on the main t'gallant yard, tangling stays'ls and halliards, jears, and lift-lines, into a rat's nest!

'In der irons, Herr Kapitan!' Brauer reported from the wheel, as Jester poised in the very teeth of the wind, and stalled, unable to complete her tack and slowing to a crawl.

'Secure from quarters. Porter, Cony! Secure what you can, till she pays off,' Lewrie ordered. However much a draw the battle had been, it was now over. It would be long minutes before Jester could fall off to either beam, even more a long half hour to clear away all the raffle and take up pursuit once more. By which time that poleacre would have sailed herself almost hull-under for Toulon or Hyeres Bay. Beaten, at everything she'd tried; ignored when she'd attempted to lure them away, useless when charged with protecting her convoy. And, shot to ribbons when she'd tried to retake the prizes, denied even that crumb of comfort. Still, she would escape them. Lewrie devoutly hoped he'd slain her captain. Had it become a real broadside-to-broadside slugging, he wasn't sure he might have won, after all, unless that bugger had died.

Aye, he hoped that poleacre's commanding officer had been shot to a blood pudding, by a cloud of canister! Should he live to fight another day… there was a damn' dangerous Frenchman on the loose, a one too clever for anyone's good. A one too dangerous to live!

'Two dead, outright, sir,' Surgeon Mister Howse related grumpily, still streaked with splotches of blood on his butcher's apron. 'One more to pass, by sunset, if God's good to him. Nine injured.'

'I see.' Lewrie nodded, almost numb, still shaken by how brief, yet how savage, the engagement had been. 'Those injured, uhm…'

'Two, Captain.' Howse scowled, a bite to his voice, as if war's mayhem was Lewrie's fault, and the 'butcher's