Sea of Grey

what the Bosun, the Master Gunner, the Master At Arms and his Ships' Corporals threatened-it was simply too much of a novelty!

'Deck, there!' Midshipman Elwes cried. 'Chase is hull-up, sirs! She now shows a flag! French colours!'

A hundred horny paws slapped together and rubbed with a sound like dry grit; a hundred voices muttered 'good prize!' together, and a palpable frisson of delight and greed swept the decks, making mates, sailors, and officers alike beam with joy, and ships' boys jig-dance.

Lewrie clapped his hands behind his back, and pondered. If he hoisted the French Tricolour, as well, there was a chance that he might reel this schooner in like a fish, relieved to meet a fellow Frenchman so far from home. A privateer? Lewrie silently mused, more than glad t'see a National ship? Enough to haul her wind and fetch-to, waitin' on us?

There was the possibility that a Frog privateer would know the few confirmed French ships of war sailing out of Guadeloupe by sight.

'Mister Wyman,' Lewrie said, with a sly grin, 'do you hoist a French flag on the foremast… and run up a 'who are you?' where she can see it. Does she answer with a private signal, she's confirmed, and ours.'

'Oh!' Lt. Wyman gawped for a, second. 'My goodness gracious, I see, sir! Aye, sir! We know the Frog's 'qui va la' signal.'

Moments later it was done, and they waited to see what signal would be hoisted in return. Despite his best intentions (like most of those, Lewrie could rarely keep 'em!) a smug grin creased his face, a 'slyboots' look of cocky satisfaction.

'Deck, there!' Midshipman Elwes cried. 'French colour's down… she's hoisted British!'

'Hah! Liar!' Lieutenant Wyman commented, all but hooting to his fellow officers, who had also come up to share the excitement.

Well, damme, Lewrie thought, deflated in an instant; Didn't think o' that! Could she really be?

He cupped his hands and bellowed aloft, 'Mister Elwes, has she changed course? Reduced sail? Hoisted any signal at all?'

'No, sir! Still running! Same course, and no private signal!'

'Damn!' Lewrie griped softly. 'Mister Wyman, get that Frog rag and signal down, then. Hoist our own colours, and this month's recognition signal. And ready a forecastle gun to fire to leeward.'

'Aye, sir.'

The Red Ensign went up the foremast, a string of code flags was bent on and hoisted, followed a minute or two later by a single cannon shot. The schooner was closer now, not over four miles off as Proteus swiftly strode up to her with a bone in her teeth.

'Deck, there! Chase now bears Nor'west by West! I think I see stuns'ls! No reply to signals!'

'Dammit, make our heading Nor'west by North, Mister Wyman, and hoist royals,' Lewrie snapped, now irritated. 'And once that's done, we'll beat to Quarters, and ready the larboard battery!'

'Aye aye, sir!'

Proteus heeled a bit more, her wake and bustle growing louder and more insistent. Three-quarters of an hour, and the schooner grew larger as they closed the range to three miles, no matter how swiftly the schooner scudded along in flight. She had lowered British colours long before, seeing that the ruse was fruitless. Hands stood swaying behind the great-guns, already loaded with the smoothest and roundest solid iron balls, charged with powder, and the newfangled flintlock strikers primed.

'Ease that quoin out even more, there, lads,' Lt. Catterall told his larboard gunners. 'We're heeled, and shooting to leeward, so keep the barrels aimed high. We'll adjust once we're close and the ports are open, so you can mark your target and gauge the range.'

'Mile and a half, I make it, sir,' Lt. Langlie volunteered from his place near Lewrie on the lee rails. 'Almost Range-to-Random-Shot, for the six-pounder chase gun.'

'We'll wait 'til the larboard battery can bear, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie countered, slowly pacing, now dressed in his second-best uniform, with his sword at his side, and the sweat trickling down his back and itching icily on his spine. 'I doubt yon schooner mounts anything heavier than a four-pounder… Once we're near abeam, with the guns run out, perhaps this 'M'sieur will gain some sense, and strike before we have to blow him out of the water.'

' Antigua, to leeward, there… I think,' Lewrie heard Lieutenant Devereux, their Marine officer, say. 'And Barbuda, off our starboard bows?' he opined, jutting his chin towards a greyish hump on the horizon. 'No, couldn't be… Sergeant Skipwith?' 'Sure I don't know, sir,' Skipwith commented. 'Still an hundred miles to leeward, sir,' Lt. Langlie took time to inform their senior 'Lobsterback.' 'Well, a day's sail, by now. I expect you're mistaking squalls on the horizon for islands. Were Barbuda and Antigua this close, we'd see them plain. The channel between is only thirty-seven miles, d'ye see…'

'Half a day, in chase,' Lewrie muttered. And he still had not gotten his chin shaved! The galley fires had been doused and dinner had been delayed, the crew's hunger only slightly eased with hardtack biscuit, water, and dry, crumbly Navy Issue cheese. Of course, the rum ration had been doled out; some customs were observed no matter what. 'Three-quarters of a mile, now sir,' Lt. Langlie pointed out. 'Mister Wyman!' Lewrie called down to the Second Lieutenant by the foremast, now in charge of the starboard guns. 'One chase gun to windward! Let her know our intentions!' 'Aye, sir!'

A windward gun was a challenge to battle, and a threat. Strike your colours, haul up, and fetch-to… or else!

Bang! The foc'sle 6-pounder barked out a blank charge, billowing a sour cloud of maggot-pale gunsmoke that was quickly scudded off to larboard, across the forecastle, by the Trades that were now almost abeam Proteus's deck. Lewrie, along with every senior man allowed the liberty of the quarterdeck, lifted a telescope to see what answer was forthcoming.

Like most stern-chases, hours could pass before any noticeable progress was made, then all of a sudden, the Chase would leap within spitting distance in an eyeblink, no matter that her sails still drew, her wake still seethed, the mustachio under her bows still flung spray so busily about her… as if she'd grown weary of it all, and meant to surrender to her fate.

'Quarter-mile, I make it, now, sir,' Lt. Langlie observed. 'Open the larboard gun-ports and run out, Mister Langlie. Hull the bitch, when nicely abeam,' Lewrie coldly replied, his eyes gone as grey as Arctic ice, as was his wont when angered or in action. 'Sir!'

There was a puff of smoke upon the schooner's bows, then a tinny, flat bang from a lee-side gun, the sound masked by her sails and hull, muffled by the wind's roar and the onward rushing sshhuush of Proteus's hull. She had fired a leeward gun, in sign of peaceful intent… or to signify her surrender?

A second or two later, down came her patently false British colours, as if she had indeed struck, but… up went a 'gridiron' flag, a busy banner of red and white horizontal stripes, with a canton of blue, splattered with stars, in one corner!

'An American? Mine arse on a band box!' Lewrie exclaimed. 'Another sham!' Lt. Langlie all but spluttered at their gall. 'No, sir, look!' Midshipman Adair cried, pointing. 'Her hoist! That is this month's private signal, sir.'

'You're sure, Mister Adair?' Lewrie gawped at those pennants, spinning to face the midshipman.

'Quite sure, sir. See, here in my copy book, it's…' 'Dammit!'

'She's let fly her sheets, Captain,' Lt. Langlie said, drawing Lewrie's attention back to the schooner.

She had freed her large gaff-hung fore and main sails, letting them flag and clatter almost abeam the wind, no longer cupping power from it, keeping the outer and inner flying jibs standing, but hauling down the foretopmast stays'l and those upper gaff stays'ls. Without those sails,

she was now slowing like a bowling coach being reined in and braked!

'Well… hoist the proper damn' reply, Mister Adair,' Lewrie snapped. 'The gun crews to stand easy, Mister Langlie.'

'Aye, sir.'