Sea of Grey

something to show for their efforts, he could greedily speculate; the return of an American merchantman to their control might just result in a reward of some kind, too! Something beyond this Captain Wilder's generosity for restoring his livelihood to him, something official from the United States government, once they found a Consul at Kingston, or…?

'Deck, there!' the lookout called down from his rolling, swirling perch high atop the mainmast as Proteus lay fetched-to. 'Sail ho! Full-rigged ship, four points off th' larboard quarter! A frigate!'

'Oh, no!' Lewrie muttered, climbing up the mizen shrouds once more, his telescope slung rifle-fashion over one shoulder. 'You're not 'in sight,' ya can't have a penny of 'em. Whoever you are. Not enough t'share, as it is.'

Once settled securely, he unslung his glass and extended it 'til he had a shaky view of the new arrival. Sure enough, it was a three-masted, full-rigged ship, heading almost bows-on towards them. From the proud cant of her jib-boom and bow-sprit that hobby-horsed closer and closer, from the thickness of her crossed yards and lower masts, she did look like a frigate! But whose?

He slung his glass again and scampered back to the deck with a bit less decorum than a proper captain ought to display, trying to hide his anxiety as he peered over at the French schooner.

'Mister Langlie, is that prize of ours well in hand yet?' he snapped. 'Her crew's been disarmed and fettered, sir, and is now under guard by a file of Marines,' the efficient Lt. Langlie replied. 'I've placed Mister Catterall aboard her as prize-master, with Towpenny, the Bosun's Mate, as his second, and Midshipman Adair and twelve hands to get her under way, sir. If those choices meet your approval, that is, Captain.'

'Perfectly. Then let's get under way ourselves, and ready the ship to meet yon frigate. They may have sent a man o' war north, with a clutch of privateers, t'keep an eye on them and their prizes. Once under way, sir, we'll return to Quarters. And someone tell that Captain Wilder over there t'stand well aloof of us, if things go wrong.'

'Aye, sir,' Langlie replied, without a qualm at the thought of impending combat.

'Deck, there!' the lookout shouted anew. ' 'At strange sail is a frigate! She's hoistin' colours… American!'

'Well, whyever not?' Lewrie said, making it a humourous gripe to disguise his own qualms, and ease his crew's, as well. 'Everyone else has, hey? But it may be a common ruse in these waters. We will still get under way… just t'be sure.'

'All hands…!' Langlie began to cry.

Another hour, with the sun beginning to lower in the west, and HMS Proteus was nearing the stranger, boldly standing towards her with gun-ports open and all national flags hoisted; ready for battle if the strange frigate was lying, but with a query in that month's private signals also flying aloft.

The frigate stood on towards them, as well, with her ports shut, and angling a bit below her bows, to the Westward, as if to cede them the wind gauge and the traditional advantage.

'Pacific of 'em, sir,' Lt. Langlie commented. 'To sail alee.'

'Mmm-hmm,' was Lewrie's chary opinion of that.

'Rather a big'un, ain't she,' Lieutenant Wyman noted. 'My goodness gracious, she must be a forty-four gunner.'

'Over-sparred, though, Mister Wyman,' Sailing Master Winwood pointed out, 'with much too much aloft. You midshipmen take note. Under all plain sail, her masts are as tall as ours when flying royals. Mark the length of her yards, as well. Under a sudden hard press of wind, she'd not get those reefed in safely. She may very well be an American frigate. 'Tis a common mistake I've seen from Yankee yards.'

'My word, perhaps she's a fifty-gun Fourth Rate,' Wyman opined, finally spotting the second, upper row of closed gun-ports, painted black to match her bulwarks, instead of the white of her lower gunwale.

'The Yankee Doodles built some two-deckers during the Revolution but I never heard of them serving,' Lewrie felt prodded to contribute, dredging up so-called intelligence from his advisories. 'Most- like, I believe they rotted on the stocks before launch. Their new construction plans may call for two-deckers, but did they need hulls on short notice, they might have razeed one before completion, and outfitted her as a large frigate.'

By God, but she is big, though! he thought, daunted by the idea of having to fight her. With a two-decker's much stouter lower timbers and deck beams, she might be able to carry 24-pounders below, and even 12-pounders on the upper gun-deck.

'Razeed ships are rarely successful; though,' Mr. Winwood droned on, 'for they tend to 'hog' at both ends from the weight of their guns. And without the thick upperworks of a proper ship of the line, there's not enough linear support to prevent it. A long cruise or two is about all one may expect before they're due a serious, and prolonged, refit. In our own Navy, we've experienced such failures as-'

'Signal hoist, sir!' Midshipman Nicholas interrupted. 'I make out this month's private signal!'

'So she is a Yankee,' Lieutenant Langlie said, managing not to sound much relieved at that news. 'Shall we stand down from Quarters, sir?'

'Close the ports, but I'll reserve judgement 'til I hear them speak us, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie demurred. 'Not 'til I hear a nasal Yankee twang. We will let her close us, though.'

'Aye, sir.'

And there goes any government reward for re-takin' Bantam, he sourly imagined; not with a Yankee frigate to escort her away. My God… damn!

The big American frigate sailed past, alee of them, taking advantage of the 'wind-shadow' from Proteus's sails to reef in and reduce canvas; then rounded up and tacked, once in clearer air. She was well drilled and handled, belying any slurs on Yankee seamanship, and seemed 'handy' despite her great length, and the greater freeboard exposed to the wind from her higher sides. Under mostly tops'ls and jibs, as if accomodating the smaller British ship, she angled up to within a cable alee and abeam, at last.

'This is his Brittanic Majesty's frigate Proteus!' Lewrie called first, through a speaking-trumpet. 'Captain Lewrie! And whom do I have the honour to address, sir?'

'The United States ship Hancock… Captain Joshua Kershaw! How-de-do, Captain Lewrie. I see you been busy!'

Hancock! Lewrie thought, smirking despite the occasion; sounds like masturbation! Aye, he's a Yankee, right enough. Not Downeast… more like the Carolinas, or Virginia.

Which connexion reminded him too much of his wife, making him hunch his shoulders and wince to dismiss such idle interruptions.

'Buy me a drink, Captain Kershaw, and I'll boast most immoderate on it!' Lewrie shouted over.

'Done, sir! Well met, and let's fetch to!'

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Captain Joshua Kershaw, U.S. Navy, was a hearty older fellow, a tall, bluff, and stout man in his fifties, and in his youth might have been a most handsome and impressive physical specimen. His waistcoat strained over a rounded abdomen, and his thighs were as thick as standing rib roasts. His jowls were round, and he wore a white side-curled wig that was much too small for a head that large, yet he appeared elegant, and well turned out. Though Lewrie did find the American Navy uniform a bit too like the French to suit him.

The turn-backs, lapels, collar, and cuffs of Kershaw's dark blue coat were French-style red, as was his waistcoat, nicely trimmed with gold lace and gilt buttons. His breeches were dark blue, though, not French red, or the usual white.

'Such -a fine ship, sir!' Captain Machias Wilder off the Bantam, Kershaw's other supper guest, exclaimed for at least the tenth time in as many minutes on their abbreviated tour of the Hancock, as he looked over the sumptuous decor of the great-