larger sails, as opposed to European custom using shorter masts with longer booms, and the centres of effort of the sails lower to the deck. With sixty-foot masts, he could estimate that they were at least four miles out to sea. Did they turn and run before the wind, he guessed that they could make five or six knots, with the sail they already flew.
'Captain, sir!' Midshipman Elwes squeaked. 'We make nine knots!'
'Thankee, Mister Elwes! Good lad! Mister Wyman… hands aloft and set the fore t'gallant, the main t'gallant stays'l, the middle stays'l, and main topmast stays'l! Smartly, now!'
'Aye aye, sir! Smartly t'will be!'
He looked aloft to the commissioning pendant once more. It was a decent wind this morning, a dependable, clear day Tradewind. With a bit more sail aloft,
With a thump against the bulwarks that he felt through the soles of his shoes, he reached the deck and jumped down to the quarterdeck, with an evident
'Damme,' he sighed, looking at his breeches and shirt, now greasy with the skimmed fat from the steep-tubs used to lubricate the rigging to keep it supple, and the tar used to keep it waterproof. 'At least they're the pale blue'uns. No great loss.'
No amount of scrubbing could improve that condition, as Aspinall had proved the last few days, whenever they had caught some rainwater from the brief daily squalls. They were now hopeless.
'Perhaps sky-blue will become fashionable, sir,' wee Midshipman Grace tittered; being the youngest, he was the only one who'd dare.
'You're no bigger than
He reached out and tipped Grace's cocked hat over his eyes, to prove that he wasn't upset, then stalked over to the helm to stow his telescope. 'Mister Wyman, once you've everything ' Bristol fashion' I wish the ship beat to Quarters.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
'Whoever yon bastards are, we'll have them for dinner.'
'Deck, there! Puttin' about! Haulin' 'eir wind, and wearin'!'
'Ah, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie said quite gaily, as the First Officer came to the quarterdeck, noting that Langlie already had his pair of single-barrel pistols hung on his belt, along with his smallsword. 'I see you've come full- dressed for the ball. Good. The first dance is just be-gun.'
After a quick look about, Langlie got a sly look on his face as he said, 'From the look and sound of it, Captain, sir, I'd say they've gone past the quadrilles, right to the
'Captain, sir… Mister Langlie, sir,' Lieutenant Wyman reported. 'I am ready to call for Quarters.'
'I'll take the deck, Mister Wyman,' Langlie asserted his right.
'I yield with pleasure, sir,' Wyman grinned back, with delight of the chase and the hunt in his eyes.
'Mister Sevier to stand as acting lieutenant in lieu of Mister Catterall, sir?' Langlie asked. 'He can oversee the forecastle guns.'
'Very good, Mister Langlie. And call on Desmond and his lads to give us a tune, once we're at Quarters. Something lively. I will be below, getting presentable… and armed.'
'Dear Lord, sir, but I suspect that'un was 'The Battle of Aughrim,' ' Lt. Langlie, who had a good ear for music, exclaimed. 'An old fight from back in King William's days. Just
'Lively, though, you must admit,' Lewrie replied, beating one hand along in time as Desmond, the ship's fiddler, a Marine drummer, and a brace of fifers held forth in the middle of the waist.
'The Pipe on the Hob,' 'The Bride's Favourite,' and old double jigs were mixed with 'The Derry Hornpipe' and 'Fisher's Hornpipe' as music for sailing into battle, followed by 'Jenny's Wedding' and 'Lord MacDonald,' a pair of reels. Now, within a mile of the sloops and luggers, Desmond and the band were well into a lively, merry tune named 'Planxty Browne,' with the fiddler and fifers prancing the deck in impromptu dancing.
'I prefer hornpipes,' Langlie groused, 'Jigs, reels, and all are too… toodly. All over the shop, and too many flutt'ry notes.'
'Well, so was Bach, and that little Mozart fellow,' Lewrie said with a chuckle. 'Might've killed him, in fact. Too many notes in his head, and 'Pop!' Hmmm… d'ye think we're in good range, sir?' 'I do, indeed, Captain,' Langlie soberly agreed. 'Then please run out the starboard battery and give them a try, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie bade, turning formal.
'Aye aye, sir. Mister Wyman! Make ready! Thank you for the music lads, but now belay! Run out the starboard battery!'
Creaks and groans, squeals and screeches sounded as tackle was run through wooden blocks, as wood trucks and axles turned under gun-carriages as they were trundled up to butt against the port-sills, and ports were opened. Tacklemen stood aside, overhauling their run-out, as gun-captains fussed at elevating quoins, ordering crow-levers for a shift in point of aim. The train-tackles were tautened, and breeching ropes adjusted so the guns would recoil smoothly, without a kink that would jerk their deadly weight aside and maim their minders. One at a time, gun-captains put up a fist to show readiness, and their Number Twos leaned away from their pieces, holding the trigger lines that led to the flintlock strikers over the touch-holes, taut and cocked. 'On the up-roll… fire!'
A second's pause as
like to jerk the stout bulwarks apart, and made the frigate shudder as if she'd run aground!
The smoke was quickly whisked away by the Trades, to scud downwind off her larboard bows, to the shore which was now only two miles away, so the officers could spot the fall of shot among those boats.
Another long second's pause, and geysers erupted from the sea, tall and slender feathery plumes that hung in the sky like suddenly frozen icicles, that only slowly collapsed downward upon themselves in matching circles of frothing spume, drenching the targets like a torrential summer squall, and making them heel and rock, their winged-out sails sluiced and drowned with seawater.
'Damn' good shooting,' Lewrie commented. 'Now, serve 'em another,' he ordered, raising his telescope.
'Sir?' Mr. Winwood whispered from his right side. 'Sir, we are getting rather close inshore, and we
'You wish to harden up and stand out from the shore?' Lewrie asked, the glass still to his eye.
'I would, sir. The best we have are century-old Spanish charts.'
'Mister Langlie, a point to windward,' Lewrie called. 'And put some spare hands in the larboard fore-chains to sound with the lead.'
'Aye, sir.'
'As you bear… on the up-roll… fire!'
Under a mile now, Lt. Wyman was letting gun-captains aim for themselves, picking their own targets.