Sea of Grey

'Dear Lord, sir,' Carling said, grimacing and glancing ashore.

'I know,' Lewrie said, in sympathy for the great risk of killing British soldiers with a graze or a short round. 'Quoins full out, breeches resting on the carriages, for more loft. But with the foe so close to the town… what about reduced charges, perhaps saluting charges? So we don't throw iron half a mile beyond?'

'Could do that, sir, but… that'd be indirect fire, Captain,' Mr. Carling countered, rubbing at his close-shorn scalp, 'and no way to know the fall of shot. Could waste a deal of shot and powder and not ever hit a Godd-. A blessed thing, sir. Like firing mortars!'

He had stammered, noting that the prim Mr. Winwood was nearby.

'It worked for a Frenchman who sank my ship at Toulon, back in '93,' Lewrie said with a snort, and his first real moment of humour of the morning. 'Bastard spotted fire for his guns from a bluff. If the Army could signal us, were we long or short, on target or not…?'

So it's their responsibility, not mine! Lewrie could not help but conjure.

'Towing cables are ready, sir, and we're prepared to haul away.' 'Thankee, Mister Langlie, carry on. Smartly, now. So if they could signal us… would it work, Mister Carling?'

'Aye, sir… I s'pose, but…' Carling answered, rubbing his scalp more vigourously. 'The six-pounders on the forecastle and here on the quarterdeck. Main battery twelves'd not be able to elevate in the ports high enough.'

'The carronades!' Lewrie insisted. 'They'd elevate. Even with a full charge, they don't throw much more than four hundred yards. If we loaded with reduced charges, but with star-shot, bar-shot, and chain-shot… grape or cannister atop those…!'

'Excuse me, sir, but the rowing boat with those Army officers is now close-aboard,' Lt. Wyman interrupted.

'Very well, Mister Wyman!' Lewrie snapped, exasperated with all the demands upon him. 'Pipe 'em aboard! Dust 'em off, and trot out a tot o' rum for 'em, I don't bloody care!'

'Uhm… aye, sir!'

Proteus began to move as the pair of Army officers appeared at the larboard entry- port, and took the hastily gathered salute from a much-reduced side-party. Lewrie hoped that they were unfamiliar with proper naval custom, and wouldn't know that they'd been slighted. He was more concerned with the helm, and the gelatinously slow creeping pace that the towing boats could generate. A fiddler and fifer atop the roundhouse overlooking the beak-head began to give them a tune to slave by, as the hands dipped their oars and strained red- faced for a yard-by-yard advance.

'Captain Lewrie,' Lewrie said, announcing himself.

'Major James, sir… Captain Ward,' the older officer replied, doffing his hat. 'Damn' fortunate you were bound here, sir. We need a bit of help.'

'Wasn't bound here, just saw your signalling in passing. Once in range, I intend to swing abeam the town and anchor with springs on the cables, so I can throw shot.'

'That'd be most welcome, Captain Lewrie, most welcome, indeed. Though…'tis a hellish risk, d'ye see,' Major James told him. 'We are now entrenched not an hundred paces beyond the farthest houses on shore, and the Blacks are perhaps one or two hundred paces beyond.'

Now that Proteus did not make her usual noises under way, nor had the wind-rush to mask sounds, Lewrie could hear the boom-boom-boom-b-boom of voudoun drums, far back in the forests. Much louder and closer than any he'd heard at Port-Au-Prince.

'Do your artillerists signal me, it could be done,' Lewrie said.

'Well now, sir… I doubt my brigadier'd wish to risk our men in such a way,' Major James objected.

'I'm to wait 'til the Cuffies are running down the piers, then? To keep them off you as you row away?' Lewrie said with a snort. 'You say you need my support, but… how bad are things ashore?'

'Lord, sir!' Major James said with a sigh, fanning himself with his hat. 'Two days ago, we held a perimeter nigh a mile inland. Only have the three regiments, d'ye see, and we thought most of the Blacks were off near Cape Francois, or down south near Port-Au-Prince, so we had no worries. But, they hit us at dawn, just popped up in front of the trench works…'

'Spent all night, crawling up to us in the grass, sir,' Captain Ward supplied, looking as shaken as if it had happened this morning. 'Quiet and slow as mice, they were.'

'Drove us back… damn' near overran us,' Major James admitted, casting a leery scowl at his junior officer for sounding as if he 'had the wind up.'

'Lost nigh on two whole companies, sir,' Capt. Ward continued, despite his superior's look of distaste. But he was one of those boy captains, not a day over sixteen, whose parents had bought him a set of colours early enough in life so he could live long enough to make a full colonelcy, if not become a general, before retirement, or inheriting some share of the estate back home in England.

'Field pieces overrun as well, I suppose,' Lewrie commented.

'We are short of artillery, yes, but…' Major James objected some more.

'You wish my help or not, sir?' Lewrie snapped. 'Then let's be about it. An artillery officer aboard Proteus here, another ashore to relay the fall-of-shot… using your signal flags, or whatever it is that you do, so there's no errors in communication. Perhaps a chain of signallers from your trenchworks right back to the docks.'

'I suppose we could, Captain Lewrie,' Major James said, frowning. 'Don't know much about artillery myself, all that Woolwich bang-bangin'? I'm infantry, d'ye see.'

He drew himself up with a touch of pride; wounded pride, Lewrie suspected, that he was forced to reveal himself as just another drone who knew how to shout, square-bash on parade, and look good in scarlet, and hadn't learned a thing in his climb from subaltern rank outside of his own narrow interests. And his promotions bought, not earned!

'But you could arrange…?' Lewrie prompted, flexing his fingers on his sword hilt in frustration.

'Might be best, did you have your people do the signalling and use your own system, Captain Lewrie,' Major James said at last. 'Your guns… your fall-of-shot?' He tossed off a helpless shrug.

'Don't have a system for such as this!' Lewrie quickly growled. 'I can send a midshipman or two ashore, but only to aid your people.'

'Well, uhm…'

'Damme, sir, you wish help? I didn't short-tack in here, six hours' worth o' hard labour, then put my people rowin' so hard they'd herniate, just t'watch a raree-show. You refuse, I'll put about and stand back out to sea, and bedamned to ya!'

And naval captains outrank Army majors, Lewrie told himself: I am almost sure of it!

'On your head be it, Captain Lewrie,' Major James demurred.

'No… on some over-educated Woolwich graduate be it,' Lewrie countered, knowing how Redcoat officers demeaned the blue-coated artillery corps, 'tradesmen,' who could not buy a commission, but had to learn, work and think, before the Woolwich Arsenal passed them for field duty.

Sure enough, Major James treated Lewrie to an smirk of sudden understanding, and began to bow himself away.

Now, who do I send ashore? Lewrie wondered, after doffing his hat to the soldiers, and turning away to see to his ship's snail-like progress. Midshipmen Sevier and Nicholas were the oldest and smartest, the rest aboard too young, too impressionable, and not yet challenged by independent command away from the ship; none of them were, really.

And who do I stand to lose? Who dies… at my command?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I think we're ready for a try, sir,' the scruffy, and worried,