A King`s Trade

frigate, relatively fresh from the Halifax yard, gleamed like a bright, new-minted penny.

A flurry of flag signals from the lead 74 created an answering blizzard of bunting from the frigate on the forward Southern quarter of the convoy, was repeated by the trailing sloop of war to seaward of the trade's stern quarter, and answered by the other Third Rate that brought up the rear, which, after a long moment, made a new hoist that the lead frigate repeated as she wore a bit off her 'soldier's wind' and started to come down nearer Proteus.

'Can't read 'em, sor… sir, sorry,' Midshipman Larkin said as he stood atop the bulwarks by the mizen shrouds, a telescope to his own eye. 'They're streamin' right at us, but I think she's askin' just who we are, I do! 'Tis in the private signals for this month… I think.'

'Must believe we're a French fraud,' Lewrie agreed. 'Mine arse on a bandbox, we've our Number aloft, already. Can you read his?'

'Er, aye, sor… sir,' Larkin, the Bog-Irish by-blow, replied, drifting back into brogue as he always did when flustered. 'She's ah, HMS Stag.. . Fifth Rate, thirty-eight-gunner, Captain John Philpott,' Larkin stammered, fumbling through his bundle of lists and almost losing both his telescope overside and his grip on the shrouds.

'Last Stag would know, we're still in the Caribbean, sir,' Lt. Langlie commented by Lewrie's side. 'A good ruse for a French raider.'

'Aye, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie said. 'Mister Larkin, hoist that we are ordered to join the escort. Perhaps the latest signals book'll convince them. 'Tis only three weeks old, after all.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

A long minute or two passed as Larkin and his 'bunting tossers' made their hoist, which was acknowledged by Stag; then, they had more minutes to wait 'til Stag made a reply, for she had to pass the message back to the repeating sloop of war, which passed it to the trailing 74-gunner, which was obviously the flagship. More time was taken for the flagship to hoist a new order, which had to come down the chain to the sloop, to the frigate, to Proteus.

And, all during that time, the convoy was plodding along under reduced plain sail, bound roughly West, Sou'west, while Proteus still was on larboard tack, heading about Sou'east by East and drawing apart slowly.

'Wear her about to West, Sou'west, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie told his First Officer. 'Nothing more convincing than showing leery people your arse. Like a dog rollin' over on his back.'

'Aye, sir. All hands! Stations to wear, ready…!'

'What did they ask that time, Mister Larkin?' Lewrie asked.

'Order, sir. 'Come Under My Lee,' the flag said t'do,' Larkin puzzled out at last. 'HMS Grafton, seventy-four. Captain Sir Tobias… Trey… Gwees? Triggers?'

'Truh-Gewz,' Lewrie corrected him. 'An old captain of mine, me lad. Damme, they didn't do him too proud, did they? Grafton was commissioned in 1771. Why she hasn't been hulked… or rotted apart…'

'Ready to wear, sir,' Langlie reported.

'Very well, Mister Langlie. Once about, reduce sail so we may fall astern of Grafton yonder, then come up under her lee. With winds full astern, I s'pose he means come alongside her inshore beam. Might be, either'd do,' Lewrie said with a shrug. 'Mister Larkin, alert yon suspicious frigate that we're wearing about. Try not to make it look like an order to Captain Wilkinson, hmm?'

'Aye aye, sor,' Larkin sheepishly replied.

'Wear about, then, Mister Langlie.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Perhaps half an hour later, HMS Proteus had fallen far enough towards the tail-end of the trade to make a bit more sail so she could angle in towards HMS Grafton. When she was close enough, it was an easy matter to duck under her high, old-fashioned stern and make a brief dash before the sails were reduced once more, so that she ended up off the 74-gun ship's starboard quarter, about half a cable inshore of her.

Lewrie left the details to Langlie, busy with his telescope by the larboard bulwarks to study the people gathered on Grafton's quarterdeck. Officers, sailors of the afterguard, some gloomy-looking corn stalk of a fellow in drab, dark clothing, and… a woman? An officer, perhaps Grafton's First Lieutenant, lifted a brass speaking-trumpet to his mouth to shout across. The swash of the sea between the two ships, the wind, and the normal creaks and groans of Proteus's hull made what he shouted quite un-intelligible.

'Croror? Is'll pot?' Lewrie mimicked, cupping a hand behind an ear and shrugging at that worthy. 'What the Devil does he mean by that, I ask you? Must be a Welsh insult,' he japed to his own officers.

'Come… up… to.. .pistol… shod' Grafton's senior officer cried, again, all but screeching this time, and waving an arm to direct them to sidle up alongside Grafton, almost hull-to-hull.

'Ease a spoke or two o' lee helm, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie said, tossing back his boat cloak so the single gold epaulet of his rank on his right shoulder could be seen, as Proteus tentatively angled a bit to larboard, closing the distance between the ships to about twenty or so yards. 'Ah, there's the bugger,' he muttered under his breath.

Capt. Sir Tobias Treghues, Baronet, had thrown back the wings of his own cloak, to display his pair of epaulets, with his chin high, as if he'd smelled something rank. Treghues had always been lean and tall, and so he still was, though his aristocratic face was thinner in the cheeks than Lewrie recalled, and there was a hint of the beginning of a gotch-gut 'tween groin and chest that strained his pristine white waist- coat, the sign of good living, Lewrie surmised, once Treghues had inherited his father's estates and title… though Lewrie also could recall that Treghues was the first son from a poor holding, forced to sea to earn the better part of his living.

Lewrie lifted his cocked hat to doff it in salute, and after a moment, Treghues lifted his in response, revealing that his formerly dark brown locks had receded above his temples, and were now streaked like a badger's pelt with grey.

'Captain Alan Lewrie, is it?' Treghues shouted across, after he had replaced his hat on his head. 'Will wonders never cease!'

'To the life, sir!' Lewrie shouted back, wondering what sort of answer one could really make to that opening sally. He would have said that it was good to see Treghues, again, but didn't have a clue whether the man was in the proper half of his wits to accept it.

'You are late, sir!' Treghues primly said.

'Only got our orders yesterday, sir, and had to wait on the wind in Saint Helen's Patch!' Lewrie replied, his own hands cupped to make a trumpet. 'I thought I'd catch you up, at sea, once the wind arose from the East.' I'm tryin' t'be jolly, he told himself.

'You should deal with your signals midshipmen, Captain Lewrie!' Treghues instructed. 'They are… slack in their duties!'

'Dead downwind of you, sir, all signals were edge-on to us!' he explained, 'The leading seventy-four did not repeat them!'

'Just like the old days!' Treghues seemed to scoff at that. 'As I recall, you always had glib and ready answers!'

And bugger you, too, ye prim turd! 'Lewrie silently fumed.

'Take station out yonder, sir!' Treghues cried, pointing off to the Southwest corner of the convoy. 'Tell Captain Hazelhurst, of the Chloe sloop, that he is to re-position himself ahead and to larboard of Horatius!'

'Just asking, sir, but my orders did not list all the ships in the escort!' Lewrie yelled over to him. 'May I assume Horatius is the van sevety-four?'

'Aye, she is!' Treghues shouted, sounding both impatient and petulant together. 'You will learn them soon