'Aye, sir!'
Even as the peal of thunder from the last lightning strike was dying like a titanic game of bowls, a third bolt far to the South lit up the sea. A quick measurement against
The convoy had been making about four or five knots in typical Indiaman night fashion, but were now spreading more sail, and might be up to six knots, by now. The enemy frigate
Lewrie swivelled about to peer forward, over
Small red-amber-yellow signal rockets went soaring up, from the lead ships or HMS
'A point to starboard, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie ordered after he swung back about to catch another eye-blink lightning flash of the foe. 'Crowd her a little, and let's see what 'Jean Crapaud' will do.'
'Aye aye, sir.' Langlie replied, sounding all business-like, now that the initial shock had worn off.
'And somebody strangle that damn' bushbaby,' Lewrie griped as the beast began a new 'aria.' He peered upwards in satisfaction to note that his frigate now sported more sail, that the fusee was lit and burning, and that the topmen were already shuffling inwards along the foot-ropes to the cross-trees and tops.
'Guns manned and ready, sir!' Lt. Catterall reported from below in the waist, in his usual eager bawl. 'The ship is at Quarters!'
'Very well, Mister Catterall!' Lewrie called back, stepping up to the hammock nettings, which were once more stuffed with the sailors' rolled up bedding and hammocks, not only on the quarterdeck, but along the bulwarks, as well. Perhaps not as tightly-rolled as they might be to pass through the ring-measure each morning in the crew's haste, but there was now some level of protection for waisters and brace-tenders on the gangways, the Marines prepared to volley behind the thick oaken bulwarks, and for the vital command group on the quarterdeck. Lewrie had been so absorbed with his own concerns that he hadn't paid attention to the slams, bangs, and thuds of a warship being stripped for action. The red glows of battle-lanthorns between the guns, and the weak sparks of lengths of slow-match, coiled about the tubs of swab-water that would be used to douse any lingering embers in gun barrels before re-loading, gave him a momentary reassurance that, this time, they'd be ready for whatever came at them, from whichever quarter. And if the rain slicked the flints so they did not spark-off the igniting quills stuck down through the touch-holes to the powder bags, the slow-match could be jammed onto them, and his artillery most likely would still fire.
A stillness fell over the frigate, now that the din of preparation was over, and the only sounds to be heard were the keening of the wind in the miles of rigging, and the snuffly thunder of the hull that butted its bows through the long-rolling, white-flecked, waves; that, and the crack and rumble from the storm, of course.
'The French, out yonder!' Lewrie bellowed down to his crew, his hands gripping the cap-rails of the hammock nettings. 'Mean to screw up their courage, and try a second time to finish what failed, before! They might've given us a
The snarling, vengeful cheer that arose told him all he wished to know of the mettle of his crew. Lewrie looked over towards the foe to judge her distance, and how long they had before they came to grips.
'Fiddler, fifer! Desmond! Give us a tune, a lively one!' he roared, and the ship's finest musicians got with the Marine drummer, and launched into 'The Stool of Repentance,' then 'Lord Dunmore'!
'Yah sword an' pistols, Cap'm,' Cox'n Andrews said at his side, and helped him jam his pair of double-barreled Mantons into pockets in his uniform coat, beneath the tarpaulin foul-weather coat, where their primings might stay dry. 'Cats is below on th' orlop with Aspinall, sah, an' he said t'send ya dis,' Andrews added, once he'd also helped Lewrie strap on his hanger. Andrews held out a large tin mug of soup and stew combined, with some stale, toasted rolls crumbled up and sopping juices in it. A cheap, older horn spoon jutted upwards from one side, both mug and spoon no loss if Lewrie had to throw them overside or let them fall to the deck to get trampled.
'Thankee, Andrews,' Lewrie said, looking him square in the eyes. 'And, give me thanks to Aspinall, should you see him first when this is done. And, I expect t'see your ugly phyz amongst the living, then, hear me? Have a care with yourself.'
'An' don' ya go bein' too bold yahself, sah,' Andrews replied with a shrug and a sketchy smile. 'Beggin' ya pahd'n fo' sayin' such, Cap'm Lewrie, sah.' Andrews knuckled his forehead in salute, then he was off along the weather gangway with both Lewrie's breech-loading Ferguson rifle and the Girandoni air rifle he'd gotten in New Orleans for a little 'man-hunting' should the French come within near shot.
'Cast of the log, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie snapped, coming back to proper concern. Lightning flash, and a crash of thunder! Lewrie snapped his attention to the French frigate, the sea astern, the sea abeam, for all that he could glean from that finger-snap of revelation.
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