It took a further lightning strike on the sea, one more of those lingering, flickering monsters, to espy the second Frenchman from their decks. Smaller than the first, perhaps, or just farther off? She was running 'both sheets aft' with the wind right up her stern, to the Nor'west, or a touch West-Nor'west, bounding, pitching, and slithering over the blue-black, white-flecked sea… for the convoy!
'Nothing we can do about it,' Lewrie spat through gritted teeth, his jaw ruefully clenched. 'They do work in pairs, and in all this excitement, I forgot that, damn my eyes! Nothin' t'be done but shoot the shit out o' this'un, and Devil take the hindmost.'
Which would be Festival, the slowest, Lewrie thought; the poor, old cow! For the only taffrail lights still anywhere near enough to be made out clearly were certainly the circus ship's. Eudoxia! He cringed, fearful for her in French hands… even if she had come within a hair of clawing his eyes out.
'First honours to Mister Adair, and his chase-guns!' Lewrie felt need to shout, to keep his crew's spirit up, and put his own impending fight ahead of anything else. 'Let's have tunes more to his liking!' he ordered, turning to face the enemy frigate, which was now surging up closer to abeam of Proteus, and slowly falling down onto her. Desmond and the other musicians launched into livelier, more Scottish airs-' Campbell 's Farewell to Red Castle,' 'Hey, Johnny Cope,' 'The Flowers of Edinburgh,' and one of Lewrie's old favourites, 'The High Road to Linton.'
He stood at the larboard bulwarks, the windward side that was a captain's proper post, clinging against Proteus's motion with his left hand on the mizen stays, his right hand beating the tempo of the music… waiting, and shamming utter serenity for his officers and sailors, which was about the hardest thing to do before the iron began to fly.
'Run out the larboard batt'ry, Mister Catterall!' he shouted as the range diminished, and gun-port lids swung up and out of the way to bare their blood-red painted inner faces, stark against the lighter colour of the gunwale hull paint. Black iron muzzles slowly juddered forward as the blocks of the run-out tackles skreakily sang, and everyone could hear Lt. Catterall bellowing at his gun crews in a harsh and loud voice full of blasphemies and good-natured curses for one and all, and their foe, rising to new heights of his burly, rumble-tumble style that had even old salts grinning over his inventiveness.
The Frenchman's gun-ports also opened, her own muzzles seeming to waver as their crews fiddled with their aiming… most likely trying to slide the thick wooden quoins out from under the breeches, with their usual intent to fire high and cripple Proteus with chain-shot or star-shot, to take down her masts and sails, and allow their frigate to dash past, and get at the convoy.
He really have his heart in this? Lewrie had to ask himself, as he steeled himself for the first crashing broadsides. A long slugging match was not what most raider captains had in mind, he knew; the point was to take merchantmen, to pummel a convoy with a rapid strike, cutting out a few before the escorts could intervene and deal out real, cruise-ending damage. Rake in prize-money, and loot, punish the hated Anglais, 'The Bloodies,' frighten their ships' husbands and sponsors, their insurance cartels, captains, and crews, alarm Admiralty in London, and stop overseas trade, which the British had, but the French did not.
Just a bit closer, Lewrie silently urged the French frigate; just a tad. A cable's distance, or less… double-shotted guns can't miss, that close. Can't waste the first, and best, broadside!
'Quartermasters, put your helm down half a point… easy!' he snapped over his shoulder. Take the wind a bit more abeam, put Proteus on a broad reach and ease the angle of heel, provide a flatter, firmer deck for the guns…! 'Thus!' he cried, now satisfied with the course. 'Mister Catterall, at half a cable, you may open upon her!'
'Take aim, you rowdy bastards!' Lt. Catterall barked. 'On the up-roll… by broadside… wait for it! By broadside… FIRE!'
Twelve 12-pounders, three 6-pounders, and four monstrous 24-pounder carronades roared, almost as one, the great gouts of spent gunpowder smoke caught by the wind, turned into a solid bank of choking fog for a second or two, before the wind rapidly whisked it over the decks and alee. And, that quick-keening wind brought to them the glad sound of solid shot, aimed ' 'twixt wind and water,' crashing and crunching into the French ship's side, the parroty Rwawrk! screech of shattered planking, the thuds of heavier timbers as her frames were battered… and, the thin, terrified cries of frightened, wounded, or quick-slain men. Just seconds before a matching great bank of gunpowder sprang to life as her own guns stabbed long reddish tongues of flames, and the thunder of artillery bellowed, almost lost in the cracks and roars of Nature's fury!
'Christ A'mighty, aw Christ A'mighty,' Daniel Wigmore whinnied, wringing his hands in despair as rain poured down his face like tears from a whole clan upon the death of its laird, plastering long strands of hair to his cheeks. 'Me silver, me gold, Cap'm Weed! Me h'animals! 'Em fookin' Frogs'll most-like h'eat 'em, or toss 'em h'over th' side, an' we'll all be ruint! Busted! Tents, scen'ry, costumes, performers all gone… th' girls raped'r worse! H'an't 'ere summat ye can do, I akses ye, man? Christ, we'll lose th' ship, t'boot, iff'n…!'
'Nothing to be done, 'gainst a frigate, Mister Wigmore,' Captain Weed told him, looking equally despairing of the loss of his livelihood. 'We got all the sail she'll carry aloft, already, and she still wallows like a hog in mud. Might be we could bear away more Westerly, turn it into a long stern-chase, but that'd only gain us two more hours, maybe less. 'Less we could put up some sort o' resistance… which we can't, not with these puny old guns of ours, and no trained gunners, who you wouldn't let me hire on, if ye'll remem…'
' 'Wishes were fishes, h'ever'body'd h'eat'!' Wigmore snapped. ' 'For want of a nail…' ' Capt. Weed cited right back. He had himself a gloomy squint aloft for inspiration, for an Act of God, or a Sign, but all he saw was dark sails and black rigging, masts, and spars, now and then going ghostly in the lightning flashes. The blue fusee at the truck-cap of the main mast had finally burned out, inspiring him to order the twin taffrail lanthorns to be extinguished, too, hoping that it might make Festival harder for the French to chase in the darkness.
As if to scoff at that forlorn hope, another long, flea-flicking fork of lightning lit up the sea like a full moon, revealing the French frigate pursuing them as clear as broad daylight, revealing Festival to them just as clearly.
'Damn 'em!' Capt. Weed gravelled as he peered about for the rest of the convoy. No matter how deeply loaded with the untold riches from the Far East, the East India Company ships were sleeker, faster, their bottoms cleaner, and carried much larger crews that could make the most of their acres of sail. They'd scarpered for the far horizons, and damn their black souls to Hell for running off and leaving them. Though, in all honesty, were their places switched, Weed would have been halfway to St. Helena by then, and 'hard cheese' for the laggards!
Capt. Weed also spotted one lone blue fusee still burning over a pair of stern lights, off to the Nor'east. Another bolt of lightning revealed HMS Jamaica, all too far away to be of any immediate aid, but she had managed to come about in the storm, and was butting, pitching, and crashing as close to the wind's eye as she might lay, almost bows-on to Festival on what Weed thought was a course of South by West, six points off the storm's keening winds.
'Could we but hold them off a few minutes, Mister Wigmore!' the desperate Capt. Weed shouted almost into Wigmore's ear. 'Offer up some resistance, there's Jamaica, coming to our…!'
'Wot/' Wigmore barked back, leaning away in shock. 'Are ye daft, Weed? R'sistance! Why, 'ey'd shoot us t'kindlin', 'en come swarmin' h'aboard an' slaughter us all, men, wimmen, an' babes; ye great ninny! Said yerself, we can't fight a bloody frigate!'
'The Frogs don't want to sink us, or slaughter us, sir,' Capt. Weed urgently insisted. 'They want a prize, a whole prize…'
'O' course 'ey do, puddin' brains!' Wigmore screeched in alarm. 'Sure t'God, 'ey h'an't come fer a matinee!'
