gnawed away in places, from abaft her cat-heads and swung-up anchors to abeam of her mizen-mast.
Lewrie grimly supposed that
'Mister Catterall! Quoins fully out, and aim for her rigging!' Lewrie shouted down to the waist. 'Mister Langlie, brace and sheet men will haul in
The French frigate, was it starting to brace up, as well, going more South of West… to break off the action and run? Lewrie speculated. 'Mister Catterall, a
'Aye, sir! Load, load, load, ye miserable cripples, or I…!' Lt. Catterall chortled in a voice gone creaky with over-use, stamping about the deck in blood-lusty glee.
The French warship continued
'Ready, sir!' Catterall bellowed, his voice cracking raspily.
'
The brief gap between the frigates lit up harsh and orange, for a second, and the range was still so close that
The Frenchman's main mast shivered as a great rat-bite appeared in it halfway 'twixt her bulwark and main top. Clouds of grape ravaged her upper and lower shrouds, blasting away the dead-eyes that kept her top-mast erect, by the edge of the main top, shattering her slender top-mast, and bringing the whole thing, from truck and cap to halfway up above the main top, swinging down in ruin, the furled and gasketed royal, half-reefed t'gallant, and tops'1, with all their mile of rigging, collapsed alee to drape utter chaos, and highly flammable sails, over her engaged side!
'Aye, sir!' his Marine officer shouted from the larboard side.
'Ready to volley and clear the way for us!' Lewrie directed as he tore off his foul-weather coat, at last, and patted his pockets to assure himself that his pistols were still there, then drew his hanger an inch or two to determine that it would draw easily when needed, but was snug enough to stay in its scabbard during his clamber across.
With an upper mast and sails dragging over her lee side, and a catastrophic loss of sail area with which to maintain her speed and her agility, the French warship sagged down on
'Ready grapnels, there!' Bosun Pendarves was shouting.
'Ready, sir!' Lt. Catterall rasped, his teeth white in a wild and wide smile. 'Aye aye, sir!' Lt. Adair up on the forecastle cried as well, his smaller party of gunners and sail-handlers gathered round him by the larboard cat- head.
'Boarders!' Lewrie ordered in a quarterdeck roar. 'Away!'
Swivel-guns yapped from both ships, from the bulwarks and tops, though British guns vastly out-numbered the French. Lt. Devereux and his Marines levelled their muskets, volleyed as one, and nigh a dozen Frenchmen waiting with cutlasses and axes in hand to repel them reeled away from sight, shot dead in their tracks!
'Let's go, Proteuses! Kill me some Frogs, ha ha!' Lt. Catterall encouraged as he stood atop their bulwarks, shrouds in one hand, and a glittering sword in the other. His gunners began to surge forward, in obedience to his urging, leaping and scrabbling across the gap between the tumble-home of hulls, though both frigates' waterlines were inches apart.
A swivel-gun coughed, and Catterall grunted in agony, his right arm torn completely off, and his shoulder shredded. 'Well, just damn my eyes, if I…' he loudly cursed, before swaying backwards to fall dead on the gangway.
'Come on, lads!' Midshipman Larkin, their little Bog-Irish imp, shrilled as he swung across on a freed line. He gained the Frenchman's gangway, atop that pile of wreckage, dirk in one hand and a pistol in the other. He shot down one French sailor, and hopelessly clashed his short and slim dirk against another's cutlass, slyly kicking his opponent in the teeth to drive him back. But, a boarding pike came driving upwards, taking him deep in the stomach. A twist of the long and slim pikehead to make it even crueller, then the French pikeman lifted him like a forkful of reaped hay to fling him in-board to the enemy's gun-deck! Lewrie slid down the larboard mizen-mast shrouds to the channel and dead-eyes, leaped onto the French ship's main mast chain platform, and began to scramble up, praying that his left arm, slightly weakened after being broken by a Dutch musket ball at the Battle of Camperdown, would serve him, for he already held one of his double-barreled pistols in his right. British sailors followed his path alongside him, others made the risky leap over his head. Muskets, pistols, and swivels made a minute-long fusillade, before hard-pressed men on both sides ran out of time for re-loading, and the clatter of blades replaced them. Up to the level of a French gun-port, the hint of a shadowy figure within…
Up to level with the bulwarks, into a snarl of rigging, broken spars, and sailcloth, but a wide gap had been blown through it, and it was with a great sense of relief that he flung his right arm, then his right leg, over the splintery timbers, and crawled to his feet, on the enemy's decks, at last!
Shoot
'Take it to 'em, lads!