he get past the frigate, he'll use her for a shield against Modeste's fire. Beats the bow- rake he'd have taken, had he swung Sutherly.'
Modeste's guns were hammering the French flagship, hulling her ''twixt wind and water,' and raising great bursts of paint, splinters, and engrained dirt from her sides. Heeled over as she was, some shot shattered gangway bulwarks, sending rolled up and stowed hammocks and bedding flying like disturbed nests of snakes. But some of Modeste's broadside was striking the immoble frigate, not the two-decker as she ducked behind her consort in her frantic turn.
Come on! Ram the bitch! Lewrie prayed in silence, and it did look as if the 74's jib- boom and bow sprit would spear into the starboard mizen shrouds of the frigate, but… she slid on past, scraping her larboard bows down the frigate's starboard side. She lost her cat-head timber and larboard bower anchor, and visibly staggered, rolling almost upright for a moment, but… she sailed clear with little more damage to show for it.
'By broadside, Mister Spendlove! Open upon her!' Lewrie cried. 'Now, while she's unable to respond!'
Reliant had come up to nearly a close reach to the North, with the wrecked frigate almost dead astern and the French two-decker only two points astern of lying abeam, and she was still turning, as if to fall in trail of Reliant or cut through between Modeste and Lewrie's vessel and re-join her fleeing transport. There was a scramble on the gun-deck to shift the aim of the artillery as far aft as possible, but if they did fire at such acute angles, when the guns recoiled there would be no controlling their backward lurches. Lt. Spendlove looked up at the quarterdeck with a shrug and a lifting of both arms.
Modeste, clear of the wrecked French frigate, was firing again at the two-decker. The two-decker's larboard side erupted in a reply. The range was only about a cable, and everyone on Reliant'? quarterdeck who could look aft let out a groan to see the avalanche of shot that struck Modeste's sides, punched through her sails, and raised feathery plumes of shot- splashes all round her engaged side.
'Cockerel and Pylades are engaging the trailing Frenchman, sir!' Midshipman Grainger called forward. With no signals to send at that moment, he could use his telescope for his own amusements.
'Sorry, sir,' Lt. Spendlove said from the foot of the starboard companionway ladder. 'The guns won't bear unless we alter course.'
'Both batteries, Mister Spendlove,' Lewrie answered, leaning to smile at him. 'If she's almost dead astern of us, we'll weave about from tack to tack, and rake her bows 'til she takes notice.'
'Aye, sir!'
That'll take some of her attention from Modeste, at any rate, Lewrie told himself as he went back to the helm to re-join Westcott and explain what he wished.
'May I suggest we haul our wind to larboard for the first shots, sir,' Lt. Westcott posed with a brief grin. 'Give her the larboard guns, then come back Due North. Else, our East'rd turn would put us dead into the eye of the wind, and in irons if we're not quick about it.'
'Very good, Mister Westcott, let's do it. Mister Spendlove… larboard battery first! We're going to haul our wind!'
'Aye, sir!'
'Two points down-helm first, Mister Westcott,' Lewrie decided after a quick look-about. 'Get some way on her, and some lead to windward, so we can lay Spendlove's guns dead abeam.'
'Aye, sir! Stations for wear!' Westcott called out to the crew.
Reliant surged up to windward, on a close reach for a moment, with braces hauled in, the deck heeling, and the sea swashing more urgently down her flanks. The French two-decker, still duelling with Modeste, shifted from a point off the starboard quarter to a point off her larboard quarter.
'Now, Mister Westcott! Wear her! Stand ready on the guns, Mister Spendlove!' Lewrie snapped.
Reliant lost a lot of her gathered speed as she came about, the decks canting, the masts wheeling cross the skies, pivotting on a wide patch of disturbed, foamed water as she swung to Due West, steadying and laying herself cross the two-decker's course, two cables off…
'As… you… bear, Mister Spendlove!' Lewrie yelled.
'As you bear… fire!'
Hard iron round-shot caromed off the sea round the two-decker's bows, dapping from First Graze to smash into her bows. More iron hit her directly, punching holes into her lower gun-deck, ripping away her figurehead, her curving beakhead rails, and bowling down both her upper and lower gun-decks. Her jib-boom disappeared in a cloud of splinters, collapsing her inner jib and outer flying jib, and her fore top-mast stays. As Reliant'?, shot hit her, Captain Blanding's Modeste delivered another broadside, lower deck first, then upper deck and all her carronades, and the French flagship was visibly staggered.
'Stay on this course 'til she's on our larboard quarters, Mister Westcott, then we'll go back on the wind,' Lewrie ordered. 'Just a bit longer, so our next broadside's at closer range.' 'Aye, sir.'
'Starboard side next, Mister Spendlove!' Lewrie called down to the waist.
'Signal, sir… our number!' Midshipman Grainger said from aft. ''Engage The Enemy More Closely,' sir!'
'Very well, Mister Grainger… Let's do that. Ready about!' Lewrie replied, grinning. 'About… now, Mister Westcott!'
Reliant wheeled about to Due North once more, slowing again but placing the French warship square-on to the gun-ports of the starboard battery, with her at a 45-degree angle, a bit West of her course.
'I leave it to you, Mister Spendlove! Serve her a good'un!' he shouted down to the waist.
God, but I love this! Lewrie thought, imagining that he had wakened from a long, dull sleep; most-like it's all I'm good for, but I need this! Big guns, shot, and powder stench! And killin' Frogs!
'As you bear… fire!' Spendlove rasped hoarsely.
It would not be a proper bow-rake, but the bulk of their fire would slam into the two-decker's forrud larboard quarters this time, the range no more than a single cable, and closing quickly as Reliant crossed the Frenchman's course, almost on the ragged edge of the wind, and the Sailing Master, Lt. Westcott, the quartermasters on the wheel watching her luff damned close, waiting for the very last gun to fire to order the helm be put up, and haul off from North by West.
'Now, sir!' Lewrie shouted as the last gun aft in his cabins erupted. 'Full and by, Due North, and let's get some space ahead of her 'fore we try that again.'
'Oh, lovely!' Marine Lieutenant Simcock exulted. Until action was at 'close pistol-shot' or until a boarding action was called for, he had no proper duties on the quarterdeck, and had been strolling about, a curious onlooker. 'That'll ruin their digestion!'
HMS Modeste was meeting Captain Blanding's requirements for three broadsides every two minutes, still deliberate and controlled, not a ragged catch-as-catch-can cannonade resembling the firing line of a hunting party potting pheasant, when ships were so close together that gun-captains were allowed to fire at will. She was taking punishment, but she was dealing it out in spades, compared to the speed and skill of the French. Modeste's last broadside had struck almost in conjunction with Reliant's raking fire, and they had just mauled her together.
Upper bulwarks were disappearing in great clouds of shattered wood; the two-decker's mizen mast was hit below the fighting top and leaped skyward for an instant before crashing down over her quarterdeck and poop, falling to larboard, alee, like a titanic sweep-oar to drag into the sea. With her helm crushed under all that wreckage she began to slew downwind! The light upper masts and top-masts slashed down separately, raking away stays and main-mast yards and sails before slamming down into her waist, as well. She sagged further downwind…
'Wear, Mister Westcott!' Lewrie snapped, seizing the opportunity.
