soaked to my chest when I mis-judged my leap back into the boat from our torpedo’s back. The tide was still running fairly strong when we let them go, so…,” he said with a shrug.
“You were closer to those anchored boats,” Lewrie said. “Did you note any damage?”
“Not all that much, sir, no. Sorry,” Lt. Westcott said, more softly. “Like in
“Resume fire, Mister Merriman!” Lewrie took time to order. “Do you take those Frog launches under fire!”
Now it was Midshipman Entwhistle’s boat crew coming back aboard to be congratulated, then… Captain Speaks and his crew.
“Must apologise to your young gentleman for supplanting him, Lewrie, but… I wished to see our torpedoes delivered properly,” the older fellow briskly said, stone-faced, as if to fend off any criticism of his actions.
“Excuse me, sir,” Surgeon Mr. Mainwaring intruded as he came to the base of the larboard gangway ladder. “Are there any wounded?” He had his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and wore his usual long bib apron of leather; both, thankfully, were still pristine and bloodless.
“Don’t think so, Mister Mainwaring,” Lt. Westcott told him.
“Well, sor…,” Patrick Furfy piped up, holding up his bloodied left hand, “ ’Tis nought a glass o’ neat rum won’t cure.”
“The lummox caught it on one o’ th’ torpedo grapnel hooks, sor,” Liam Desmond related. “Thought he’d git towed ashore t’France before he got free!”
“We must see to that… sew it up,” Mainwaring determined after a quick inspection.
“Be painful, sor?” Furfy asked, looking skittish.
“You’d feel a pinch or two, yes,” the Surgeon told him.
“Arrah, sor, rum’d ease th’ pain? And faith if I don’t feel all weak an’ faint, of a sudden!” Furfy declared, shamming wooziness.
“Below to the cockpit, Furfy…
There was a tremendous explosion close to shore as one of the fireships blew up. There was a monstrous fire ball and an expanding cloud of broken planking, shattered timbers, and flaming tar barrels, every chunk and slightest splintered bit a bright torch, all of it pattering down hundreds of feet away to extinguish in the sea, leaving the ruptured hull smouldering and smothered in black smoke.
“Huzzah!” from Lewrie’s weary gunners, enthused once more.
“Excuse me, sir,” Midshipman Warburton said, doffing his hat as he came to the quarterdeck, casting a brief, bitter glance at Captain Speaks. “Mister Merriman reports that there is so much dark smoke from the fireships that he cannot find targets. The French launches have retreated
“He is to cease fire again, Mister Warburton,” Lewrie decided after a long moment, “but stay ready should any launch re-appear.”
There was so much smoke that
Without torpedoes, he also hoped. He’d seen only two work so far. Lewrie let his attention drift as he contemplated how he would frame his report to Admiralty, and how to praise his officers and…
“Oh, bugger!” Lewrie whispered in disgust.
He was drawn back to full attention by the swelling of gunfire.
“Will we ever run short of rockets and mortar shells, I ask you?” Lt. Spendlove wondered aloud. The bombardment of Boulogne looked and sounded less furious, but it went on, relentlessly, if slowly.
“I should take charge of the guns, sir?” Spendlove asked.
“I’ll dry out here on the quarterdeck, sir,” Lt. Westcott offered. “I’ll resume my place… damp, but willing.”
“Go, Mister Spendlove,” Lewrie ordered. “Slow but steady fire on the anchored boats.” He doubled his coat over his chest and buttoned up, wishing for a blanket as he sat down in his canvas chair. It looked to be a long and fruitless night.
He had managed to doze off in spite of the occasional shrieks of Congreve rockets, and the deep drumming of gunfire and exploding shell in the wee hours, and came awake from a slumped nap with a start, snapped to wakefulness by the
“Did I miss something, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked once he’d creaked to his feet and padded to the bulwarks facing the shore.
“It seems everyone’s lost enthusiasm, at last, sir,” Westcott told him, yawning. “Or run out of shot and powder, us and the French, both. Except for Captain Speaks,” he added in a furtive whisper. That worthy was still awake, pacing the starboard gangway and muttering to himself nigh-urgently, constantly peering shoreward with his telescope, then consulting his pocket-watch. “Hope springs eternal, what?”
“Any idea whether any of our damned torpedoes worked?” Lewrie asked, yawning himself. “I only could spot two.”
“Some big explosions, but those were hours ago, sir, and short or wide of the mark, as per usual,” Lt. Westcott said, shrugging. “It is long past the run of any of the clocks, so-”
“There! There, sirs! Right alongside one of those damned Frog gunboats!” Speaks yelled in triumph. “By God, it worked, and we
“Perhaps they thumped against it, and the pistol-,” Lewrie countered.
“No matter!” Speaks cut him off. “One out of six succeeded in sinking an enemy ship. With better clockworks, with better pistols, and more water-proofing, we’ve proven torpedoes valuable, d’ye see?”
Captain Speaks turned about and capered round the deck, raising a cheer from
“Mine arse on a band-box, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie gloomed.
“Only a small gunboat, for six expended, sir?” Westcott whispered back, almost cheerfully. “And that by accident, if there really