“And about a mile off,” Mr. Yelland pointed out.
“I’d like ’em t’come nigh half a mile, first,” Lewrie said in rising excitement. It appeared that the French would not be daunted by the stolidly-plodding line of ships that showed no sign of fleeing.
Come on, come on, Lewrie thought, beginning a slow grin; Come see what we have for ye!
“Ehm … I estimate that it is half a mile, sir,” Mr. Yelland announced.
“Mister Britton?” Lewrie barked. “Hoist the Blue Ensign, and make a signal to the convoy. Number Ten!”
“Open the ports and run out, sir?” Westcott eagerly asked.
“Damned right, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie snapped. He ran up the larboard ladderway to the poop deck to see how all the other ships were obeying his orders, schemed with Ralph Knolles and pre-planned long before while still in port at the Nore.
Step One; Hoist Blue Ensign.
Step Two; Brail up main course, Navy fashion.
Step Three; Fifty Fusiliers to form by engaged side.
Step Four; Copy manoeuvres of escort ahead of you.
All four troop transports were showing the Blue Ensign, and their main courses were being brailed up, as a warship would to avoid the risk of sparks from her own gunfire setting it on fire. Soldiers in full kit were forming along the larboard bulwarks of the transports with their firearms. The Fusiliers wore shakos, not the tall, narrow-brimmed black hats of real Marines, but they gave a good impression of a frigate’s Marine complement, at a half-mile’s range. Good enough to fool the French.
Lewrie looked forward to see that Sapphire’s huge main course was brailed up out of the way, and that Lt. Keane and Lt. Roe were sending some of their men to the fighting tops, at last, and arraying the rest behind the stout bulwarks and stowed hammock racks.
And the French!
“Got you, you ignorant shits!” Lewrie bellowed in his best quarterdeck voice at the foe, hoping they could hear him. “Mister Westcott? Serve the nearest one a broadside!”
The right-hand corvette, a little further off and aiming for the head of the long column, was already hauling her wind, putting her helm hard over and beginning to wear off the wind. Her main course was still spread, so she was fast off the mark. She had not even opened her gun-ports.
The one closest to Sapphire had begun to take in her course, and had opened her ports, but was also beginning to turn, presenting her starboard side to Lewrie’s ship.
“By broadside … fire!”
HMS Sapphire erupted, guns bellowing, great clouds of gunpowder smoke gushing out, and clouds of sparks swirling. Lewrie found that he had crossed the fingers of his right hand for luck. He knew that his gunners could shoot off a concentrated broadside at one cable’s range, but how would they do at close to half a mile?
“Beautiful!” he shouted, clapping his hands in glee.
There were tall pillars and feathers of spray arising round the French corvette, great slaps from 24-pounder shot, smaller ones from the 12-pounders, huge ones from the carronades that didn’t have the range and struck short, lumbering up from First Graze to still do damage when they hit the corvette’s outer plankings. Before his view was blocked out by the thick cloud of smoke, he even saw some roundshot slamming into her, punching star-shaped holes!
“Mister Westcott, come about to East-Sou’east!” he ordered. “Let’s go after her and serve her another!”
“Aye aye, sir! Helmsmen, make her head East-Sou’east,” Lieutenant Westcott repeated. “Bosun, hands to the sheets and braces, and take the wind fine on the quarter, nigh a ‘soldier’s wind’!”
“Mister Britton?” Lewrie shouted aft to the signals Midshipman. “Make to Comus … her number, and Pursue The Enemy More Closely.”
“Aye, sir!” Britton replied, sounding right chipper.
Sapphire was wheeling about, altering course to pursue her own target, slowly sailing back into the thinning, drifting pall of spent gunpowder smoke from her first broadside. That was a disadvantage for her, for this close to running “both sheets aft”, almost dead downwind, she could sail no faster than the wind itself, and would wreath herself with every broadside. He could feel the motion of his ship change under his feet.
Lewrie could barely make out the right-hand French corvette, which had managed to complete her wear-about, crossing the eye of the winds and taking it on her larboard quarter to run as fast as her wee legs could carry her. His own, the left-hand one, was emerging from the smoke, becoming more substantial by the second. And she had been struck, for he could make out bashed-in scantlings, pale raw patches where heavy roundshot had shattered her oak side and bulwarks, leaving base wood clean of paint, tar, and grime. And she was close, no more than two cables off, now! She was turning away to run, but he had her.
“By broadside … fire!”
HMS Sapphire thundered and roared, long amber flames spewing from all her larboard battery, smothering herself, and any view of the corvette in a fresh fog of sour, reeking powder smoke.
All that Lewrie could see were the tops of her upper masts, and they trembled, they swirled about as if the Frenchman had struck a shoal.
“Sir! Sir!” Midshipman Britton was shouting, sounding as if he was chortling, in point of fact. “The transport astern of us is wearing in succession!”
At least somebody’s doin’ what I asked! Lewrie thought. With little risk to his ship, or his passengers, that transport’s master was tagging along, still playing “frigate”.
He turned back to see if he could spot what Knolles and Comus was doing, and damned if the transport astern of him was wheeling to follow his ship, too!
“There she is!” Lt. Westcott shouted, pointing out-board at the wraith-like image of the smoke-shrouded French corvette. “She’s lost her mizen top-masts, and her spanker!”
Looks like she’s been gnawed by rats, Lewrie thought; It seems my gunners can hit something, after all.
“Has she struck?” Lewrie could hear the Sailing Master exclaim in rising excitement. “Or is her staff just shot away?”
“She’s striking!” Westcott cried as someone fetched up a white bed sheet and began to wave it vigourously aboard the corvette.
“Cease fire! Cease fire, there!” Lewrie bellowed. “She just struck to us! Mister Westcott? Fetch us to, as close to the prize as you may. Mister Britton? Signal the transports to fetch-to!”
Lewrie went back up to the poop deck with his glass to see what else was transpiring. Knolles in Comus was still pursuing the second French corvette, though that ship was making a rapid exit from the scene, even setting stun’sls for more speed. The two transports following Knolles seemed glued to his stern, though much slower.
As swiftly as the terrified Frenchmen were fleeing, it appeared that it would take ’til sunset before Comus could catch them up and bring them to action, and if those two transports fell further and further behind, they’d be left on their own, defenceless should another raider stumble across them.
Bird in the hand, Lewrie thought with a shrug as he closed the tubes of his glass, and went back down to the quarterdeck. He waited for a lull, when he could speak with Lt. Westcott without interfering with his orders.
“Ah, Geoffrey, would you like to take charge of our prize?” he asked in a low voice. “If Gibraltar has enough spare sailors to make up a crew, there may be a Commander’s epaulet in her. She’s sure to be bought in after the Prize-Court’s done with her valuation.”
“Trying to get shot of me, sir?” Westcott said with a mock grimace. “That cuts sore! No, sir. I’d rather stay aboard and see what you’re up to, next.”