“Damn the French,” Lewrie spat. “Only a matter of time before they erected ’em, the bastards. If only we could burn a few!”
The sight of the semaphore towers atop headlands, atop church steeples in the small fishing ports, wasn’t entirely new. The enemy had begun the chain soon after the squadron’s first forays along the Spanish coast, but now they stood in plenty, their arms fitted with large black bladders during the day, and with lanthorns by night, whirling away as soon as shore lookouts espied a strange sail, warning merchantmen to stay in harbour or make for port. None of the prizes they had taken had admitted that the cargo ships’ masters could read the semaphore code, and no books of signals had been captured, but the activities of the towers had put a definite crimp in the “trade”.
“In a back-handed way, sir, it may be to the good,” Westcott opined with a wry grin, “say, one of the isolated towers runs short of bread or wine and sends a signal for re-supply, every merchantman in sight of it dashes into port, sure they’ve spotted something out to sea. If nothing is moving, then no supplies are reaching harbour from France, and Bonaparte’s armies in Spain go without.”
“Well, there is that,” Lewrie said with a surly expression, not pleased with that result; he preferred accomplishing the same thing by direct action. When Spain had been a French ally, and Sapphire had cruised the Andalusian coast of Southern Spain in 1807, they had dealt with semaphore towers, landing raiding parties and burning them to ashes, breaking the signalling chain, and the Spanish, no matter how the ruling French-loving elite wished to emulate the accomplishments of France, and Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, Spain, did not have the funds to replace them.
Now, if he only had the means he’d had then, Lewrie regretted; troop transports, landing barges, soldiers or Marines to land alongside his own ship’s sailors and Marine complement. What fun!
Like boyish sex, he wryly thought; in, out, repeat if neccesary!
The ship’s bell in the forecastle belfry struck One Bell of the Forenoon Watch; 8:30 A.M. of a passably fine morning of easy seas and non-threatening clouds, with the promise of a clear sight of the sun for Noon Sights, and that mostly a navigational exercise for the ship’s Mids, for any fool could make out the now-familiar sea-marks of the coast by now. They were loafing along under reduced sail off Santander once again, tail-end of the column of three, with Peregrine and Blaze a little further ahead and closer to shore. To their lee, one could almost make out, or imagine, a harbour full of ships, ripe for the picking if they would only come out, and Lewrie sorted through several fruitless schemes on how to double back in the dark and catch them, if only they felt safe.
“Well, dammit,” Lewrie said, letting out a long, frustrated sigh. “Send for me if things improve, Geoffrey. I’ll be aft.”
“Aye aye, sir,” the First Officer said in parting.
“Uhm, cool tea, sir?” Pettus asked as Lewrie flung himself onto the starboard-side settee, tossing off his coat and hat.
“Any of that breakfast coffee left, Pettus?” Lewrie asked.
“Aye, sir, and there’s some goat’s milk in the creamer,” Pettus told him.
“I’ll have a cup o’ that, instead,” Lewrie requested, picking up the last of his un-read newspapers gathered during his brief stay at Lisbon off the low, round brass table, hoping that he might find inspiration in the weeks’ old London Times, if not in the real news articles on the inner pages, then from the pre-printed outer advertisement sheets. All he really got were ink smudges on his fingers.
“Deck, there! Strange sail, four points off the starb’d quarter!” a lookout high aloft in the cross-trees shouted down in an eerie wail.
Lewrie set aside his coffee mug, rose, and went out to the quarterdeck, hatless and coatless, to trade mystified shrugs with the First Officer, and to snatch up a telescope to peer windward and aft.
“Can’t see ’em from the deck, yet,” Lewrie groused after a long time peering outward. As he collapsed the tubes, he turned to look at Lt. Westcott. “That’d put ’em what, twenty miles to seaward? I can’t recall any French convoys sailin’ that far from shelter.”
“Mast-head!” Westcott shouted to the lookouts with his speaking-trumpet. “Can you make anything out, yet?”
There was a pause as lookouts on the fore, main, and mizen cross-trees stood, clinging to the top-masts, and shaded their eyes with their hands. “Tops’ls ’bove th’ horizon! Tops’ls an’ t’gallants! Two … three sets o’ strange sail!”
“Full-rigged ships!” the mizen lookout added. “Three full-rigged ships, four points orf th’ starb’d quarter!”
“It might make sense, in a way, sir,” Westcott speculated. “We sail close along the coast, they lose a lot of ships doing the same, so the French might imagine that shaping course almost Due West from Bayonne or Arcachon would avoid notice ’til they steer South to close the coast. And it would only be by dumb luck that they encountered us, or one of the hunting pairs.”
“Hmm, perhaps,” Lewrie said, frowning over this odd behaviour on the part of the French. He trotted up the ladderway to the poop deck for a slightly better view, but, once steadied against the bulwarks, his telescope still revealed no clues. There might be some wee irregularities on the ruler-straight horizon up to the Nor’east, but they could have been clouds below the horizon, or his imagination.
“Deck, there!” the mainmast lookout yelled down, “It’s four strange sail … full-rigged ships, four of ’em!”
The commotion had wakened Mr. Yelland from a nap in his sea cabin, and he came bustling out, yawning and swabbing his face with his hands. “What’s acting? Sail to seaward?”
Lewrie turned to look down at him. “Four strange ships, up to windward, Mister Yelland. Damned small number for a French convoy.”
“Maybe troopships, sir?” Yelland opined, “Or horse transports? Marching men and beasts cross the Pyrenees would lame half of them, and exhaust the rest.”
Lewrie raised his glass once more, still found nothing tangible, and scowled as he collapsed the brass tubes again, his mind churning.
“I wish a signal hoisted, Mister Westcott,” he said, “General Signal … Alter Course Two points to Windward in Succession, preceded with two guns t’wake ’em up.”
“Aye aye, sir!” Westcott replied, “Master Gunner?”
“Best we recall the brig-sloops, too,” Lewrie said, returning to the quarterdeck. “Once the column has come about, make a second hoist with Blaze and Peregrine’s numbers, and order them to investigate strange sails in the Nor’east.”
“Aye, sir,” Westcott hastily said, overseeing forecastle gun crews assembling to load and fire two saluting charges, and dealing with Midshipman Ward, who would handle the signals.
“No rush, sir,” Lewrie said, grinning. “Whoever or whatever they are, they’re at least an hour or more off.”
“Four troopers, that might be a whole French battalion,” the Sailing Master said, rubbing calloused hands together in anticipation, “round an hundred and fifty aboard each, as we do, or two hundred, if the French don’t care for their soldiers’ comfort. ‘Cavalry ships’, now, maybe four hundred horses? Five pounds per man, in Head and Gun Money. Four thousand pounds right there, not counting the value of four big full-rigged ships … but, I wonder what Head Money is for horses?”
“Guns are ready, sir,” Westcott reported.
“Fire ’em, and make the hoist,” Lewrie ordered.
* * *
“Ah, there it is!” Capt. Chalmers exclaimed with glee when the expected order to alter course finally broke open on Sapphire’s halliards. He had been pacing, champing at the bitt since his own lookouts had spotted the strange sails on the horizon.
“A small convoy, perhaps, sir, but a valuable one, if they dare sail far off the coast to avoid us,” Lt. Crosley, his First Officer, opined.
“Let them be French National Ships,” Capt. Chalmers said in heat, slamming a fist upon the windward bulwark’s cap-rails. “Give us an hon
ourable, glorious fight, at long last! Mister Crosley, summon brace-tenders and prepare to harden up on the wind. Put the helm down as soon as the signal is struck! Let’s be at them!”
* * *
“Ready to alter course, Mister Cunningham,” Commander Teague said to his First Lieutenant aboard HMS Blaze. “As to why, though,” and he threw in a curious shrug. “Maybe the Commodore is bored with all this fruitless cruising. Damned semaphore towers. Still, there might be some trade further along to the West.”
“Signal is down, sir,” Lt. Cunningham noted, then issued orders to the helmsmen to steer two points to windward, and to the brace and sheet tenders to adjust the angles of the yards, jibs, and spanker. “Hah!” Cunningham exclaimed a moment later as another signal burst open on the flagship. “Our number, and … Investigate … Strange Sail … to the Nor’east. Odd, sir.”
“Odd, my eye, Mister Cunningham,” Teague exulted. “They must have spotted a convoy trying to sneak round us! Prepare to wear the ship about. That will slow us down for a bit, let the main column pass ahead, and we can cross their stern and hare off on larboard tack. Acknowledge the signal, and prepare to go about!”
* * *
God, I may regret this, Lewrie told himself as he crammed his telescope into his waistband and left the poop deck for the quarterdeck, then went forward to the shrouds of the main mast, clambered up onto the bulwarks, and swung out to scale the stays and ratlines, as high as the cat-harpings below the fighting top. He had been simply terrified, the first time he’d been ordered aloft, nigh-reduced to a quivering, jibbering calf’s foot jelly, though determined not to show it, and scrambling skyward hadn’t gotten any easier for him. He took hold (a death’s grip in point of fact) of the stays, snaked one arm round one, pulled out his telescope, and tried to peer at the ships on the horizon; and trying to appear calm and “tarry” to the sailors already aloft, or peering up from the deck, though his leg muscles shivered in dread, and the damned ocular of his telescope just would not stay still.
From that slightly elevated height Lewrie could make out four very wee specks of white canvas, at last, four t’gallants, or the upper halves of t’gallants. Main t’gallants, he reckoned, since they would be higher than fore or mizen t’gallants. And, were there tiny slivers showing before and abaft of those sails that might be those other t’gallants?
Damned white, ain’t they? he thought, recalling that most of the merchantmen they’d seen along this coast were dowdy, their sails almost parchment-tan from long use and exposure to the elements, some so old they looked like grimy grey, with patches of newer sailcloth sewn on like a harlequin’s costume. Now who issues clean white sails? he asked himself, and began a tentative grin.
“How far off d’ye make ’em?” he shouted up to the mainmast lookout.
The lookout shaded his eyes and took his time before making an estimate. “I can see t’gallants and tops’ls, now, sir!” he sang out. “Maybe … twelve mile off, or a little less! Hard t’say, sir!”
“Very well,” Lewrie replied, stuffing his telescope back into his waistband, and very gingerly turning himself about to face the shrouds and ratlines to make his welcome descent. Half-way down the shrouds, though, the lookout shouted again, freezing him in place.
“Deck, there! Th’ strange sail are alterin’ course! Haulin’ their wind, in column … in succession!”
Lewrie wished he could race down the stays like a frantic monkey when he heard that, but he forced himself to descend slowly and carefully, chiding himself to appear the stern and cool Captain that the Navy, and a ship’s crew, demanded.
Once back on solid oak, he walked aft to the quarterdeck, taking a moment to steady his breath after his exertions before speaking.
“Four ships, in column, alterin’ course in succession, Mister Westcott,” he told him, “with sails as new and as white as a fresh snow. Warships! They’ve spotted us, and they’re closing us for an engagement. Be up with us in an hour, or less.”
“Huzzah, sir!” Westcott cried at that news. “Huzzah!”
“Let’s rig chain slings on the yards, and ship anti-boarding nets, now,” Lewrie ordered. “Douse the galley fires. It’ll be a cold mess for all hands, but there’s no helpin’ it. General Signal to all ships … Possible Enemy in Sight, and Prepare for Action.”
“Mister Ward, is there a single code flag for ‘Possible’?” Lt. Westcott shouted aft.
“Ehm … I think so, sir,” Midshipman Ward replied, fumbling through his signals book for a moment, “Aye, sir, there is.”
“Make to all ships, Possible Enemy in Sight, and Prepare for Action,” Westcott ordered.
“Aye aye, sir!” Ward cried back, sounding giddily excited.
“Think I’ll have time to shave, Geoffrey?” Lewrie japed with a grin.
“Oh, time enough to don silk shirt and stockings, too, sir,” Westcott replied. “And for one last cigarro for me.”
“Enjoy,” Lewrie said, “I’ll be aft, making myself pretty for the Frogs. I’m told they appreciate an elegant turn out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Lewrie had enough time to don fresh, clean silk stockings, shirt, and underdrawers, even have a quick scrub-up, as his cabins were stripped of anything valuable to be stored on the orlop, and Chalky and Bisquit taken below for safety. There was time to clean and load his two sets of pistols, and for the Ship’s Armourer to hone a fine edge on his hanger.
He emerged on the quarterdeck just as the flimsy partitions which formed the forward bulkhead to his cabins, Mr. Yelland’s sea-cabin, and the matching chart room on the larboard side were struck down, turning his cabins into a hollow shell.
“Signal, sir, from Peregrine!” Midshipman Ward yelled. “It is Enemy in Sight … Four … Frigates!”
Lewrie mounted to the poop deck to see for himself, raising his telescope for a long look at the approaching warships, thinking them about five or six miles off, and the lead vessel only one point aft of abeam, by then. He turned to look further astern for his pair of brig-sloops which had ventured out far enough to make positive identification, and were now returning to join his main column.
The enemy ships were too far off, still, to count their gun-ports, or to make a guess as to their rates. Strung out as they were in line-ahead formation, they could all be of the same rate and mount the same amount of armament.
“Mister Westcott,” Lewrie called over his shoulder, his eyes rivetted on the approaching foe, “I think it’s time for us to Beat to Quarters.”
“Aye, sir!” his long-time First Officer wolfishly agreed, eager for action. “Bosun Terrell, pipe hands to Quarters!”
The calls shrilled urgently, and the Marine drummer began the Long Roll. Sapphire’s hands, long alerted that this moment would eventually come, did not have to dash up from below in a thunder of feet, but almost strolled to their duty stations. Gun tools were taken off the overhead racks, tompions were withdrawn from the guns’ muzzles, and the ship only grew loud when officers ordered that the gun crews cast off their guns and draw them inboard to be loaded.
“Mister Ward, still on signals, are you?” Lewrie asked.
“Aye, sir,” Ward replied.
“A signal hoist to Peregrine. I wish her to close and speak with me,” Lewrie ordered. “Commander Blamey will have gotten a good look at them, and I want his thoughts.”
“Aye, sir. Peregrine’s number, and … Come Under My Lee?”
“That’d be capital, aye, Mister Ward,” Lewrie agreed, then went to the quarterdeck to speak with Lt. Westcott. “Geoffrey, have some Mids pass word to Mister Harcourt and Mister Elmes. They’re to tell the crew that I trust their training, their skill at gunnery, and that we will be closing with the biggest bastard, at which point they are to load with roundshot and grape, and aim for the enemy’s gun-ports, quarterdeck, and helm.”
“Aye, sir, I’ll see to it directly,” Westcott assured him.
“How many swivels and grenades do we have in the tops?” Le
wrie asked. “I want all the swivels up there, and as many grenades as the Marines can handle, when we close to pistol-shot, or closer.”
“See to that, too, sir,” Westcott replied, summoning Midshipmen Griffin and Fywell to relay Lewrie’s message to the crew.
“Sir! Peregrine is hauling her wind and falling down on us!” Midshipman Ward shouted from the taffrails.
“Very well, Mister Ward,” Lewrie shouted back. Things were speeding up, and he felt a sense of urgency to see that all last-minute preparations that he could think of were done. He drummed fingers on the larboard cap-rails, impatient for Peregrine to come alongside, watching her spread more canvas as she fell astern of Sapphire, and began to creep up on the larboard quarter. Lewrie crossed over to the starboard side for a bit to judge how long he had before those enemy ships were up with them, then went back to larboard, snatching up the brass speaking-trumpet on the way.
“Sent for me, sir?” Commander Blamey shouted over to him as his crew reduced sail to keep his ship from dashing on ahead.
“I want to know their pedigree, Blamey!” Lewrie shouted back. “Did you get close enough to count gun-ports? Determine their rates?”
“The lead ship may be a fourty-gunner, sir!” Blamey replied in a odd, sing-song bellow. “The two astern of her look to be thirty-sixes, or thirty-twos. Thirteen ports a side. The trailing ship is maybe a twenty-eight gunner! Twelve ports a side!”
“Go speak with Teague,” Lewrie ordered. “I want you to team with Blaze and double on the weakest. And all good fortune go with you!”
“Aye aye, sir, and the same to you!” Commander Blamey yelled before turning to his watchstanders to order his ship to haul off and seek his consort.
“Dammit, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie growled. “Blamey says their lead ship’s a fourty-gunner. We’ll have to take her on, ourselves.”
He looked aloft at the commissioning pendant, judging the wind direction and strength, taking a moment to note that Union Jacks and battle flags, and his command pendant, were streaming brightly. One more look at the approaching enemy, and he made up his mind. There was just enough time for what he intended.
A Hard, Cruel Shore Page 36