H.M.S. COCKEREL l-6

by Dewey Lambdin

  "Aye, aye, sir," Spendlove piped, seeing the plan at once, dashing aft for the flag lockers.

  "Don't s'pose those are friendly, Captain Lewrie?" Lieutenant Kennedy inquired, hoping against hope, and nervous about fighting aboard ship instead of on land, where he knew what he was doing.

  "Slow as we are, sir?" Lewrie scoffed gently. "And tag-end ofthe fleet? Hardly."

  "Ve steel offer bataille, mon ami?" de Crillart asked from the other side.

  "If we have to, Charles," Lewrie stated, turning to face him and the rest of the officers: Major de Mariel, the Chevalier Louis and the senior gunner's mates. "Hopefully, we will make a demonstration of force, more than anything else. With a Royal Navy frigate to aid us… that might be enough. Now, gentlemen. Raw as we are, hmm? Let's not delay, and do things in a last-minute panic. Let us go to Quarters now. Uhm… aux armes, messieurs?"

  An agonizing quarter-hour passed, as the decks were sanded, the water butts and tubs filled, slow match ignited and coiled around linstocks, coiled around the upper rim of the tubs. The galley fire was extinguished, the coals thrown overboard. Women and children trooped below to the safety of the orlop, low near the waterline, to huddle in between kegs and casks, boxes and bales, their chests and luggage. At least Radical would have an overabundance of surgeons; the Royalists were mostly people of the upper or professional classes, so they had no less than four surgeons, two physicians, a dentist and several of those worthies' personal servants as surgeon's mates, experienced with assisting their masters' daily work. For loblolly boys to bear the wounded below, they had the least-useful older gentlemen, or the ones who simply could not grasp the fundamentals of artillery drill. And some few stocky older women, who were stronger than most of those men.

  It was impossible to clear the mess deck, though, to empty that low-ceilinged cavern of junk. There were too many trunks and chests to carry below, out of harm's way, too heavy to tote quickly. There might be clouds of dangerous splinters flying there, perhaps, but with people at least herded below to the orlop, Lewrie thought, the noncombatants would not have to face that danger.

  The boats Radical possessed, and those extra cutters Lewrie had brought along from their ferrying days, already were astern, under tow. For the simple fact was that he hadn't had the labour available to retrieve them and stow them on the boat beams which spanned the waist. One less source of splinters, he thought grimly, though through no forethought of his own.

  British troops of the 18th, the Royal Irish, to larboard along the gangways, Major de MariePs infantry and Louis' light-cavalrymen to starboard; red coats and black shakoes on one side, and pale whitish-grey coats with black cocked hats, or blue-and-buff coats with plumed black-leather helmets on the other.

  The bowsings for the guns were cast off, run-out tackles overhauled in neat bights. The guns were rolled back from the port sills, tompions removed, barrels checked for obstructions, touch holes cleared by the thrust of linstock ends sharp enough to puncture cartridge bags. Gun tools were thrust into shaky hands, and men stood atremble as if yesterday's drills had never occurred with stiffened rope rammers, rope swabs, crow levers, wormers used to scrape out clogging scraps of powder and the buildup of gun-soot after a few firings, or to draw shot.

  Nine men to each eighteen-pounder, seven to serve each twelve-pounder and six for the lighter eight-pounders; those were the required numbers in the Fleet, though guns could be well served with slightly less. Under the circumstances, they would have to be. Still not enough, even with all the volunteers, to man both larboard and starboard batteries at once.

  "Ve load, mon capitaine?" de Crillart called from the waist. He would be in charge of the gun deck, since most of the guncaptains and volunteers were French. "Mon maоtre-canonnier, 'e sugges' ze chain-shot, d'abord. Not customary а l'anglais mais… ve are ver' good vis it. Zey are mos' esperience. Tak' down ze reeging, crac! An' ve are not ze maneuverable, n'est-ce pas?"

  "Aye, Charles," Lewrie called back from the quarterdeck, thinking it made good sense to render a foe as clumsy as they already were, evening the odds. "D'abord, the chain-shot, bar-shot, all of it."

  "Cartouches de poudre!" the grizzled master-gunner demanded, and a herd of boys emerged from the midships companionway hatch with wooden or leather cylinders which contained the powder bags. The artillery was charged, ram-mermen shoving the bags down the bores to thump against the rear of the breeches. From the shot-garlands, the gun-captains picked shot. Blunt iron cylinders cast in two halves, linked by two bars between, with eyes hammered round each bar- elongating bar-shot, which would fly apart to their full extent upon firing. Longer, round-topped bundles of cast-iron rods, which would spread like spider legs to whirl through the air to rip away sails, rigging and light spars-that was multiple bar-shot. And chain-shot; loaded as what appeared to be solid iron balls, which became two hemispheres linked by a short chain. That, and the elongating bar-shot, were the heaviest, designed to take down a t'gallant or topmast above the fighting-tops, to shatter even the stout course-sail yards.

  Alan had been on the receiving end of French artillery before, and had never been that impressed with the concept, never been aboard a ship really disabled by such ironmongery. But de Crillart and his master-gunner seemed confident about it.

  "The enemy have hoisted their colours, sir!" Spendlove was quick to point out. All three ships had run up huge Tricolour flags, the one in the lead flying a smaller second one at her main-mast truck as well.

  Lewrie lifted a telescope and went to the starboard rails. The lead ship was definitely a frigate, the other two…? "Lieutenant de Crillart, could you join me on the quarterdeck for a moment?"

  He loaned Charles the telescope.

  "Don't happen to know them, do you, Charles?"

  "Non. I do not reco'nise,'' de Crillart intoned soberly. "Mais, ze frйgate eez ze trent-deux… ze s'irty-two? She weel 'ave twelve-poun' canon, an' ze six-poun' canon de chasse et canon de gaillard… quarterdeck? Ze ozzer two are ze corvettes. Vingt canon… twen'y, on'y… eight-poun', I 'sink."

  "Only, the man says," Lewrie snorted, flexing his fingers on tiie wire-wrapped leather hilt of his smallsword. "They'll be up level with us in about half an hour. Range-of-random-shot? What's that with bar-shot and chain-shot? A mile?"

  "Oui. Vis you' frйgate out zere, z'ough, we not 'ave to bataille all at once. Mon Dieu, merci," de Crillart chuckled, though his mouth looked a touch compressed and white.

  Alan took the telescope back, went to the mizzen shrouds again, and scaled them for a better view. Would they stay in a pack, he speculated? Or would the easy pickings encourage them to split up? Radical on a slowly converging course, to meet them on their windward, larboard beam, Cockerel downwind, but ready to slide along their starboard side, or cut across them to rake the leader… take us separately or together?

  He couldn't suggest tactics to Captain Braxton, he was senior on the scene. And if he knew who I was aboard this barge, Alan thought in secret glee, he'd be even less willing to listen. No, he'll keep simplicity in mind, he's a cautious man. Eager to make a grand showing after ah" these years, yet he'll not do anything too rash, too risky. Pass them on the opposing back, starboard to starboard, then tack around the stern of the last corvette in line, and rake her. Then Une up behind Radical to make a battle Une, he wondered? If Braxton thinks we truly are another Royal Navy frigate, he might.

  Now… what would I do, were I the Frog commander, yonder?

  Claw upwind, now, he was dead certain. Hold the wind-gauge on the British, and at the same time, sail nearer to those panicky merchantmen, threatening them. Force Cockerel and Radical to go about first to combine strength, then force them to beat up towards the three Frog warships to save the transports. AU during that long, labouring approach, fire chain-shot and all, hoping to disable the British frigates before battle was reaUy joined. The French would be faster, they almost always were, so they could out-foot them. And neither Cockerel nor Radical could point any higher to wi
ndward than they could, so it would turn into a long stem chase, with even more long-range chain-shot. More chances to disable, then gobble up.

  Hmm… he sighed to himself, rubbing his unshaven chin; maybe I ought to come about… go hard on the wind now? Be level with 'em, or hold the wind-gauge myself. Draw Cockerel to me. If Braxton wishes a name for himself, he'll follow along.

  "Mister Spendlove! Mister Porter!" he bellowed from his perch. "Hands to the braces! Lay her full and by on the larboard tack! Close-haul!"

  "Aye, aye, sir!"

  "Deck, there! Cockerel's goin' about!" the main-mast lookout screamed, his voice cracking. A tone of wonderment in his voice which drew Lewrie's attention aloft first, before he turned to eye his former ship. Cockerel had been reaching across the wind, now out of the sou'east, her bows pointing nor'east. To harden up close-hauled would lay her just a little north of due east, should she remain on the starboard tack, with the wind across her right hand first.

  Sure enough, she was foreshortening in the ocular of his telescope.

  Should have waited, should have waited, Lewrie fretted, growing uncertain of Braxton's tactical skills. Harden up on the starboard tack first, then cross the eye of the wind to larboard tack, and beat up to me, cross their bows before they get anywhere near you…

  This early tack would put him a couple of miles away, on the same course as Radical, but out of gun range. Damme! He'd done that before, hadn't he-last year, that Frog convoy, and that big forty-four-gun frigate…! Lay off and be safe. Appear like he was doing something positive but… avoid action? The shrouds swayed as Radical leaned to the force of the winds, decks and masts angling to leeward as she hardened up to weather. Lewrie had to take both hands to secure his perch, to slip his arms in around the stays and ratlines for a firmer stance for a moment.

  When he raised his telescope again, Cockerel had just completed her tack across the wind, sails luffing and spilling, shimmering like a heat wave in the ocular, like bed sheets in a stiff spring breeze out on a line to dry, before her hands could wheel her yards about, haul taut on braces and sheets. And kept on turning!

  "No, you bastard!" Lewrie muttered in surprise. "Close-hauled, at least, you…!" For a hopeful moment, he thought Cockerel was just clumsy and slow. Every ship usually fell too far off the wind for an instant upon tacking, before hardening back up to the proper course, as close to the wind as she might bear.

  But, no. Cockerel kept on wheeling about, her yards going farther round until they were almost end-on to his view, courses, top'ls and t'gallants bellying taut and full, the profile of her low, sleek hull entirely presented. Cockerel had come about, aye-tacked since it was the quickest maneuver-and was now sailing west-sou'west, not to join forces with him, not to stand off on a parallel beat, downwind and safe. She was running!

  "Oh, you bloody man, you perverse, bloody man!"

  Didn't matter, he grumped; me aboard this tub, nor anyone else. 'Least it ain't personal, the… ah! He'd never know who he abandoned. Couldn't care less!

  All his plans in shambles, for the moment without a clue, faced with the prospect of fighting those three French ships alone once more. Let down by his own Navy.

  "You filthy bastard!" he yelled, just for the temporary relief. "You bloody… coward!"

  Chapter 7

  Calmly, Lewrie thought, as he climbed down to the quarterdeck; calm and deliberate. They're not Navy, they're not used to my ways… Hands behind his back, chin tucked in low, eyes down in thought, pacing to the wheel to look into the compass bowl for a moment.

  His natural reaction, so untypically English, as Charles pointed out, would be to curse and rave, gibber with anger, foam at the mouth or fall flat on the deck and pound upon it Which would set off panic, by the bagful. And there would go any thoughts of resistance from all his already barely willing volunteers.

  What to do, then, he asked himself, scheming in a fury, conflicting notions at odds in his head. Hold this course, keep the wind-gauge? He turned to glower aft.

  The two hired transports were astern, just a little left of dead-astern, still running with the sou'east winds large on the larboard side. Close-hauling would make no sense for them. They were on their very best point of sail already, and to claw up to windward to try and escape made them slower, their capture even more certain. And sooner. Farther left and beyond were the French warships, astern of the transports, a little downwind of them, sailing only a touch closer to the wind, making rapid time, even so.

  They hadn't gone close-hauled? he frowned in puzzlement. Waiting another half-hour before they came level with 'em, passed them, really… before they turned up towards them, or tried to cut ahead of their bows and take them? Leaving it damned late, when they could do it now…

  Another half-hour, and Radical would be so far to windward of the transports, and the French, no one could ever touch them. Though Radical would have abandoned them, letting them take the brunt of things, like a sledge in a Russian winter would throw meat scraps to slow down pursuing wolves. Throw out servants, he'd read… yum, yum, hot and tasty!

  Stacked almost overlapping from his angle of view, frigate in the lead, echeloned down to leeward so each would have clear air on her quarter. Why to leeward"! he asked the aether. More speed, aye, but… for what purpose? Shouldn't they be rushing right at the transports, and at him, too? Beam-reach in line-ahead, and still have clear air, no blanketing…

  "Damme!" he laughed of a sudden. "You greedy pigs!"

  The transports were meat on the table, the French could scoop them up anytime. They were standing on, going for the horse transport and the tantalizing glimpse of that two-decker on the sou'west horizon far ahead. And suddenly it came to him-they would separate. With Cockerel running away, the lead frigate would dash on, overhaul the two-decker horse transport because she looked such a rich prize, and leave the corvettes to face off with him, then take the two ships astern!

  "Bosun Porter?" he called. "Hands to the braces. We'll haul our wind. Quartermaster, new course, sou'west Trim for a beam-reach."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Porter replied obediently. Yet sounding dubious, as if he was of a mind that sailing high upwind was much safer.

  Radical came off her laboured beat, sloughing and slowing, yards re-angled to cup the wind that now blew at right-angles across her decks. Those decks levelling as she sat down flat on her keel, on the easiest point of sail. And Lewrie waited, pacing aft to the taffrails, then to the starboard gangway ladder, over and over.

  "Deck, there!" the lookout shrilled a few nervous minutes later. "Two chase goin' close-hauled astern! Lead ship, standin' on!"

  The frigate had left her consorts, stuns'ls and stays'ls still flying, t'gallants and tops'ls bellied wind-full. The corvettes, though, had drawn level with the stern of the trailing transport and had turned upwind.

  "Mister Porter, hands to the braces! Stations to close-haul!"

  Radical had slowed on her beam-reach, the transports had made up some ground on her, still labouring, though, about a mile and a half astern, almost in line-ahead behind her.

  Right, you bugger, stay greedy, he sneered to the distant frigate, standing on so swiftly, so effortlessly. Swung away as she was towards the wind once more, Radical would soon have her abeam of her last position. Up to windward of the transports. Two or three miles of hard distance between the more powerful ship and where Radical could be in ten minutes. And the corvettes would still be to leeward of him, too.

  He waited a little longer, fingers fretting against each other, peering stoically at the frigate, which was now off his starboard quarter. Now? No, not yet. Wait a bit… breathe deep to shout? No…

  "Mister Porter, stations for stays!" he boomed at last. "Ready to come about to the starboard tack! Mister de Crillart, secure your gunners, all tackles a'taut! Bowse the starboard battery secure!"

  "Manned!" Porter screeched at last. Lewrie looked down to see de Grillait give him an assuring fist in the air.

  "Helm alee! Rise
, tacks and sheets!"

  Slow, a bit "crank," indifferently balanced with all the civilian stores put aboard catch-as-catch-can, Radical swung up to the eyes of the wind, luffing and clattering, groaning and complaining. British men for the most part served the ship, men he'd drilled and trained, aided by raw landsmen who were terribly confused by sail-handling, much less the use of a foreign language. But she came about-crossed the wind. Reluctantly, she was about, on the starboard tack.

  "Haul taut! Now, haul! Mains'l haul! Meet her, quartermaster. Nothing to leeward for now! Mister Porter, we'll haul our wind soon! Remain at stations!"

  North by east she stood, running almost a reciprocal course to the transports, getting everything flaked down and sorted out, sailors still ready at the braces and jib sheets, driving for a moment within six points of the apparent wind. Rushing back towards the transports, their combined speeds hauling them near rapidly.

  "New course, nor'east, quartermaster, helm up! Let her fall off four points, no more. Trim for a reach, Mister Porter! Then prepare to take in the main course."

  Suddenly, after what had felt like hours of snail's pace, things were overlapping each other, almost too fast to be dealt with. Leading transport on the larboard bows, now, dashing to abeam in the blink of an eye, trailing transport coming up rapidly. French corvettes beyond, and still not near enough to ease off their beats to open fire, just beyond the range-of-random-shot. Radical slowing, as she lost the drive of the main course. The transports weren't half a mile alee. People cheering, waving coats and hats.

  Haven't a bloody clue, he sneered. But thankee, anyway. Second transport, huge two-decker, working alive like a crowded anthill, awash in people, coming up fast, her bowsprit framed in the foremast chains, just over the larboard anchor's cat-head.

  "Helm up, quartermaster, shave her arse! Ease her, Porter! Man for a gybe! Mister de Crillart, once we've gybed round the transport… be ready to open fire on the nearest corvette with the starboard battery!"