"Very good, sir," Langlie said with his hot cup just below his lips, and blowing to cool his first sip.
"We've not had a chance to exercise at the artillery of late, either," Lewrie further decided. "Once we're all ataunt-to, I'd like the rest of the Forenoon be spent at live-firing the windward guns of both broadside batteries, depending on which tack we stand. A little more work to run them out up a sloping deck, but good practice for our people, don't you think, sir?"
"I do indeed, Captain," Langlie dutifully responded, as if he'd ever demur with a hearty "Hell, no, what a daft idea, sir!," no matter what a captain might dream up. "Good physical exercise, too, sir," he added.
"Who knows, Mister Langlie, the crew might even enjoy the extra exertion!" Lewrie said with a chuckle. "Full sail, hearty breezes… and no more bloody… plodding!… might perk them right up. By God, it does me! All of a sudden, I feel as gingery as a feagued horse!"
"Bow to stern, by numbers… fire!" Mr. Carling, the Master Gunner, bellowed over the roar of wind and water, and the starboard gun-captains jerked their lanyards, tripping the flintlock igniters of the starboard battery's 12-pounders one at a time. As soon as a gun fired, the first and second loaders dashed 'cross the deck to the guns waiting down the larboard side. The gun-captains and hands on the tackles stayed at their stations at the starboard guns long enough to overhaul any potential tangles in the recoil and run-out lines; the smoking vents were checked by leather-guarded thumbs as the rammer men swabbed out with sopping wet sheep's wool sponges; once the tubes were safe to handle, tackle-men, who normally didn't handle loading, got a bit of cross-training inserting cloth powder bags and ramming them home to the rears of the tubes, at choosing the best round-shot from the racks about each main deck hatchway or the thick rope shot garlands between each piece. They then ran their guns up to the port sills once fresh shot had been inserted down the muzzles and tamped down atop the powder bags, stoppering the blocks so they would not roll back free, then abandoned the starboard pieces to join the men who had been readying the larboard battery.
"Wear, Mister Langlie," Lewrie ordered.
While the gun crews panted and gasped, the brace, sheet, and sail tenders went to their stations once more, and Proteus was worked 'cross the stern winds, again, the fourth time in a half-hour. And, as those Trade Winds swung round onto the larboard quarter, and the deck began to heel in the opposite direction, Mr. Carling was there to cry for the ready-loaded larboard battery to prime and cock and stand ready.
"Signal, sir!" Midshipman Gamble called from the taffrails. "A 'Repeat' from Horatius.., our number. 'Suspend Action,' and 'Conserve Powder And Shot,' sir!"
"Damn that man!" Lewrie griped under his breath, hands gripped white-knuckled on the forward quarterdeck railings overlooking the gun-deck and waist. "Aw, Dad!" he said louder, for all to hear. "You just never let me have a bit o' fun!" Loud enough for his gunners and sail tenders to hear, which drew a hearty laugh at his good imitation of an adolescent's peevish whine. "Very well, Mister Langlie. Secure guns, seal the ports, and insert tompions. Drill's done. Have Mister Coote fetch a fresh scuttle-butt up from below so the hands can slake their thirsts. We'll stay on this point of sail for a while, too, once you've gotten everything flaked or flemished down. Mister Gamble?"
"Sir!"
"Signal to Grafton.. ." Lewrie began, then paused.
Buss my blind cheeks, ye spiteful bastard, Lewrie considered; Go shit in yer cocked hat an' call it a brown tie-wig?
"Signal 'Acknowledged,' Mister Gamble," Lewrie directed with a weary, and much-put-upon, sigh. No way t'put that in code, he thought.
Six Bells chimed at the forecastle belfry, and ships' boys turned the hour and half-hour watch glasses; eleven in the morning, almost the end of the Forenoon, and a half-hour from when any Forenoon drills would end, anyway, and the rum-issue ceremony would be held.
"Mister Carling?" Lewrie shouted down to the Master Gunner. "I will join you once the guns are secured to your satisfaction, and see what needs doing, in your estimation."
"Aye aye, Captain!" Carling shouted back, and Lewrie was sure that the Master Warrant Gunner would have his people filling that half-hour 'til "Up Spirits" was piped with greasing, sponging, and prissy fussing about tackles and blocks. With Lewrie by his side during the inspection, Carling would most likely find a way to wheedle more goods from Bosun Pendarves's stores, as well, and the much-put-upon Bosun still had that worn-out chafing gear to rig this morning; perhaps that task would fill the better part of the afternoon, if nothing else came up… or Capt. Treghues spotted it and chaffered Lewrie for its lack. Of a sudden, Lewrie was determined that it would be done before Grafton ordered them back within "close-telescoping" distance!
The bosun's calls twittered in unison as "Clear Decks, And Up Spirits" was piped. The red-rum keg with the King's seal painted on it in gilt came up from below, and the hands queued up for their sailors' anodyne, loafing and nattering each other in "matey" camaraderie about sips or gulpers owed, debts already paid, or had they been forgotten. A pair of Lt. Devereux's fully-uniformed Marines, complete with muskets, escorted the keg forrud, behind the young boy drummer beating a jaunty roll to announce its coming. Now that duties were done for a time, and all the hands expected for the following half-hour was their call below to their mid-day meal, it was a welcome bit of idle leisure.
Lewrie paced along the windward quarterdeck bulwarks, from the larboard ladderway to the main deck, to the taffrails and signal flag lockers right aft, his undress coat and hat discarded in his own sort of casual leisure, readying himself for participation in the measure of the sun at Noon Sights, when all his commission officers, and the Sailing Master, and his students, the midshipmen, would ply sextants together, and, at the first chime of Eight Bells ending the Forenoon, record their sums on slates or foolscap paper, then perform the "mysteries" of navigation.
Proteus was still under all sail, cracking along quite nicely, most pleasingly. This far South, the day even began to feel a touch more tropically warm, moderated by the winds, and Lewrie untied his neck-stock and opened his shirt collars. He leaned on his hands atop the taffrails for a bit of lonely peace from the demands of his ship, and his senior officer's pique, right by the larboard stern lanthorn, slowly shaking his head at the far-off convoy.
The lead 74, HMS Horatius, still plodded along at the convoy's head, with only her sails, at times a sliver of her upperworks, visible when pent atop a rising swell. Astern of her lay the four short columns of Indiamen, two-by-two in line-ahead, with only their beige courses, tops'ls, and t'gallants in sight. The entire gaggle was now about five miles off, as ordered, but an equal five miles off Proteus's larboard quarter, and slowly falling to full astern.
Lewrie didn't relish the idea of interrupting the rum issue, but in the few minutes between the issue's end and the pipe for Dinner, they would have to come about one more time, he decided, before they sailed too far astray of the convoy's mean course. Once settled on a long starboard tack once more, they could then eat in peace.
"Deck, there!" the mainmast lookout shrilled of a sudden. "Sail, ho! One sail, one point off th' larboard bows!" he sing-songed.
Damn the rum, and victuals, too! Lewrie turned about, looking outward, as if he could spot their mysterious interloper from the deck. "How… bound?" he cried back, hands cupped round his mouth. "How… far… away?"
"Tops'ls an' t'gallants, sir, 'tis all I see! Hull-down, she is, an'… bound West!" the lookout decided, after discerning which were the leaches of the stranger's upper sails, and how they were cupped to gather wind.
That'd make her about eight or nine miles off, Lewrie decided to himself, nodding in agreement with the lookout as he pictured a "plot" in his head. They were sailing Sou'-Sou'east, with the Trades fine on the quarter, which put the stranger due South of them. Bound West, did the lookout say? They were close enough to the Cape Verde Islands for it to be a ship bound for Brazil from there, scudded along by wind and current.
It could be an innocent merchantman, even a British-flagged ship, or… it could be a French or Spanish warship or privateer outbound from taking on wood and water, and seeking prey.
"Mister Gamble?" Lewrie shouted, stomping his way forward. "A signal to Grafton for Horatius to repeat… 'Strange Sail, Due South. Will Investigate.' Mister Langlie? Soon as dammit, put the ship about three points alee to South by West. There's just enough time for our people to eat, but whoever it is down yonder, we will beat to Quarters when we've fetched her hull-up!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
Just what in the name of God is that?" Lt. Langlie asked once they had gotten within hull-up distance of the strange vessel that they had spent most of the afternoon pursuing Westward. The closer they got to her, the odder she'd looked.
First had come the sight of her royals and t'gallants above the sea's sharp-edged horizon; some were pale, jade green, others were such a pale red they seemed pink.
"Faded, perhaps, sir," Lt. Catterall had speculated with a leery expression, as if he'd just been presented a bowl of dog-spew at a two-penny ordinary. "Might've been dark green and red, once?"
"Well, we know about fading.. ." Lt. Adair had commented with a snorty chuckle, obviously referring to his captain's unfortunate choice of light cotton uniform coats he'd had made by a Kingston, Jamaica, tailor, which had bled for months before fading to a very pale and washed-out blue, even where white fabric or gilt lace had been intended.
"Arr, Mister Adair" had been Lewrie's comment to that sally.
Next had come full sight of her tops'ls and courses, one of them-her main course-was vertically striped like pillow ticking in a red, white, and blue, all now reduced to pink, parchment, and off-white, whilst her fore course was a more conventional mildewed and sunburned light tan, but bore some large design painted on it.
"Spanish warship?" the Sailing Master had wondered. "They hoist crucifixes to their cross-trees before battle, sir, and paint crosses on their fighting sails."
"Must martyr more than a few sailors, too," Lewrie had replied, "when someone shoots the big wood crosses free t'drop on their decks."
Last had come the sight of her hull, and the very size of her, as long as a First Rate fleet flagship, as towering from waterline to midships cap-rails as the loftiest Indiaman… but from the normally black-tarred gunn'ls upwards painted a vivid blue, all picked out with bright yellow paint on rails, round her entry-port, beakhead rails, and twin stern galleries and quarter-galleries, and decorated along her upperworks with what looked to be yellow-painted rosettes!
"Gun-ports, sir," Lt. Langlie had suggested. "Old, Elizabethan style gun-ports, with fancy woodwork framing them. Might even mount a side battery of dragon-mouthed cannon, like the Chinese. What in the world?"
"Garish," Catterall dismissed.
"Tawdry," Mr. Winwood sneered.
"Whore transport?" Lewrie whispered, his face creasing broadly into a grin. Which had required him to explain the jape played on the younger officers of the gun-room when he was aboard HMS Cockerel in the Med in '93. Though, for a moment, the very strange ship had put him in mind of those "floating emporiums" moored on the South bank of the Mississippi opposite the wharves of New Orleans, the aging hulks that served as nearly duty-free stores for Spanish, British, and American merchants; all of them had been just as gaudily painted, and so plastered with an assortment of signboards or sales' broadsheets that it had been hard to make out what colour they actually were, underneath.
"Sir!" Midshipman Grace called from the mizen shrouds, where he had climbed with a telescope. "They've boarding nets strung from every yardarm! Nets strung to catch falling blocks and such from aloft, too!"
"Close enough," Lewrie snapped, as that outre seagoing joke was within a single mile, his amusement fading. "Mister Langlie, I'd admire did you beat the ship to Quarters!"
"Aye aye, sir!"
"Mister Larkin, you're signals midshipman of the watch?"
"Aye, sor… sir," their little Bog-Irish imp soberly replied.
"Hoist colours," Lewrie ordered, "and stand by with our Number, and private signal. Does that gaudy fraud try to bluff us, she'll not have this month's proper reply."
As the crew went about stripping the ship for action, lumbering furniture, sea-chests, and flimsy objects deep below, hanging their own anti-boarding nets and "protectors" aloft across the gangways and the gun positions against falling wreckage, Proteus changed her course to reduce the angle at which she closed the odd "duck" of a ship, baring her larboard broadside to her, and starting to steal a little of the Nor'east Trade from her sails by placing her in the frigate's "wind shadow." The course change also gave Proteus's gunners time to ready their pieces, light the last-ditch slow-match igniters, and open their gun-ports. As the strange ship loomed up within a half a mile of them, gun-captains raised their free arms to indicate that they were prepared in all respects to fire into her the moment the command was given.
"Colours and private signal, Mister Larkin," Lewrie snapped, as he fiddled with his sword and brace of double-barreled pistols freshly fetched from his great-cabins by his Cox'n, Andrews. The Royal Navy ensign broke high aft of her spanker sail, with a match on her foremast halliards; a string of five code flags soared up the mizen halliards as bundles, which opened like blossoms at a single twitch on the light binding line. Now we'll see just who ye are, ye… sonofabitch! Alan Lewrie thought in amazement for…
At the very last moment, a British merchantman's Red Ensign shot up her after running stay, and a blue house flag soared to the top of the strange ship's mainmast, trimmed in bright yellow at every border, and bearing yellow masks of Tragedy and Comedy!
"Think I can make out her name, sir," Lt. Catterall commented, busy with his telescope. "There, on her quarter board… Festival."
"Mine arse on a…" Lewrie gravelled, as dozens of people suddenly appeared along the Festival's bulwarks and rails, waving, shouting, and… cheering? Some of them, most skimpily dressed in the tightest garments, scrambled up those "boarding nets" and scampered high aloft… to begin swinging back and forth above their "protector" nets. Lewrie lifted his own telescope to behold a white-painted, and loosely-garbed, Fool, who plucked his large red pom-pom "buttons" down the front of his smock, and hit himself in the head with what appeared to be a pig bladder!
"God A'mighty, 'tis a circus!" Ordinary Seaman Liam Desmond, on the larboard gangways, cried. "Look, Pat!" he called to his thicker-witted compatriot, Ordinary Seaman Furfy. "A seagoin' circus, arrah!"
"Sonofa… a whole afternoon chasin' bleedin', tom-noddy… twits!" Lewrie fumed, slamming the tubes of his glass shut. "Play a jape on me, will ye, ye… clowns!"
Wonder if anybody 'dfuss much if I just sank 'em, anyway I Lewrie wondered; There's bound t'be mimes yonder. Mimes, clowns, fools, and "Captain Sharps." Might be doin' the world a favour!
"Gawd, they's wimmen thar!" a sailor in the afterguard gawped.
"Deck, there!" the mainmast lookout shouted. "Nekkid wimmen!"
"Still!" Lewrie howled to shut down the bedlam. It wasn't his way to run a totally silent warship, as some captains might, where no talking or unnecessary sound beyond the bosuns' pipes calls passed an order, but… might this be a sly ruse to get him within gun range, all unsuspecting and almost completely "disarmed," then…?
"Silence on deck, silence all!" Lt. Langlie sternly shouted.
Lewrie jerked the tubes of his telescope open to full extension again, so angrily he could hear the brass grinding against the stops, and lifted it to his eye. There were even more clowns, all prancing about in a dance that looked inspired by St. Vitus, giving each other the odd bash with their pig bladders, turning St. Catherine's Wheels… the nearly-nude people aloft… no. They wore costumes sewn so snugly that they at first had appeared nude, but he could now see that they wore tights and similar upper garments, with equally-snug wraps about their groins as skimpy as a Hindoo's underdrawers. And, they were swooping to and fro on swings hung from the masts, le
aping from one to the other as agilely as so many squirrels. Two or three twirled horizontally from taut ropes being swung by people on deck, and even a few were playing at sliding down the braces of the sails, riding perilously from the royal yard and the stiff windward edge of the sail to the t'gallant, to the tops'l, then down the edge of the course!
"Wonder if they'll charge admission, heh heh," Lt. Catterall quipped to the helmsmen.
"I said still!" Lewrie snapped. "Mister Larkin. Do they have this month's private merchant code?"
"Uh, nossir." Larkin sobered from being lost in amusement.
"Then make a hoist," Lewrie ordered. "Fetch-to at once. Do not use the trade's private signals… use the common book."
"Aye, sor."
And damned if a brace of clowns didn't leap atop the quarterdeck bulwarks, make exaggerated gestures of cupping their ears, then waving large handkerchiefs and shouting, "Yoo-Hoo!," even blowing kisses!
"Trumpet!" Lewrie barked, taking the one that Lt. Langlie meekly offered. He turned back to the rails, lifted the speaking-trumpet to his lips, took a deep breath, and bawled across the narrowing range between both ships, "Fetch-to, or I will blow you out of the water!"
He heard a faint "Yoo-Hoo!" returned, as one of the clowns got his hands on a speaking trumpet, too, though at least some of the men on the Festival's quarterdeck realised that Lewrie was serious, and tried to claw the fellow back down, and retrieve the brass instrument.
"Mister Langlie!" Lewrie snarled. "Larboard chase-gun! Put a round-shot under that bastard's bows. Close under!"
BANG! The 9-pounder chase-gun on the larboard forecastle went off terrier-sharp, and in the blink of an eye a "feather" of disturbed spray leaped into being right beneath Festival's jib-boom, collapsing in a salty mist over her own beakhead rails.
At least the clowns stopped crying, "Yoo-Hoo!"
"God's sake!" a man Lewrie took to be the ship's master cried in alarm from her quarterdeck. "We're British). Hold yer fire for the love o' God, sir!" He lowered his "recovered" speaking-trumpet, and took off his old-style tricorne hat, mopping his forehead on his free sleeve. "Merchantman Festival, three days outta the Cape Verdes, and bound for Recife!" he continued, with a fresher breath.
A King`s Trade l-13 Page 14