Lewrie collapsed the tubes of his telescope, hunched into his coat, and pondered, frowning in concentration. How would he fight her? The slant of wind limited how far to starboard he could turn and surprise her by wheeling “full and by”. That morning wind was fresh enough at the moment, but could weaken before both ships got within gun-range. Serving her a broadside from his larboard guns and bow-raking her would be too chancy.
It was a given for Royal Navy captains to gain the weather gage, upwind of a foe where one’s ship could steal wind from the foe’s sails, and command when one fell down alee to musket-shot or pistol-shot. Sometimes, though, the leeward ship, heeled over to larboard in this instance, could elevate her guns higher, whilst the enemy’s guns were depressed, even with the elevating quoins fully out.
It’ll be a passin’ engagement, Lewrie stewed, pursing his lips and gnawing on the lining of his mouth; one, maybe two broadsides if we’re quick about it, and then we’re past each other, and swingin’ about t’re-engage. Once she’s past us, it might be best t’haul wind and wear alee, with the larboard battery ready for ’em that instant. The Spaniard will, too. It’d make no sense for them to turn up into the wind.
Lewrie used both forefingers to sketch out the manoeuvring on the wood of the cap-rails, supposing that the Spaniard would want to stay close enough for his further broadsides to be fired at a range of less than one hundred yards, giving his gunners surer chances of hits.
Christ, we’ll end up spirallin’ round each other like “country dancers”, Lewrie thought; but, I’ll have the pre-loaded larboard guns, and he’ll be re-loadin’ his starboard battery … and the Dons ain’t all that well drilled, in the main, at gunnery or ship-handlin’, both!
At least the Spanish were slower and clumsier back in Europe, he had to caution himself. With the Royal Navy’s incessant blockades of enemy harbours, it was rare for French, Dutch, or Spanish warships to get much sea time, or chances to practice live firing. This Spaniard, though, based out of the Argentine, or some other Spanish possession the other side of Cape Horn, might have been free to drill his crew to deadly competence.
He raised his telescope for yet another look at the approaching enemy warship, and made a decision.
“A point to windward, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered. “We are stupid, weak, and civilian … or so the Dons imagine. It’s only natural for us t’get to speakin’ distance and say hallo to another British ship, hey? I want us to pass starboard-to-starboard, damned close, so our first broadside’s a blow to the heart.”
“Aye, sir,” Lt. Westcott replied.
Might he haul his wind before then, cross our bows and rake us with his larboard guns? Lewrie had to consider; Or recognise us as a frigate, and decide t’bugger off South?
He shrugged that off, deeming that the Spaniard’s move could be spotted soon enough, and even at longer range, he still had time to turn up higher into the wind and present his larboard battery. Once the Spanish captain did that, he’d surrender the wind gage, and who in his right mind would give that advantage up, once seized?
Well, I have, Lewrie confessed to himself with a wry grimace; Hell’s Bells, I’m plannin’ on givin’ it up, this minute!
Another decision made; he would hold course.
“Mister Spendlove, my apologies to your gunners,” Lewrie called down to the weather deck and the waist, “but, I wish for roundshot to be drawn from the starboard great-guns, and replaced with chain, star, and bar shot, and double-loaded with grape canisters atop those. The twelve-pounder bow chaser, carronades, and quarterdeck nine-pounders will retain solid shot. We will pass close, and I want her rigging cut t’pieces, and her quarterdeck pummeled!”
“My, sir,” Lt. Westcott said in a whisper near his shoulder, “but how very un-British.”
“He’ll be expectin’ our usual ’twixt wind and water broadside, t’punch holes in his hull and dis-mount his guns,” Lewrie said with a wee snicker, “and, he may be plannin’ t’fire high and cripple us with his first broadside, but, I s’pose now and then we can emulate the customs of the French Navy, and his. And, there’s the biter, bit.”
“Deck, there!” a lookout sang out. “Chase is a … frigate!”
“Hull-up, sir!” Midshipman Rossyngton yelled, now standing on the starboard sail-tending gangway, having left his former perch on the shrouds.
Lewrie and Westcott could see the enemy as clear as day, by then, too, bows-on to Reliant with her entire hull in plain sight; not a now-and-then thing which depended upon the rise and scend from an active sea to shove her higher for a time. The seas were fairly calm with few cat’s paws, and any apparent waves no higher than one foot or so. The fully-risen early morning sun had brightened those waters to a brilliant dark blue, too, with no more sign of the muddy coloured outflow from the Plate River and its estuary.
Atop that brilliant blue sea, the Spanish frigate stood out starkly, a dark brown hull with a faint band of pale yellow paint, and her sails the colour of weathered parchment, Lewrie could take note after a long look with his telescope. The enemy looked a bit worse for wear, as if she had been at sea for months on end, which made him feel a touch of uneasiness that she might be that rare Spaniard who had had time to make herself hellishly efficient, and would be quicker off the mark than he had hoped, or expected.
Devil take it, he grimly thought; we’re committed.
He lowered his glass and looked aloft to the streaming commissioning pendant. “Another point to windward, Mister Westcott.”
“A point more to windward, aye, sir,” Westcott replied.
“Once our first broadside is delivered, we will haul our wind as quick as dammit, take the wind fine on the quarter, even wear if we have to, t’keep her in close gun-range. Be ready for it.”
“Aye, sir,” Westcott said, nodding and smiling. “Chomp down on her, and hang on like a bulldog.”
“That’s my good fellow!” Lewrie congratulated him.
He raised his glass once more to watch the enemy ship close the distance between them. She was altering her course slightly, hardening about one more point to windward, and baring a bit more to see of her starboard side.
Dogged, and implacable, Lewrie thought.
“Spanish frigates, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie mused aloud. “How many guns do they mount? I can’t make a count of her ports, yet.”
“Uhm, anywhere from twenty-eight to fourty, I read somewhere, sir,” Westcott told him, after a long moment to dredge that information up. “We haven’t had much dealings with them, as we have had with the French. Anything from nine- to eighteen-pounders, or their equivalents. This one doesn’t appear all that large, so…,” he said with a shrug.
Lewrie judged the range to the Spaniard at about five miles or less, by then, and wondered just how much longer their enemy might be mis-led as to their nature, or whether the Spanish captain would stand on, thinking he would soon seize a British merchantman.
Surely, he must realise we’re a frigate, sooner or later! he thought, worried that the Spaniard would haul off and begin to flee long before they came into decent gun-range, and all his preparations would be for nought.
Why, why do I trust to my cleverness! Lewrie bemoaned; Every time, I come a cropper! Clever, me? What a sour joke that is!