He looked aloft at the commissioning pendant, noting that the winds had altered during the course of the morning, and it was now more from the South; Sapphire could not steer Sou’east, and even driving at the closest “beat” to weather, could only make East-Sou’east. She’d clear Cabo de Gata easily, and might gain enough sea-room to get to windward of the two approaching strangers and hold the weather gage against them should they turn out to be Spanish.
“East-Sou’east is the closest she’ll bear, sir,” Lt. Westcott told him.
“Good enough, then. Lay her close-hauled on that course, and let’s get the old scow plodding into action,” Lewrie said, japing at his ship’s slowness.
“To glory we steer, sir!” Westcott replied, quoting a snippet from Arne’s famous song.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Captain Hedgepeth aboard Harmony had gotten his ship under way as soon as the signal guns were fired off, and the flag hoist soared up Sapphire’s halliards. The six heavy 36-foot landing boats were led astern to be towed, but, if they proved too much of a drag, he could cast them loose. Lewrie suspected that Hedgepeth would, and that Captain Middleton would never get them for his desired gunboats. With all to the t’gallants and all jibs and stays’ls set, Harmony galloped off West, slightly canted over to starboard on larboard tack and an easy beam reach, spreading an impressive and broad white bridal train wake. She, the soldiers of the 77th detachment, and the sailors from Sapphire’s crew, would be safely out of it.
“Eight and a quarter knots, sir!” Midshipman Fywell reported.
“Damn’ near enough t’take your breath away,” Lewrie scoffed at that news, recalling how swift his Reliant frigate had been, hard on the wind. His Fourth Rate trundled, her larboard shoulders set to the sea, canted over from horizontal only about fifteen degrees, stiffer than he expected since the winds were not all that strong this late morning. He reckoned that if Sapphire could be gotten far enough up to windward of the two strange sail, and he had time to come about to larboard tack to engage them, she’d only be pressed over from level by about ten degrees or less, once the large main course was brailed up against the risk of fire from the discharge of her guns, and that would turn her into a very steady gun platform.
From his perch on the poop deck, Lewrie could make out two sets of sails from the deck, by now; t’gallants and royals, perhaps a hint of their tops’ls when the scend of the sea lifted them a few feet more. Whoever they were, they were bows-on to Sapphire, on larboard tack, a bit of separation between them as if sailing abreast of each other. By the slight cant of their sails, he suspected that they were also going close-hauled. If he managed to get to windward, they could not swing up any closer to him, but would have to stay on larboard tack, ceding him the right to fall down to them when he willed.
“Not exactly how I expected this morning to turn out, what?” Captain Pomfret commented as he paced up near Lewrie’s shoulder.
“Not how I thought it would go, either, sir,” Lewrie said with a rueful grin. “If they do turn out to be Spanish, you can write home to tell your people that you’ve been in your first sea-fight.”
“What do you call it, ‘yardarm to yardarm’?” Pomfret asked.
“I’d prefer not to,” Lewrie admitted, laughing briefly. “That sort of battle’s costly. You see how they’ve slipped to about three points off our larboard bows? We’re close-hauled on one tack, they’re doin’ the same on opposite tack. Unless something goes smash aloft, I hope to get seaward or them,” he said, explaining what that meant as an advantage, and how he would come about and match tacks to engage, and how he hoped to fall down upon them in his own good time.
“But, how do you expect to fight two of them?” Pomfret went on. “You said they might be two big frigates. How big?”
“They’re most-like what we call Fifth Rates, mounting the Spanish equivalent of our eighteen-pounders,” Lewrie said. “Does it come to about two cables’ range, our lower-deck twenty-four-pounders should prove the difference … unless the Dons’ve developed carronades … those fat, stubby barrelled ones there?… there’s more twenty-fours, though they’re short-ranged. About four hundred yards is the most one can expect. But that gives us sixteen heavy guns to each beam.
“See the Dons yonder?” Lewrie pointed out, gesturing towards the pair of sails on the horizon. “They’re hard on the wind and they can’t steer any higher … like a coach on a narrow country lane with a rock wall on one side which it can’t go through. Those frigates can’t come near us, so long as I stand aloof to windward. They could tack or wear about to the same heading we’re on now, but that’d make no sense. When a ship tacks, or alters course that drastically, it slows down and it takes a while t’get back up to speed, so even if they do tack, we end up chasin’ them. They could split up, but that’d put ’em miles apart, and the idea is t’stay and support your consort. Strength, and comfort, in numbers, hey?”
“I think I see, but still…” Pomfret said with a frown, and a hapless shrug, for half of what Lewrie had said was Greek to him.
“If they’re Spanish, they could be the finest frigates in their entire navy,” Lewrie continued, lifting his telescope for another look at them. “The Dons, and the French for that matter, build grand ships, but, it’s seamanship, gunnery, and experience at sea that matter, and according to Mountjoy’s reports, they’ve only had their yards crossed for a fortnight or so … sittin’ idle, swingin’ at their anchorages, and their crews goin’ stale and bored, and, I hope, dis-spirited by our blockade. All make-work and ‘river discipline’?”
He lowered his day-glass and turned to Pomfret. “Much like the garrison at Gibraltar. Would you march ’em out against the French or the Dons right off, without a lick of re-trainin’? Then, there’s gunnery. Anchored in harbour, ye can’t stage live-fire. How many houses and docks do the Dons have t’spare if shot goes wild? We’ve had live-fire once or twice a week since I took command, hang the cost in shot and powder, and my crew can get off three rounds every two minutes. I doubt the Spanish can match that, after their initial broadsides, and that I think will be the edge. Well, hallo, Bisquit! Got a new bone, have ye? Tasty? Good and crunchy? Good fellow!”
Lewrie knelt down to ruffle the dog’s head and neck ruff.
“Your dog is he, Captain Lewrie?” Pomfret enquired as he made “come hither” noises, offering his fingers to be smelled. Bisquit went to him, tail fluttering madly, and whining, with a grin on his face.
“Ship’s dog,” Lewrie said, explaining how the Reliant frigate had acquired him. “He’s made a new friend.”
“Eight and a half knots!” Midshipman Fywell reported.
Lewrie stood and looked aloft; the wind was picking up force, and looked to be coming more from the South by East than from Due South.
“Damn,” Lewrie groused. “Mister Westcott, ease her to East by South, and I’ll have the main t’gallant, middle, and topmast stays’ls hoisted. Drive her, hard.”
Five Bells of the Forenoon were struck at the foc’s’le belfry marking half-past ten of the morning. Lewrie went down to the quarterdeck, leaving Captain Pomfret on the poop deck to play with the dog.
“They’re almost hull-up, now, Geoffrey,” he muttered closely to the First Officer. “We may be engaged by Seven Bells. Let’s advance the rum issue to eleven A.M.”
“Six Bells it’ll be, sir,” Westcott agreed, nodding. “Do you intend to ‘Splice The Mainbrace’? That’d encourage them.”
“No, I don’t want ’em too groggy when handlin’ powder,” Lewrie said. “We’ll save that for after we’ve beaten those sons of bitches. I’ll be aft for a bit. Carry on, sir.”
“Aye, sir,” Lt. Westcott said.
After a time, Captain Pomfret came down from the poop deck to the quarterdeck and looked round for Lewrie, still full of questions. He settled for Westcott. “Captain Lewrie seems confident, sir. Pardons if I intrude on your duties.”