“Try andanada, sir,” Captain Pomfret offered, looking as if he found amusement in Lewrie’s flummoxing in a foreign language.
“Andanada, muchos andanada, comprend?” Lewrie shouted over to the Spanish frigate, wondering if “comprend” was French. He pointed at the side of his ship and the two re-loaded and run-out gun batteries.
The two Spaniards had themselves a short palaver, then the one with the large national flag went to the stern and draped it over the shattered stern. The one with the bed sheet gave his to a sailor who went up the mainmast shrouds to the ravaged fighting top to bind it to the after-most stay.
“We … yield to you, señor!” a young Aspirante, the Spanish equivalent of a Midshipman, shouted back. “We strike!”
“Now, you can form a boarding party, Mister Westcott, and take possession of her,” Lewrie said, whooping in triumph. He looked aft to see how close the other Spanish frigate was, and caught sight of her as she began a slow turn alee. She was breaking off, now that her consort had surrendered. Whatever her captain had intended in bringing his ship back into action despite her parlous condition, it was evident that he’d seen the light, and recognised the futility of the gesture. She continued turning, performing a sloppy wear cross the eye of the wind, and began to limp Nor’east, possibly for Almeria.
“Should we go after her, too, sir?” Westcott asked from the foot of the starboard poop deck ladderway.
“Wish we could, but…” Lewrie said with a grimace. “Better we deal with the bird in hand. Fetch-to, sir, and fetch up the boats from astern. Somebody who knows the language tell our Spaniards to fetch-to, as well.”
Captain Pomfret shouted that over to the frigate, then frowned over the reply. “They say their steering’s gone, Captain Lewrie, and are unable. They…” He paused to listen to further shouts. “They say they will take in all sail, but they will need assistance to set things back in order.”
“Very well,” Lewrie said with a weary sigh, “I’ll have the Carpenter and his crew, the Bosun and his Mate, the Sailmaker and his Mate, and a working-party of topmen, with some strong-backed Landsmen, board her, along with two files of Marines.”
“Aye, sir,” Westcott said, “I’ll see it organised, directly.”
“Best include Mister Snelling and his Surgeon’s Mates, too, if they can be spared from tending our own wounded,” Lewrie added. “How many of ours are down?”
“Ehm, seven dead and nineteen wounded, sir,” Westcott grimly toted up. “Amazing, really.”
Lewrie leaned far out over the poop deck bulwarks to survey the engaged side of his ship, noting the shot holes, the places where enemy roundshot had lodged when they failed to penetrate, and the dents in the stout oak scantlings where balls had struck but bounced off. The order for Secure From Quarters had been piped, and the muzzles of the guns were jerking back in-board, and those ports that had survived were being lowered. He was amazed, and grateful, that all those hits that should have filled his gun decks with swarms of splinters had not scythed down dozens more of his men!
“Put Mister Harcourt and Mister Elmes to our own repairs, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered, then shambled loose-hipped down the ladderway to the quarterdeck, strongly desiring a sit-down, perhaps even a lie-down, and a pint of small-beer. His throat was parched and raspy from shouting orders, his leg, which he had thought completely healed, was faintly aching, and he was suddenly bone-weary and drooping in the lassitude which always seemed to overtake him after a long, hard fight. His head was nodding, and it was hard for him to keep his eyes open.
“A splendid victory, if I may say so, Captain Lewrie,” Pomfret congratulated. “Not that I know much of naval battles. Even taking a spectator’s part in one still leaves me full of questions.”
“Splendid?” Lewrie responded, shrugging. “I’ll have t’take your word for that, Captain Pomfret.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lewrie had ordered his collapsible wood-and-canvas deck chair fetched up to the poop deck, and had taken himself a long, restoring nap, oblivious for the better part of an hour to the thuds, bangs, and screechings of saws as Sapphire’s damage was seen to sufficient for a safe return to Gibraltar. He was wakened by a wet nose, then a wet tongue, and some wee, tentative “wakey-wakey” woofs from Bisquit, who had gotten over his terror of loud gunfire and was seeking comfort and attention to acknowledge him, and give him pets.
He cossetted the dog for a few minutes, then got to his feet, a bit stiff and sore, but well-rested, had several dips of water from the nearest scuttle-butt, and returned to duty.
“Mister Snelling and the Spanish Surgeon and their Mates have had their hands full, sir,” Lt. Westcott reported, shuffling through a sheaf of notes he’d made. “There were nigh three hundred men in San Pedro’s crew, and we’ve found nearly ninety of them dead, with over an hundred men wounded.” That drew an amazed whistle from Lewrie. “Her captain and two of her other officers are among the slain. Half her larboard guns are dis-mounted, carriages shattered, and one burst. That explains the flash and smoke we saw, sir. We’ve rigged a spare spanker to the stump of her mizen, and cut away and jettisoned everything that got shot off … they had plenty of spare spars, so we can get tops’ls up, and we can replace her fore course and main course. All in all, she can be got under way by dusk. Her jib boom’s dicey-looking, but it’ll take a foresail or two, for balance on the helm, which we’ve re-roved, so she’ll steer … after a fashion.”
“Want her, Geoffrey?” Lewrie asked. “If only for a time?”
“They don’t award Fifth Rates to Lieutenants, or Commanders,” Westcott laughed off. “Better you assign Harcourt the chore, again. If the Gibraltar dockyards can set her right, and she’s off for home, let him take the chance of re-assignment.”
“But, if Admiralty makes him a Commander, not you … sooner or later, you must be promoted,” Lewrie protested. “You’ve more than earned it.”
“Still trying to get rid of me?” Westcott scoffed. “That hurts!”
“You’d rather stay and be amused by my foolishness?” Lewrie asked with a brow up.
“Oh, something like that,” Westcott replied, with a grin and a shrug. “By the by, the other frigate is the San Pablo, and they were sister ships, and have always worked together since they were put in commission two years ago, sir. Saints Peter and Paul? She’s still in sight, off to the Nor’east, about six or seven miles away, barely making steerage way.”
“Hmm, let’s go after her, and make it a clean sweep,” Lewrie decided of a sudden. “God knows we could use the prize money, whenever that comes due. Our prisoners aboard the San Pedro are well in hand?”
“All Spanish arms, even personal knives, are secured, and the spirits stores are well-guarded,” Westcott told him. “Those still on their feet we’ve herded round the mainmast, now the heavy work’s done, so I should assume so. We’ve three files of Marines aboard her, to boot, under Lieutenant Roe.”
“We’ll gamble, then, and go after the other,” Lewrie ordered. “Get us under way to the Nor’east, Mister Westcott.”
“Aye aye, sir!” was the eager, hungry reply.
* * *
HMS Sapphire had hardly begun to sail after the San Pablo when urgent cries came from the lookouts aloft. “Th’ Chase is rollin’ on her beam ends! Deck, there! Th’ Chase looks t’be sinkin’!”
“Clap on sail, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie snapped.
Lewrie went up to the poop deck and raised his telescope. It was a much better vantage point than his old practice of scaling the mainmast shrouds almost to the cat-harpings, and even suited his lazy nature!