Much as he disliked the notion of facing I8-Pounder broadsides with Jester's frailer flanks, it might come to it. Mr. Buchanon might get his "bloody" morning, after all. And Mr. Howse, one more reason to despair at the futility of war. As if death and dying were Lewrie s willful doing!
"Deck, there! Frigate's tackin'!"
"Stations for Stays, Mr. Knolles, quick as you can!" Alan snapped. "So we don't lose a single yard on her!"
Once more, Jester came about, heading a touch east of Nor'East. Pointed almost daggerlike at Myrmidon, which was on the opposing tack and crossing her bows. Lewrie went aloft once more with his telescope.
Shammin' it, are you? he asked the distant French captain. Do a sloppy tack, just then, to reel us into gun-range? Make us cocky?
The big frigate hadn't been well handled, had luffed about as she'd come up to Stays, and had slowed to a crawl. They'd gained a full half mile on her before she was back up to speed bound Nor'east.
Myrmidon would still pass astern of her, though, slant-wise; and Pylades and Lionheart were still too far alee to matter much for the time being. Close enough to worry her, though?
"Mister Knolles!" he shouted down. "Hoist the main and mizzen t'~ gallant stays'ls! Get every stitch of canvas on her shell bear!"
And the winds… still out of the Sou'east, a backing Levanter. A sign of a weather-change, perhaps, he thought, lowering the telescope for a moment. He turned to look a'weather, over the arm threaded into the mizzen shrouds to maintain his perch. It was a clear horizon with no high-piled clouds to become thunderheads, no haze of a squall line. But there were cat's-paws and seahorses out there, faint wispy white irregularities that presaged a stronger breeze, winking at him from a slowly rolling sea.
"More wind coming, Mister Knolles!" he called down, then swung about to descend, to end up jumping from the bulwarks to the deck, and go to the wheel to peer into the compass binnacle. "Might back on us, half a point, pray Jesus. We might be able to carry those t'gallant stays'ls. And half-reefed royals, too!"
"Aye, pray God, sir," Knolles echoed.
Half an hour more, and Myrmidon had crossed the French frigate's stern, still two tantalising miles shy, even as Jester had gained one. The frigate was slowly slipping to larboard of Jester's bows, becoming hidden from the quarterdeck by the heads'ls and forecourse. Jester was weathering her, pointing a precious half or quarter point closer to the wind, even with all that sail aloft.
"She's heeled too much, sir," Buchanon noted. " 'Ey all three are, you'll note. Sailin' too much on th' shoulder, not th' keel. A long chase, but 'less she does somethin'…"
"Deck, there! Myrmidon's firm'!"
The pristine outline of the other ship-rigged sloop was smudged by a ragged haze of powder smoke, which ragged astern in a spreading, thinning pall, ragged alee and almost hid her from sight before they heard the faint, dull foomph of firing over the keen and roar of the wind and sea. It was a hopeless, impatient gesture at two miles or more distance. Even with the quoins full out from beneath the gun-barrels, they could never elevate high enough, not even with all the heel of Myrmidon going close-hauled.
Then, as Myrmidon sailed clear of her gun-smoke, she turned to show Jester her stern, turning up onto the wind to tack. And all that smoke, which was now reaching them, was flying 'cross Jester's bows at a faster rate.
"Here's that wind, Mister Knolles," Lewrie warned. "Backing!"
"Helm alee, meet it, Quartermaster!" Knolles cried. "Nothing to loo'rd, and mind your luff!"
Just as the shrill wind in the rigging could begin to rise in pitch, Jester wheeled slightly to meet it, to conform to it without a falter… and rise on a wave of that quartering sea under her cut-water to aim herself a bit to starboard of the French ship.
'At wind-shift didn't reach her first?" Buchanon puzzled to the quarterdeck staff. "Ah, 'ere she comes!"
The frigate heeled, as the change in direction and strength got to her at last. Really heeled, as if she'd been overcanvased, with a bit of her starboard side showing, trying to round up into it, nigh a broach! Myrmidon had completed her tack successfully, and now lay off her starboard quarter, with Jester just about dead astern. Close, too, Lewrie noted with a grin; well, closer. Her falter had cost her a quarter mile of her lead.
And those two beyond she was protecting-they were heavily laden or poorly managed. Merchantmen, without a doubt, both of whom were rapidly being overtaken by their own escort and her pursuers. After a long glance, Lewrie didn't reckon that they were more than two miles to windward of the frigate-and she was now within two miles' range of Myrmidon, with Jester a mere two miles astern of that.
"We'll allow Commander Fillebrowne the windward side, Mister Knolles," Lewrie said. "Stand on as we are. Long as this breeze holds, that is."
Another half hour passed, every ship thrashing and panting for the far horizon, but with the British warships closing the range, and the French frigate getting close enough to run down her charges. On her present course, she'd pass between them, risking being "winded" by the massive spread of sail on the right-hand of the pair, slowing her even more. Every now and then, the impatient Commander Fillebrowne lit off his larboard bow-chaser, whenever Myrmidon's bows were on the rise. The shot still fell far short in the frigates wake; a poor old 4-Pounder, Lewrie supposed, one that wouldn't even smudge her paint, should it score a hit.
Still too far apart to beat to Quarters, Lewrie had the rations fetched up, with one man from every six-man mess dashing below to the berthing deck to bring up what had been abandoned. Today, like every Friday, it was a "Banyan Day," so the hands weren't missing much. A portion of cheese, some ship's biscuit, what remained of their mushy peas and their beer. More hop-flavoured water, that, than a genuine beer, a mere gnat's piss; but it kept longer in-cask than unhopped water did, and was never reduced in amount, like real water was. A sailor, ship's boy or bosun got a gallon a day of it.
"Yer Shrewsbury, sir," Aspinall offered, fetching his plate to the taffrail flag-lockers, where Lewrie could dine in a semblance of privacy.
" Sandwich," Lewrie countered.
"Not th' way I heard tell it, sir," Aspinall countered, getting his little laugh again; his former master in London had told him that it had been Lord Shrewsbury who'd first ordered cold meat on a split half-loaf, creating the first "sandwich" at the gaming-tables, too avid on a winning streak to break it, and not Lord Sandwich
"Cold pork, sir, sorry. Mustard, a slice o' mozzarella, with sweet gherkin… Shrewsbury, sir," Aspinall tittered, after turning "mozzarella" into a short aria.
"Oh, do bugger off, Aspinall," Lewrie growled in good fettle.
"Very good, sir!" His manservant crisply replied, as if he'd never left a great-house's employ. "Uhm, sir…? Do we catch these ships, d'ya think there'd be a payout soon, sir?"
"Knowing the lethargy of our Prize-Courts, Aspinall, I'd not hold my breath waiting." Lewrie sighed between wolfish bites and blissful chewing. "Why? You're not 'skint,' are you? In debt?"
"Nossir, nothin' like that. Just like t'have somethin' t'hand, like… t'send home now an' again," Aspinall was quick to assure him. "Never told my ma I was signin' 'board a warship, 'til it was done."