"And here we go, again," Lewrie muttered, turning to stomp aft and peer 'cross the quarterdeck at Grafton, now up on their starboard bows, and about five miles distant. Could he really shoot fire from his eyes like an ancient Greek god, the flagship would explode before he blinked, all his problems immolated in a towering ball of flames.
It had been like this for weeks, going on for the better part of two months since the rendezvous in mid-Channel. Did the shallows or rocky shoals of the Breton coast need scouting for fear of lurking Frog warships or privateers, one could count on Proteus to do it; were any of the towering East Indiamen dawdling astern or straying too far away, the safest wager would be that Grafton would hoist their number as the ship to dash off and play "whipper-in." Did one of their merchantmen lose spars or sails in the generally horrid weather in the Bay of Biscay or off the equally-belligerent Spanish coasts, it was usually HMS Proteus, and Lewrie, given the task of giving her both close escort and succour, to the point that Lewrie's carefully hoarded supply of bosun's stores, sail canvas, light upper mast, and yardarm replacements had been sorely depleted… and would any of the other warships among the escort force whip round a share-out? Hell no, of course.
In point of fact, the only signal that Grafton had not hoisted was "Captain Repair On Board," and an invitation to supper, as was made to every other warship captain, and even to some of the "better-behaved" Indiamen.
The third time I blink, she blows to smithereens, Lewrie fantasised, and feeling a bit of disappointment when Grafton did not, after a last shutting and snapping-open of his eyes.
Their trade was now well South of the Tropic of Cancer, steering mostly Sou'-Sou'west with the weakening Nor'east Trades fine on their larboard quarters, to churn out enough Southing in mid-Atlantic so the Westward-flowing Equatorial Current did not slosh them too far over to the New World and onto the shoulder of South America, where they could end embayed against the coasts, and hit bows-on by the Sou'east Trades. It was theoretically possible to shave the Cape Verde Islands without being forced too far West, then do a long and labourious tacking course direct to St. Helena, if the weather allowed, though that would require fighting the Equatorial Current and the Trades all the way.
Anything t'make this hellish voyage shorter, pray Jesus! Lewrie fervently prayed, and quite often, at that.
The easier way, so their Sailing Master, Mr. Winwood, insisted, would be to let the current and winds waft them West'rd, as far South as the bleak and lonely St. Paul 's Bocks, then haul their wind to fall down upon Cape St. Boque for a landfall, and coast South to Becife, in neutral Portuguese Brazil. But, somehow Lewrie just knew by then that Capt. Sir Tobias Treghues, Bart., would demand that they do things his way… the hard way. He was charged with convoying the Indiamen to St. Helena, and by God, that's where he'd escort them.
Besides, heading over to Recife would require that their trade would have to run down the coast of Brazil, then down the hostile shore of the Spanish possessions, 'til they could strike the strong Easterly winds round the 40th Latitude, "The Roaring Fourties," using them to be gusted over to the Southern tip of Africa, and exposed along their way to the odd Spanish or far-roaming French warships or privateers.
At least the weather's warmer, Lewrie could console himself.
Though it was mid-December, and the Atlantic was still a lively place, and the skies were rarely completely clear enough for reliable sun or star sights, the seas were a cheerier blue, and the rising and setting of the sun each day was dramatically and colourfully tropical. Equally dramatic were the height of the waves and the spacing between their sets that they encountered, which made both deep-laden Indiamen and sleek men o' war wallow, soar, and snuffle atop them.
One blessing to that moderation in the weather was that Lewrie no longer had need of his coal stove for heat during the days, but for the rare night when the wind had a nip to it after sundown, and most times, one of Caroline's quilts, and the cats, made his swaying bed-cot snug and cozy.
God, but the thought of even an extra week, an extra day, more in Treghues's company was enough to curdle his piss, and even the sudden turn of speed that Proteus was now displaying could not cheer him, even were they ordered to take station a blessed five sea-miles ahead and apart. And, Lewrie dourly speculated, once at St. Helena, they'd take aboard wood and water, then turn the bulk of the escort force on a course for England, leaving but one ship of the line and perhaps no more than two lighter ships to see them all the way to Cape Town; and there was the strong possibility (a hellish-gloomy one!) that Treghues would choose his frigate to be his goat. Had not Twigg as much as said that he was on his way-all the way!-to Africa? And, had that perversely mischievious man sent a letter to Treghues of Lewrie's need to be far away from England, perhaps had intimated the why of it, and had chortled over the thought of a primly-outraged Treghues deciding to make Lewrie's life under his authority a living Hell? He wouldn't put such dastardy beyond Mr. Zachariah Twigg… damn him!
"And… belay ev'ry inch of that!" Lt. Langlie bellowed, satisfied with the set and angle of the sails, at last, bringing Lewrie back to a somewhat pleasing reality. HMS Proteus now had a "bone in her teeth," her cutwater, forefoot, and bows smashing a mustachio of white foam below her bowsprit and jib-boom, the seas creaming either side of her hull, and spreading a wide, white highway in her wake. In comparison to the plodding merchantmen and other escorts bound closely to them, Proteus seemed the only vessel under way, with the slow ships looking as if they merely tossed and wallowed in place. The convoy's best speed-the speed of the slowest to which all the others conformed-was no better than five or six knots, while Proteus was in her element with the Trades on her best point of sail from nigh-astern. A quick cast of the log showed her already making nine knots, easily able to better that at the next cast, and attain ten or better. East India Company captains were even more conservative than most civilian merchant masters; they had priceless cargoes to safeguard, and paying passengers (some of them rich, titled, and well-connected, and Members of The Board, to boot!) who demanded coddling, so "dash" simply wasn't in their Sailing Directions. They plodded mostly under "plain sail" in daylight, and dramatically reduced canvas after sundown, and drove him to testily impatient, leg-jiggling fits.
Savour it, savour it, Lewrie chid himself, determined to take as much fleeting joy of their temporary freedom as possible.
"Will ye take a cup o' tea, sir?" Aspinall enquired, making his rounds aft from the galley with his ever-present steaming pot.
"Tea'd be capital, Aspinall, just capital!" Lewrie replied with relish, allowing his body to loose the Treghues-inspired tension of his back, neck, and jaws. Once he'd gotten a battered tin cup of tea in his hands, he turned aft to look astern, going so far as to slouch like the veriest lubber against the bulwarks. The freshness of the stern winds kissed his cheeks; and, there was the gladsome sight of HMS Grafton as she slowly dropped astern, going hull-down in Proteus'?, wake.
"Mister Langlie?" Lewrie announced in a quizzical tone, and with his head cocked to one side.