A stillness fell over the frigate, now that the din of preparation was over, and the only sounds to be heard were the keening of the wind in the miles of rigging, and the snuffly thunder of the hull that butted its bows through the long-rolling, white-flecked, waves; that, and the crack and rumble from the storm, of course.
"The French, out yonder!" Lewrie bellowed down to his crew, his hands gripping the cap-rails of the hammock nettings. "Mean to screw up their courage, and try a second time to finish what failed, before! They might've given us a little dusting, then… but, now it's their turn t'taste iron! If they dare! Are ye ready t'kill some Frenchmen, lads? Ye ready t'get some of your own back?"
The snarling, vengeful cheer that arose told him all he wished to know of the mettle of his crew. Lewrie looked over towards the foe to judge her distance, and how long they had before they came to grips.
"Fiddler, fifer! Desmond! Give us a tune, a lively one!" he roared, and the ship's finest musicians got with the Marine drummer, and launched into "The Stool of Repentance," then "Lord Dunmore"!
"Yah sword an' pistols, Cap'm," Cox'n Andrews said at his side, and helped him jam his pair of double-barreled Mantons into pockets in his uniform coat, beneath the tarpaulin foul-weather coat, where their primings might stay dry. "Cats is below on th' orlop with Aspinall, sah, an' he said t'send ya dis," Andrews added, once he'd also helped Lewrie strap on his hanger. Andrews held out a large tin mug of soup and stew combined, with some stale, toasted rolls crumbled up and sopping juices in it. A cheap, older horn spoon jutted upwards from one side, both mug and spoon no loss if Lewrie had to throw them overside or let them fall to the deck to get trampled.
"Thankee, Andrews," Lewrie said, looking him square in the eyes. "And, give me thanks to Aspinall, should you see him first when this is done. And, I expect t'see your ugly phyz amongst the living, then, hear me? Have a care with yourself."
"An' don' ya go bein' too bold yahself, sah," Andrews replied with a shrug and a sketchy smile. "Beggin' ya pahd'n fo' sayin' such, Cap'm Lewrie, sah." Andrews knuckled his forehead in salute, then he was off along the weather gangway with both Lewrie's breech-loading Ferguson rifle and the Girandoni air rifle he'd gotten in New Orleans for a little "man-hunting" should the French come within near shot.
"Cast of the log, Mister Langlie," Lewrie snapped, coming back to proper concern. Lightning flash, and a crash of thunder! Lewrie snapped his attention to the French frigate, the sea astern, the sea abeam, for all that he could glean from that finger-snap of revelation.
Might be as fast as she is, or soon will be, he told himself; I could stay ahead of her a bit, block her direct approach. Looked t'be no more than a mile off our starboard quarter, that time. Do I slow, let her rush up abeam?
Were Proteus a bit slower over the ground, it might be possible to get to grips quicker, then wheel a point or two more to starboard, and force the enemy frigate to accept battle, broadside to broadside.
Or, the bugger ducks under our stern and goes for the merchantmen, Lewrie thought with a scowl; shoots right up our transom, again, then dashes past with the wind right up his own arse, and I'd have to wear t'catch him up. Have the weather gage, but… No. By the time we got worn about, we 'd be lucky to spot her again in all this. Chase the gun flashes half the night, same as we did before.
Proteus was out on the starboard quarter of the convoy, after her turn up more Northerly. And the convoy was doing something right, wearing off slowly and cautiously more Westerly, out into the open Atlantic. With their much smaller civilian crews, and so much sail, the Indiamen were taking a hell of a risk of dismasting to alter course, even so slightly, to take the hard wind on their larboard quarters; a single mistake, and one of them could end up lying crippled, and lost to the French. To broach, get shoved on their beam-ends… would be even worse, for then they'd be lost to the sea, and the storm!
We wear on this wind, we could suffer the same fate, he thought with a sudden chill, yet; So could the French! Could I make her do it?
The musicians were now staggering up and down between the tiers of guns in the waist, well into a medley of "Banish Misfortune," "Go to the De'il and Shake Yourself," and "The Rakes of Mallow," and the crew stamped their feet, and their gun-tools, on the deck in time, with the Marine drummer jauntily plying his sticks as if on Sunday parade on the ramparts of Southsea Castle in Portsmouth. A loud crack, and a lightning flash!
"Mister Langlie, does she look t'be hauling her wind a half a point?" Lewrie demanded. "Putting the wind squarer on her stern?"
"About that, sir," the First Lieutenant replied, trying to keep a fretful tone from his voice. "Might she be readying to wear?"
"Possibly," Lewrie said, rubbing his chin and looking aloft at his sails and yards. "Helm up a point, Mister Langlie, bring us back to our original course of Nor'west."
A look alee showed their merchantmen now off Proteus's bows to larboard, after her jog outwards, and their own slight turn away from the threat of the enemy warship. Very disappointingly far off, there was a taffrail light and a masthead fusee to the right of the fleeing Indiamen; HMS Jamaica evidently had worn about to the Nor'east and was most likely trying to come up to the wind for a tack, which in such a stiff wind and a rough sea would be nigh-miraculous, should Leatherwood pull it off without getting the "sticks" ripped right out of her.
The French frigate was closing with them, now within less than a mile, but foreshortening, her profile aspect turning more bows-on, just a tantalising bit. To follow the convoy, even if her first attempt had been mis-judged, and her captain now would settle for a stern-chase, if he could just get past this pestiferous "Bloodies'" frigate? Would she wear about, shift the winds onto her larboard quarters, duck under HMS Proteus, and force Lewrie to chase her?
"Prepare to come about to larboard, Mister Langlie. I think we will attempt to wear," Lewrie decided of a sudden. "And, when we do I will have the tops'ls clewed up for the heavy haul, bat-wing them, in 'Spanish reefs' for a bit, 'til we're round. That'll ease the strain on the masts and spars, and the brace-tenders. That Frog yonder wears, so do we. Hands to stations, and stand ready."
"Aye, sir," Langlie replied, though there was a leery squint to his eyes; it could have been the driving rain that caused it. "Bosun! Pipe 'Hands To Stations To Wear'!"