White ensign… a ship of Admiral Lord Hood's fleet would show it, since he was a full admiral of the most senior squadron. Or a frigate on independent service would fly it, instead of the blue or the red of a lesser admiral.
"Mister Spendlove! Hoist our own ensign. And Number Ten," he roared, filled with immense relief. Help was at hand. If the strange frigate's presence didn't cow the French, then at least, should he be forced to engage, he would have more even odds.
"Number Ten, two-blocked, yonder!" the lookout bellowed. "She reads us, sir! D'ye hear, there?"
"Right, then," Lewrie dared smile and clap Spendlove's shoulder, glance at de Crillart and the rest of the military men who'd gathered together on the quarterdeck. "I think we're going to be fine."
" 'Nother hoist, sir!" the lookout yelled, calling off a string of flags. "Private signal!"
Spendlove opened his book, thumbing through the many entries. He had a short list of those vessels known to be in the Mediterranean, those further separated into Rates. Scanning 5th Rates took another fumbling moment to find the right hand-lettered page he'd diligently copied out.
"Cockerel, sir!" Spendlove informed them at last. "H.M.S. Cockerel frigate. Come to save us, sirs!"
A cheer went up from Cockerel's detached tars when that news was quickly circulated along the gangways, down to the waist and magazines. And for once, it didn't sound the slightest bit derisive. Close-hauled though she laboured, within another hour, she could be up to them, with her thirty-two guns primed, loaded and run out. Just about the time the French squadron overhauled the fleeing merchantmen.
Lewrie began to consider coming about, then, to offer battle. He already flew a borrowed Royal Navy ensign, and Radical was a frigate, by God. At range-of-random-shot, who was to say that she wasn't a frigate in full commission, proper-manned and armed? And spoiling for a fight!
"Quartermaster, helm up a point, no more," he ordered. "Give us a point free to leeward. Mister Spendlove, a signal to the ships astern of us. Direct them to pinch up aweather. We will interpose our vessel between them and the French."
"Aye, aye, sir," Spendlove piped, seeing the plan at once, dashing aft for the flag lockers.
"Don't s'pose those are friendly, Captain Lewrie?" Lieutenant Kennedy inquired, hoping against hope, and nervous about fighting aboard ship instead of on land, where he knew what he was doing.
"Slow as we are, sir?" Lewrie scoffed gently. "And tag-end ofthe fleet? Hardly."
"Ve steel offer bataille, mon ami?" de Crillart asked from the other side.
"If we have to, Charles," Lewrie stated, turning to face him and the rest of the officers: Major de Mariel, the Chevalier Louis and the senior gunner's mates. "Hopefully, we will make a demonstration of force, more than anything else. With a Royal Navy frigate to aid us… that might be enough. Now, gentlemen. Raw as we are, hmm? Let's not delay, and do things in a last-minute panic. Let us go to Quarters now. Uhm… aux armes, messieurs?"
An agonizing quarter-hour passed, as the decks were sanded, the water butts and tubs filled, slow match ignited and coiled around linstocks, coiled around the upper rim of the tubs. The galley fire was extinguished, the coals thrown overboard. Women and children trooped below to the safety of the orlop, low near the waterline, to huddle in between kegs and casks, boxes and bales, their chests and luggage. At least Radical would have an overabundance of surgeons; the Royalists were mostly people of the upper or professional classes, so they had no less than four surgeons, two physicians, a dentist and several of those worthies' personal servants as surgeon's mates, experienced with assisting their masters' daily work. For loblolly boys to bear the wounded below, they had the least-useful older gentlemen, or the ones who simply could not grasp the fundamentals of artillery drill. And some few stocky older women, who were stronger than most of those men.
It was impossible to clear the mess deck, though, to empty that low-ceilinged cavern of junk. There were too many trunks and chests to carry below, out of harm's way, too heavy to tote quickly. There might be clouds of dangerous splinters flying there, perhaps, but with people at least herded below to the orlop, Lewrie thought, the noncombatants would not have to face that danger.
The boats Radical possessed, and those extra cutters Lewrie had brought along from their ferrying days, already were astern, under tow. For the simple fact was that he hadn't had the labour available to retrieve them and stow them on the boat beams which spanned the waist. One less source of splinters, he thought grimly, though through no forethought of his own.
British troops of the 18th, the Royal Irish, to larboard along the gangways, Major de MariePs infantry and Louis' light-cavalrymen to starboard; red coats and black shakoes on one side, and pale whitish-grey coats with black cocked hats, or blue-and-buff coats with plumed black-leather helmets on the other.
The bowsings for the guns were cast off, run-out tackles overhauled in neat bights. The guns were rolled back from the port sills, tompions removed, barrels checked for obstructions, touch holes cleared by the thrust of linstock ends sharp enough to puncture cartridge bags. Gun tools were thrust into shaky hands, and men stood atremble as if yesterday's drills had never occurred with stiffened rope rammers, rope swabs, crow levers, wormers used to scrape out clogging scraps of powder and the buildup of gun-soot after a few firings, or to draw shot.
Nine men to each eighteen-pounder, seven to serve each twelve-pounder and six for the lighter eight-pounders; those were the required numbers in the Fleet, though guns could be well served with slightly less. Under the circumstances, they would have to be. Still not enough, even with all the volunteers, to man both larboard and starboard batteries at once.
"Ve load, mon capitaine?" de Crillart called from the waist. He would be in charge of the gun deck, since most of the guncaptains and volunteers were French. "Mon maоtre-canonnier, 'e sugges' ze chain-shot, d'abord. Not customary а l'anglais mais… ve are ver' good vis it. Zey are mos' esperience. Tak' down ze reeging, crac! An' ve are not ze maneuverable, n'est-ce pas?"
"Aye, Charles," Lewrie called back from the quarterdeck, thinking it made good sense to render a foe as clumsy as they already were, evening the odds. "D'abord, the chain-shot, bar-shot, all of it."
"Cartouches de poudre!" the grizzled master-gunner demanded, and a herd of boys emerged from the midships companionway hatch with wooden or leather cylinders which contained the powder bags. The artillery was charged, ram-mermen shoving the bags down the bores to thump against the rear of the breeches. From the shot-garlands, the gun-captains picked shot. Blunt iron cylinders cast in two halves, linked by two bars between, with eyes hammered round each bar- elongating bar-shot, which would fly apart to their full extent upon firing. Longer, round-topped bundles of cast-iron rods, which would spread like spider legs to whirl through the air to rip away sails, rigging and light spars-that was multiple bar-shot. And chain-shot; loaded as what appeared to be solid iron balls, which became two hemispheres linked by a short chain. That, and the elongating bar-shot, were the heaviest, designed to take down a t'gallant or topmast above the fighting-tops, to shatter even the stout course-sail yards.
Alan had been on the receiving end of French artillery before, and had never been that impressed with the concept, never been aboard a ship really disabled by such ironmongery. But de Crillart and his master-gunner seemed confident about it.
"The enemy have hoisted their colours, sir!" Spendlove was quick to point out. All three ships had run up huge Tricolour flags, the one in the lead flying a smaller second one at her main-mast truck as well.