Lewrie lifted a telescope and went to the starboard rails. The lead ship was definitely a frigate, the other two…? "Lieutenant de Crillart, could you join me on the quarterdeck for a moment?"
He loaned Charles the telescope.
"Don't happen to know them, do you, Charles?"
"Non. I do not reco'nise,'' de Crillart intoned soberly. "Mais, ze frйgate eez ze trent-deux… ze s'irty-two? She weel 'ave twelve-poun' canon, an' ze six-poun' canon de chasse et canon de gaillard… quarterdeck? Ze ozzer two are ze corvettes. Vingt canon… twen'y, on'y… eight-poun', I 'sink."
"Only, the man says," Lewrie snorted, flexing his fingers on tiie wire-wrapped leather hilt of his smallsword. "They'll be up level with us in about half an hour. Range-of-random-shot? What's that with bar-shot and chain-shot? A mile?"
"Oui. Vis you' frйgate out zere, z'ough, we not 'ave to bataille all at once. Mon Dieu, merci," de Crillart chuckled, though his mouth looked a touch compressed and white.
Alan took the telescope back, went to the mizzen shrouds again, and scaled them for a better view. Would they stay in a pack, he speculated? Or would the easy pickings encourage them to split up? Radical on a slowly converging course, to meet them on their windward, larboard beam, Cockerel downwind, but ready to slide along their starboard side, or cut across them to rake the leader… take us separately or together?
He couldn't suggest tactics to Captain Braxton, he was senior on the scene. And if he knew who I was aboard this barge, Alan thought in secret glee, he'd be even less willing to listen. No, he'll keep simplicity in mind, he's a cautious man. Eager to make a grand showing after ah" these years, yet he'll not do anything too rash, too risky. Pass them on the opposing back, starboard to starboard, then tack around the stern of the last corvette in line, and rake her. Then Une up behind Radical to make a battle Une, he wondered? If Braxton thinks we truly are another Royal Navy frigate, he might.
Now… what would I do, were I the Frog commander, yonder?
Claw upwind, now, he was dead certain. Hold the wind-gauge on the British, and at the same time, sail nearer to those panicky merchantmen, threatening them. Force Cockerel and Radical to go about first to combine strength, then force them to beat up towards the three Frog warships to save the transports. AU during that long, labouring approach, fire chain-shot and all, hoping to disable the British frigates before battle was reaUy joined. The French would be faster, they almost always were, so they could out-foot them. And neither Cockerel nor Radical could point any higher to windward than they could, so it would turn into a long stem chase, with even more long-range chain-shot. More chances to disable, then gobble up.
Hmm… he sighed to himself, rubbing his unshaven chin; maybe I ought to come about… go hard on the wind now? Be level with 'em, or hold the wind-gauge myself. Draw Cockerel to me. If Braxton wishes a name for himself, he'll follow along.
"Mister Spendlove! Mister Porter!" he bellowed from his perch. "Hands to the braces! Lay her full and by on the larboard tack! Close-haul!"
"Aye, aye, sir!"
"Deck, there! Cockerel's goin' about!" the main-mast lookout screamed, his voice cracking. A tone of wonderment in his voice which drew Lewrie's attention aloft first, before he turned to eye his former ship. Cockerel had been reaching across the wind, now out of the sou'east, her bows pointing nor'east. To harden up close-hauled would lay her just a little north of due east, should she remain on the starboard tack, with the wind across her right hand first.
Sure enough, she was foreshortening in the ocular of his telescope.
Should have waited, should have waited, Lewrie fretted, growing uncertain of Braxton's tactical skills. Harden up on the starboard tack first, then cross the eye of the wind to larboard tack, and beat up to me, cross their bows before they get anywhere near you…
This early tack would put him a couple of miles away, on the same course as Radical, but out of gun range. Damme! He'd done that before, hadn't he-last year, that Frog convoy, and that big forty-four-gun frigate…! Lay off and be safe. Appear like he was doing something positive but… avoid action? The shrouds swayed as Radical leaned to the force of the winds, decks and masts angling to leeward as she hardened up to weather. Lewrie had to take both hands to secure his perch, to slip his arms in around the stays and ratlines for a firmer stance for a moment.
When he raised his telescope again, Cockerel had just completed her tack across the wind, sails luffing and spilling, shimmering like a heat wave in the ocular, like bed sheets in a stiff spring breeze out on a line to dry, before her hands could wheel her yards about, haul taut on braces and sheets. And kept on turning!
"No, you bastard!" Lewrie muttered in surprise. "Close-hauled, at least, you…!" For a hopeful moment, he thought Cockerel was just clumsy and slow. Every ship usually fell too far off the wind for an instant upon tacking, before hardening back up to the proper course, as close to the wind as she might bear.
But, no. Cockerel kept on wheeling about, her yards going farther round until they were almost end-on to his view, courses, top'ls and t'gallants bellying taut and full, the profile of her low, sleek hull entirely presented. Cockerel had come about, aye-tacked since it was the quickest maneuver-and was now sailing west-sou'west, not to join forces with him, not to stand off on a parallel beat, downwind and safe. She was running!
"Oh, you bloody man, you perverse, bloody man!"
Didn't matter, he grumped; me aboard this tub, nor anyone else. 'Least it ain't personal, the… ah! He'd never know who he abandoned. Couldn't care less!
All his plans in shambles, for the moment without a clue, faced with the prospect of fighting those three French ships alone once more. Let down by his own Navy.
"You filthy bastard!" he yelled, just for the temporary relief. "You bloody… coward!"
Chapter 7
Calmly, Lewrie thought, as he climbed down to the quarterdeck; calm and deliberate. They're not Navy, they're not used to my ways… Hands behind his back, chin tucked in low, eyes down in thought, pacing to the wheel to look into the compass bowl for a moment.
His natural reaction, so untypically English, as Charles pointed out, would be to curse and rave, gibber with anger, foam at the mouth or fall flat on the deck and pound upon it Which would set off panic, by the bagful. And there would go any thoughts of resistance from all his already barely willing volunteers.
What to do, then, he asked himself, scheming in a fury, conflicting notions at odds in his head. Hold this course, keep the wind-gauge? He turned to glower aft.
The two hired transports were astern, just a little left of dead-astern, still running with the sou'east winds large on the larboard side. Close-hauling would make no sense for them. They were on their very best point of sail already, and to claw up to windward to try and escape made them slower, their capture even more certain. And sooner. Farther left and beyond were the French warships, astern of the transports, a little downwind of them, sailing only a touch closer to the wind, making rapid time, even so.
They hadn't gone close-hauled? he frowned in puzzlement. Waiting another half-hour before they came level with 'em, passed them, really… before they turned up towards them, or tried to cut ahead of their bows and take them? Leaving it damned late, when they could do it now…