Not Navy practice, is it, Alan asked himself with a smirk, but they needed that. Now maybe they'll have more confidence. Now, just where do we stand? he wondered, peering about. He went to the side to look out with his telescope, past the ruin of the corvette, which was sagging down to leeward, all her masts and sails trailing over the side and acting like a sea anchor. She wouldn't be going anywhere but round about in circles for a while, not until they hacked all that loose. And without replacement upper masts and main-mast, nowhere very quickly for some time after, either, with only her mizzen standing.
The frigate! The most dangerous warship present had finally put about, taken in her stuns'ls and stays'ls, and was close on the wind on the larboard tack. But she was at least four miles down alee, and four more miles farther to the nor'west. To beat back to Radical where she was at the moment would be the better part of an hour, since she would have to tack first. And Lewrie was mortal certain he'd not be anywhere near his current position when she arrived.
The second corvette had fallen off, had hauled her wind, a little below the ruin of the first, as if she were about to go alongside to aid her. She was less than a mile off, still on Radical's starboard quarter.
No, not to aid, Lewrie saw-to shoot! Her gunports were open, already blossoming with orange-y flashes and gushes of smoke! Feathers of spray leapt into the air astern, glass and transom wood shattered as round-shot lashed her stern. A portion of the taffrail went flying, and one of the lanterns burst asunder.
"Cease fire, cease fire!" he directed. "Mister Porter, lay us on the wind! Man the braces and sheets, ready to haul taut! Quartermaster, helm alee. Lay her full and by."
"Full an' by, sir, aye," the senior man grunted, already heaving on the spokes.
He'd whittled the odds down, thoroughly disabled one corvette-and most importantly, placed himself so advantageously that the frigate might have to spend the rest of the morning to catch him up. And close-hauled, Radical would all the time be driving roughly sou-sou'west, to the Balearics, into shelter, into the patrol areas, perhaps, of Spanish warships which might aid him.
No, he thought; let's not be greedy ourselves. Get back up to windward, draw this last one after us, if he wishes. I think we might run him a decent chase. He follows us, the transports get clean away, too. If he follows.
With a shrug, he realised that the corvette and frigate might be more amenable to going to the aid of their crippled consort, or bagging the transports, after all, and letting Radical escape, too tough a bone to gnaw. Realising, too, that he'd shot his bolt, in essence. Fought and won, without getting his precious civilian charges slaughtered by artillery and sword-swinging boarders. Well, not too many, he amended.
Yet, what if they went after the transports, at least? Aye, I've saved most of my own, but those others are just as full of йmigrйs, just as packed with women and children. Can I turn a blind eye? Perhaps I must. Every man for himself now, and save what you can?
The corvette astern turned back onto the wind, barely a minute after Radical had altered course. This put her, from Lewrie's view by the wheel, just atop the starboard corner of the taffrail, bows-on to him, heeled hard over as she laboured for every last inch of windward progress. She got a gust, he saw, a puff of wind that he did not, and she pinched up higher as that gust backed, clawing out ten yards or so.
"Mister Porter, I think we're ready to send the topmen to loose the fore and main t'gallants," Lewrie ordered, then checked himself… aghast. "And let fall the main course! Let fall and sheet home!" He flushed with anger that he'd been so remiss, so muzzy without sleep!
As more canvas appeared aloft, Radical heeled further over and began to surge, hobbyhorsing over the waves, casting first her bows, then her stern towards the sky. Spray began to dash alongside, droplets wetting the starboard gangway.
"Mister Lewrie, sir," Cony called, appearing from below. "Got a leak, sir. Starb'rd side, forrud. Betwixt th' cat-head an' fore chains. Think we got hulled by one o' their shot." "Bad?" he muttered.
"On this tack, aye, sir," Cony winced. "Suckin' water like a drain. Got a couple o' chair-makers down there, nailin' on a patch t'slow h'it down, but we need to fother a patch from over-side. There's nigh on five inch o' water in th' bilges now, an' it's climbin'. An' the seams're workin', o' course, but that's nothin' new, sir. But, I 'spects, long'z we beat t'wind-ward, sir, they'll work 'arder. Need t'pump soon, sir."
A hole in her quick-work, starboard side, heeled over starboard, too-that would practically shovel water into her. And she'd flood forrud, when what she needed most of all, close-hauled, was for the bows to ride high and light over the water, reducing the effort which went into beating. Should her bow end get too heavy, she'd slough in and snuffle, all the fineness of her entry and forefoot cancelled out.
"Tell Mister de Crillart to secure his guns for now," Lewrie decided after a moment's thought. "Work the forrud chain pumps. Maybe some will trickle past, aft. And tell Mister de Crillart to send men to the quarterdeck. We'll shift two of the eight-pounders right-aft to the taffrail, for stern-chasers. Maybe raise her bows a couple of inches, and take some pressure off the shot hole. Fother from inboard, spare sail and bosun's stores, once your… chair-makers finish their plugs." "Aye, sir."
There was a rustling in the air, an atonal whistling that rose up the scales. Then round-shot cracked overhead, to sail past and hit far up to windward on the larboard side. The French corvette had her bow-chasers working. Radical heeled a little farther and slowed.
"Watch yer luff!" Lewrie said, rounding on the helmsmen. "Wind veered ahead, sir. 'Adda bear off," the senior hand replied, working on a massive tobacco quid, gazing aloft, as he regained the spokes he'd lost, sailing most intently by his luff, and the Devil with the compass at that moment. Course did not matter; but the very razor's edge of the apparent wind, where lay safety in both speed and windward advantage, did.
Another shot from the corvette astern, this time pocking a hole in the main tops'l, as gunners loosed one of the quarterdeck eight-pounders from the breeching-rope ring-bolts, and laid on block and tackle to a fresh set, farther aft. Tethered like a trussed hog, the cannon must be restrained, moved gingerly from one lashing to the next, before being sited at one of the pair of stern-chase gunports in the taffrail.
The French corvette reached the point in Radical's wake where the wind had veered ahead. She wavered, fell off perhaps a point, no more. And sailed through it, pinching up once more as the wind steadied. Pinched up higher, luffing up a touch, trading forward progress for another ten yards uphill to weather. She was head-reaching them.
And she was faster, Lewrie realised by the time the first gun was ready at the taffrail, and the second began to be moved. Larger, she loomed back there, framed now from the wheel squarely in the center of the taffrail. She'd gained about one hundred yards in a little less than five minutes.
Three-quarters of a mile… Lewrie's mind creaked over his sums. Two thousand yards to the sea mile, five minutes to make an hundred so… she'll have her jib boom over the rail in a little over an hour)
A horrible harpy-like ululation came up from astern. There was a crash forward, aloft. The main t'gallant yard shattered, lee side draping like a broken wing. Multiple bar-shot.
"Maybe less than an hour," he sighed softly, sensing defeat at last. "Goddamn fool! Could have stayed to windward, run, never took time to fight! Gave up a mile advantage to windward… for nothing!"
"Le canon, il est prйparй, capitaine," a French gunner called out, patting the breech of his eight-pounder. "Nous tirerons?"