"Oui. Tirez. Blaze away," Lewrie nodded, too spent to care. The gunner directed his small crew to charge, to shot, to runout. He knelt, hopped, fiddled with the quoin, had it spiked to the right a touch, then waved the men away. He primed, waited,… then lit it off. With a sharp bang the eight-pounder reeled inwards. A waterspout leapt up to the right of the corvette's bows, close under her jib boom and bowsprit.
Lewrie watched, groggily detached and above it all. There was a chance, he was sure, that their stern-chasers might damage the French vessel enough to slow her, to rob her of just enough speed to reel out this pursuit 'til nightfall. Late afternoon should fetch Minorca under Radical's bows. Did God grant them just a morsel of luck…!
The corvette fired in reply; both her bow-chasers barked together this time, so near was she to being dead astern, framed on the very last vestige of his ship's foaming, spreading wake. One ball flew high, low above the starboard gangway, to smash into the forecastle bulkhead up forward. The second slammed into her transom again, low down, below the wardroom windows. There were muffled screams below. If the surgeons had been using the midshipmen's berth, the cockpit, as their surgery…! On the orlop! Those were women's screams!
Just as easily, the corvette could pick her apart, too. Shoot Radical's rigging to lace and slow her down, rendering her helpless. Then surge alongside, cannon blazing point-blank, boarders ready… Strike the colours, he mused? Surrender to the inevitable?
Then those French boarders, those revolutionary, Republican men with steel in their hands and blood lust in their eyes, would murder everyone aboard, soon as they found out what his passengers were, and cheat the guillotines. British sailors could expect no better treatment, either. They'd butcher and slaughter as merciless as pirates, those victory-drunk, vengeful French Republican sailors, niceties of nationality be-damned. For a stark moment of bleakness, Lewrie looked upon his death as a given, an inevitability soon to be realised. Outrunning them wasn't in the cards. One more well-aimed shot could end it all, and render his ship as crippled as that first unfortunate corvette.
God, a little help here, I'm runnin' out of options, he prayed. Haven't a bloody clue what to do next. Shot my last bolt? So weary I can't thinkl Got a storm in Your pockets? A slant of wind?
Another round-shot sighed in, singing a piccolo tune. Smashed into the transom again, blowing a cloud of splinters aloft from starboard as it demolished the wardroom quarter-gallery.
He surprised himself when he snickered aloud at that.
Thankee, God! Already scared so shitless… and here they just blew out the 'Jakes'! Strike? Stand on, clueless… or fight?
"Mister Spendlove? Oh, there you are," Lewrie said of a sudden, turning away from his fell musings. "Right, then. Summon all the officers, foot, horse and Marine. We've some scheming to do."
Chapter 8
"We are too slow," Lewrie announced, amidships of the quarter-deck nettings, looking down into the waist at his assembled "crewmen." And Lieutenant de Grillait translated for him, phrase for grim phrase. "We cannot outrun her. We cannot strike our colours, either, and surrender. You know what that would mean… for yourselves… and your families."
As that was turned into French, he peered into their bleak-set faces, lips compressed and mouths pale. Women and children had come up from the horrors of the echoing, drumming orlop, drawn by the cheering, and the lack of dangerous noises which had followed, the absence of broadsides being fired, gun-trucks thundering and squealing. A bang or two now and then from far aft, the keen of round-shot from the Frog corvette was nothing in comparison. They, too, stood with faces grim. Some whimpered, cooed to vexsome, querulous children, dandled babes in arms who sensed what was to come, without waiting for a translation.
They stood with their men where they could, those who still had men, listening as Lewrie stood four-square above them, delivering what even he thought was a "whistling past the graveyard" peroration.
Roman Legions got perorated before every battle, to boost their fighting spirit, Alan recalled from translating so many of them in his school-day Latin classes-wondering if his was on a par with the ones delivered just before Lake Trasimeno, or Crassus' before his army was wiped out at Cannae.
"The Royal Navy frigate put about to summon help," he lied with a straight face, unable to tell them they were beyond aid. "The French frigate downwind yonder is too far away to matter. This last enemy vessel pursuing us is our greatest danger."
While Charles turned that into French, he looked alee, raising his eyebrows in perhaps the only delight he could discover. The enemy frigate was too far downwind, dithering. She'd come hard on the wind on the larboard tack for a time, clawing her way south, but had gone about to starboard tack, to take a look at her injured consort before hardening up once more. She'd abandoned her pursuit of the two-decker on the horizon and the horse transport, and was now approaching those two transports Lewrie had earlier used as shields, content with taking something, at least, after a frustrating morning's work. That put her five miles alee, instead of four, and a full hour away, even should the transports strike to her at once.
"Ahum," Charles prompted with a fisted cough, drawing Lewrie inboard once more.
"They have well-drilled gun crews… we do not," Alan continued, pointing astern. As if in punctuation, two round-shot droned overhead, making everyone duck and cringe. "We cannot stand… beam to beam… and trade shot with them. But!" he cried, leaning one hand on the net and light wood railing, above the tangle of fallen mizzen topmasts, and pointing at them with the other. "You have defeated one ship. And you will defeat this one! We will close with her… they will not expect us to do that. We will lash to her… and we will board her! We have men of the 18th Regiment of Foot, the fearsome Royal Irish, among us. Among us we have brave infantry, Royalist infantry… gallant cavalrymen. And we have hard-handed men of the French Royal Navy… and best of all… my British tars… shoulder to shoulder… with their cutlasses… they may cut and slash their way to the Gates of Hell, may the Devil himself take arms against them!"
Right, I don't believe it, either, Alan groaned to himself, seeing what little encouragement the French civilians felt to his bloodthirsty promises, his mounting harangue. They looked like bored voters.
"And when we board her," Lewrie concluded, "you courageous gentlemen of la belle France… you must strike them down! Sans mercy! It is your blood or theirs. We must conquer them… or they will conquer you. When the time conies, fearless gentlemen of France…"
Bloody toady's what you are, me lad, he thought, in spite of all.
"Strike for your beloved, murdered monarchs! Strike for your nation! Strike for your honour! And strike," Lewrie softened from a hoarse shout to a voice they had to strain to hear, "for the lives of your wives… your children… your dear ones… strike to protect the helpless babes. Put your own lives at risk… and fight like true men. 'Stead of kneeling like whipped animals at the foot of the guillotine."
He paused, seeing some steel appear in their eyes, some heads up more erect. And some trembling like treed cats, with tears upon their cheeks, faces twisted with impending grief and fear into death grimaces.
"We dare all!" he called, loud once more. "We will fight! As men! If we die as men… we die on our feet, not on our knees! They… those Revolutionaries astern of us, have only their hatred to die for. Where are their families, where are their convictions? Be ready!"