"He is having the time of his life, m'sieur," Capitaine Desplan answered with an indulgent chuckle. "Your pardons, but he has so many stern responsibilities, for such a spirited young man. And he serves a most demanding master, n'est-ce pas?"
Choundas painfully turned to glare at Desplan, wondering if his comments were any sort of criticism; but no, Desplan still smiled, as if he had no reason to cringe from Choundas's wrath.
"She is shabby and badly maintained, m'sieur, but that schooner handles as lively as a Thoroughbred stallion," Desplan went on. "Once we would have relished such sport… until stern duty, and command of ships and squadrons, forced us to growl at the world. To be that free and young, again, ah, what a brief joy. To dance with your very first little ship, m'sieur? Remember?"
"Umph," Choundas finally allowed. "I do, indeed. La Colombe, she was named, a despatch-boat… she, too, was an American schooner. Aptly named, she was. She flew like a 'dove.' Umph. Well…"
For a brief moment, Choundas had almost seemed human, in sweet reverie of his early days as a newly appointed Lieutenant, not even a Lieutenant de Vaisseau yet. But that moment swiftly passed, and he turned and clump-swish-ticked back to the taff-rail, glowering as little L'Impudente came about and began to gather speed to run into the port, at long last. Perhaps, Choundas thought, Jules Hainaut had suddenly remembered that the noonday meal that Captain Desplan would soon serve would be infinitely better than the cheese, sausages, and vin ordinaire carried aboard the schooner in a palmetto hamper. He was waving, even if the schooner was nearly a mile or more off, all of them…?
"Mon Dieu!" Captain Desplan suddenly exclaimed, grunting as if suddenly punched in the abdomen. "M'sieur Choundas, the semaphore, it sends the alarm signal. What…"
Choundas slowly turned to watch the long arms of the semaphore tower swish, pause, then swish to a new bit of its message; an urgent signal that repeated-Enemy In Sight!
"Capitaine Desplan," Choundas growled of a sudden, stamping the ferrule of his cane on the deck, "get this ship underway, at once. If you have to cut your anchor cables, do it! Vite, vite! Before you lose her. The 'Bloodies' are paying us a visit!"
Ponderously, Choundas turned to look out to sea once more; out beyond the canted masts of Hainaut's onrushing schooner. He could see a pall of sour grey-brown smoke a few miles away, could see the tops'ls and courses of a three-masted ship headed South, see a smaller ship to the left of the smoke pall that was turning to run, one that would be a prize capture before the half-hour glass would turn.
Sudden boiling rage surged up his throat, made him wish to howl and jibber at the slackness, the inattention of the signal stations up the coast, the idle, work-a-day shamblers pretending to maintain watch!
And where was that commandeered schooner he had posted to the leeward coast of Basse-Terre to guard against such a raid? If, despite his sternest warnings and implied threats, those hapless island-born Creole time-servers had decided to tuck into the lee of Pointe Allegre and fish, or go ashore for a leisurely three-hour meal, they would learn that his threats were not empty, that even close ties to Governor Hugues would not save them.
But, no-he could not, must not bellow and stamp as he wished. Le Bouclier, caught in the middle of the evolution of anchoring and taking in all sail, was already a madhouse. Her captain, mates, and senior officers already made enough noise to interrupt their matelots' work, then rush to undo all their labours of the past quarter-hour and get way on her again.
Besides, he was Guillaume Choundas, Le Hideux, the ugly monster whom all feared. One thoughtless rant, and that useful aura of terror would evaporate, leaving him recalled as just another panicky officer who'd windmilled his arms and floundered; then, people would laugh at his haplessness and his disfigurements, making him a pitiable object :: of fun with no real authority or respect. No, he could only stand by the flag lockers and taff-rail lanthorns, leaning his bad leg against them, and drum impatient fingers on the silver handle of his cane in an outward sham of calm, as if he were quickly scheming. But aflame with murderous rage. The slack captain of that guardship would pay… and this 'Bloody' anglais, too! Once this marvellous frigate got sorted out and under sail, there was still a chance to salvage things… such as his successful reputation, and his continued career!
"Helm down, Mister Langlie," Lewrie ordered, as the struggling merchantman pressed on Westerly. "Course, due South for a bit. Lieutenant Catterall? Rake her as you bear."
"Aye aye, sir," Catterall shouted back, as mystified as anyone else aboard, aghast at the idea of passing up such a rich prize, of not even firing a warning shot to force her to strike.
Proteus hauled up more to windward, sailors on the sail-tending gangways freeing braces to let the yards swing to ease the press of the wind, and the increasing heel that might angle the artillery too low.
"Open ports!" Catterall cried. "Run out, and gun-captains, aim low!
As you bear… fire!" He slashed down his sword, though no gun had yet crossed the Dutch ship's stern, just a few breaths more and… Standing between the guns, Catterall's view was limited to the bulwarks and the open gun-ports, the cross-deck beams over his head with rowing boats stowed in chocks. To starboard, there was the gangway now full of Marines with their levelled muskets, the end of Proteus'?, main-mast course sail, the ordered tangle of the Dutch ship's mizen-mast rigging, spanker, tops'l and t'gallant, and that Batavian Republic flag that was just starting to be lowered…
Catterall glanced aft at Captain Lewrie, standing four-square by the rolled-hammock re-enforced quarterdeck rails and netting that overlooked the gun-deck. Surely, he'd call for fire to be checked, before it was too late, before… now they'd struck!
The 6-pounder bow-chaser and 24-pounder carronade mounted on the forecastle went off almost as one, a sharpish barking, instantly echoed by a titanic booming, followed by the foremost 12-pounder long-barrel gun in the starboard battery as it slammed backwards in recoil, double-shotted.
Catterall turned back to the target, even more mystified, mouth open to reduce the pummeling on his eardrums as guns closer to him lit off and hurled themselves inboard, looked up as the Marines with their "confiscated" Yankee-made rifles chose targets and volleyed. Up above them and the gangway bulwark, rather significant chunks of timbers and gilded pieces of the Dutch merchantman's stern were soaring skyward in a cloud of gun-smoke and punched-free dirt and paint chips! Catterall heard the Dutch ship scream as her entire stern was hammered in, could hear the slamming and rending of the merchantman's guts as round-shot, langridge, and grape-shot eviscerated her innards as far forward as her foremast, snapping stout carline posts, knees, and hull timbers like so many frail toothpicks! The broadside swept past him, sternward, gusting hot, foul winds, gushing grey thunderheads of spent powder, and the quarterdeck carronades bellowing last, put paid to the foe. Catterall could hear human screams this time. Their flag was down, blown down, but the Captain was not calling the Cease Fire. Proteus wore about to the West as Catterall's gunners reloaded and ran out once more, to fire into the stricken ship along her larboard side this time, leaving him gaping open-mouthed, unable to feature such deliberate destruction!