"Shot and cartridge bags?"
"Uhm… oui, aussi. But…"
"Then fetch them up, at least four of them, if we indeed have four," Hainaut patiently ordered, "and place them two to each beam for now. I might wish all four on one side, later, depending. Load them, then man the deck-guns."
The petty officer's jaw dropped; he almost dared to roll eyes in derision-did roll them, as he swung an arm at the fifteen men in the crew.
"Officeur, uhm…" Hainaut more sternly said.
"Gaston, m'sieur," the burly man supplied.
"You have met my master, Capitaine Choundas. What do you think he would do with the Frenchmen who shied away from battle? How angry do you think that he already is? After this, he'll be looking for any one or any thing on which to work off his wrath."
"Eu, merde!" the petty officer gasped, paling quickly. "Oui, I see your point, m'sieur Lieutenant. To arms mes amis, to arms! Fetch up the swivel-guns, vite, vite!"
Hainaut held his amusement in check as he watched his "crewmen" scurrying to cast off the bowsings and lashings on the deck-guns, scuttling below to fetch up swivels and powder charges, gun-tools, and more shot.
L'Impudente still stood outward on starboard tack, with the wind a bit before her beam, and with the British frigate bearing down on her like Nemesis, Hainaut thought of a sudden, recalling a scrap of classic lore that Capt. Choundas had crammed into his head whether he liked it or not. His schooner would pass out to sea a good mile before the enemy's course and his could intersect, and L'Impudente could be well out of her starboard battery's certain range. The frigate might try her eye on him, but it would be random and poorly directed, with low odds of a hit. He would be as safe as a babe in its mother's arms.
No, it was the appearance of bellicosity that was needed here, he smugly told himself. Once the frigate was off his own stern, as he held this course, he would tack L'Impudente and come about to tail her.
A few pin-prick irritations up her stern, enough to be seen and remembered by others-such hopeless bravery against such horrid odds!-and his master Capitaine Choundas could no longer deny such a plucky fellow a ship of his own, could he? Even better, Lt. Hainaut fantasised, it didn't look as if today would be a good day for the doughty Capitaine Desplan; his dashing frigate was going to be pummeled unless she got under way a lot faster, and she would barely have time to settle on a course and get her people to their battle stations before the foe was on her.
Poor, poor Navy, Hainaut more-soberly contemplated; always the butt of the joke. Not like the tales I heard, coming up, in the Royal French fleet. Not like how equal the challenge we could make, during the last war. Now… the Republic needs dashing, plucky captains to take on the Bloodies. Captains like… moi!
And if his master was slain in the battle to come (or crippled even more, to the point that he could no longer function), well, what a pity, quel dommage. If Le Bouclier lost a lieutenant or two, resulting in a shuffle from the corvettes to staff her, leaving vacancies on the other warships, his chances for advancement would be just as good.
"What is that British toast I heard?" he muttered to himself as he manned the tiller-bar alone. "Ah! 'Here's to a bloody war, or a sickly season!
CHAPTER TWELVE
Pot this'un, too, sir?" Lt. Langlie asked as a saucy schooner hared off to leeward below their bows, about half a mile off.
Lewrie balefully looked at the potential prey, then forrud one more time, juggling speed and time. Three minutes more, he reckoned, and Proteus would just about be in close range of the French frigate. His gun crews had both batteries loaded and already run out ready for firing, ready… prepared in their minds, as well. To dash over to the starboard side, lever, shift, and take aim at the schooner that was opening the range rapidly, then take time to swab out, charge, reload, and run out, then dash back to larboard and just get their breath back before engaging a real foe… no, it'd only unsettle them. At that moment, they were oak-steady, whilst his view through his glass showed a French crew still at sixes and sevens; all atwitter and thinking dire, fretful thoughts, he hoped.
"Don't think so, Mister Langlie," Lewrie decided. "A waste of shot and powder. Mister Larkin?" he called to his seediest midshipman.
"Aye, sor?" the little Bog-Irish crisply replied in his "Paddy" accent, lifting his right hand to knuckle his hat.
"Keep a weather-eye on yon schooner, and sing out if she comes back on the wind," Lewrie ordered.
"Aye, Oi… I will, sor, Sir," Larkin amended, blushing.
"Very good, Mister Larkin. Now, gentlemen, let's be about it."
Lewrie said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "I think we will take a page from their book of tactics this morning, gentlemen. Mister Catterall? Your first broadside from the larboard battery will be on the up-xo\\ … quoins out. Take her masts and rigging down, at about two cables' range. Second broadside, you will fire on the pent of the scend, double-shotted, 'twixt wind and water, and hull her from then on."
"Aye aye, sir!"
No matter how sternly a British warship was disciplined, and no matter how cool-headed her people were to act when at Quarters, during a battle between ships, the men could not help but snicker, grin, and nudge each other, were they about to serve their foes something novel, something clever and unexpected, and this time was no exception. Alan Lewrie could almost grin in expectation, too, thinking about bar-shot, chain-shot, and bags of grape-shot waiting in the hard iron barrels of his guns. A few hands took time to look back at him as he stood over them at the break of the quarterdeck, beaming with pleasure at his sly-boots knackiness. Ship's boy-servants crouched [round the companionway hatches and on the ladders that led below with leather cartridge cases ready for the second broadside; gun-captains had already selected their roundest, truest 12-pounder shot- two per barrel for a second double-shotted broadside-the best from the garlands, without filed-away rust patches, the tiny dimples and slices that would have been ignored, or hidden in the rush of battle by an extra glob of blacking, but that would send them caroming off-aim when loosed.
"Brail up the main course, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said, with an upward glance. "Wind's freshening. We still 'cut a fine feather' without it." The last cast of the log had shown nigh ten knots, and steering Sou'east with the Trades fine on the larboard quarter, their frigate would still keep a goodly speed, perhaps a whole eight knots. Proteus was aroar with the slick bustle of her passage, her bow waves twin, creaming "mustachioes" that hissed-sang down her flanks. "Four cables, now, do you judge it, Mister Winwood?"
"Under four, sir," the Sailing Master responded, after a ponder and a squint or two. "Nearing three."
"Three… seven hundred and twenty yards, hmmm. Ready to come to Due South, Mister Langlie, when I call. Two cables is our boy."
Lewrie lifted his glass for a final look at their foe. Topmen were sliding down from aloft, her fighting-tops were still being manned, but her scurrying crew was now mostly out of sight behind or below her bulwarks, slaving away at her starboard guns, most-likely. There! He saw the frigate's gun-ports begin to hinge upward; the muzzles of her great-guns here and there started to emerge in jerks and twitches.