Without being able to read the signal hoist, but realising that Oglethorpe was attempting to convey something of importance to them, Lt. Catterall, who normally stood the Morning Watch, had sent word aft to his captain, who had ordered their course altered to close the American brig o' war, hoist a signal to alert Sumter off to their lee down West by at least another ten miles, and fire off a starboard chase gun of their own, and the "hunt" was on.
Lewrie had Aspinall come to the quarterdeck and arranged for a pot of black coffee, then paced off alone to the windward side, with a telescope in hand. Steeling himself for the ordeal, and flexing his left arm to test its strength after his wound received at Camperdown, which had resulted in the tiniest bit of weakness, he clambered aloft for a look of his own-up onto a quarterdeck carronade slide mount to the bulwarks, into the mizen stays and rat-lines, up the tar-tacky and bedewed shrouds as far as the cross-bracing taut stays below the top. With a groan of rusty practice, knowing he needed a higher vantage, he cautiously threaded his body 'tween the cat-harpings, then transferred over to futtock shrouds and clambered up them until his bare head was butted against the bottom of the top platform… inside the futtock shrouds, not taking the more perilous "outside passage" that required dangling from death-grips of his hands and feet like a spider hanging from its disturbed web 'til one reached the lip of the top and the maze of dead-eye blocks, to haul oneself up and over like a housebreaker breasting a brick curtain wall.
Should do this more often, he chid himself, and his well-known idleness; I'm goin' all… potty, and short o' breath. Damme if I'll end up like other captains… all tripes an' trullibubs!
Knowing himself, though, perhaps too well by then, such a vow he suspected would be quite forgotten by the start of the Forenoon.
Once he got his breath back to normal, and his glass unslung, he could see that Catterall was right; they did indeed have the angle on them.
The suspect horde of ships had been discovered down to the Sou'east, first of all, and USS Oglethorpe had made a sharp turn Easterly to stand as close to the Nor'east Trades as she could bear to place herself before the bows of the vessels she had espied flogging roughly to the North on the opposing starboard tack, and as close to the winds as they could steer, as well. Proteus had followed quickly and was now roughly astern of Oglethorpe, on the same point of sail and course. A quick look astern showed him USS Sumter just a bit Sutherly of their own creaming wake, to stay in undisturbed water so her hull could slice cleaner and swifter, about eight miles or so astern but gaining rapidly. It appeared that Capt. McGilliveray had not been boasting about Sumter?, speediness.
And Proteus, well… she was no slow-coach this morning, either, Lewrie was proud to note, thanks to her careening and hull scraping a scant three months earlier at Kingston. She would gain on Randolph's Oglethorpe just as Sumter would gain on her, 'til there might not be three miles between them when they engaged.
Now that the predawn grew lighter, Lewrie could make out that there were three gaggles of ships roughly three points off their starboard bows. The closest group was all square-riggers, slower and less weatherly when trying to make progress beating to windward. A little farther off and ahead of the square-riggers was a second gaggle, and they were all fore-and-aft-rigged schooners, able to point higher and out-foot their confederates. Strive as they might, though, they were just a bit too far down to the Sou'east and not fast enough to get up to windward and make it a long stern chase before the Oglethorpe interposed herself cross their hawses.
And there was a final brace of schooners then almost dead ahead of the Yankee brig o' war, also close-hauled on starboard tack. Those they'd not catch, Lewrie grumpily decided. Once a quarter-mile aloof of Oglethorpe, they'd stride off like Arabian three-year-olds at the Derby races and require a day and a night to overhaul.
The nearest group didn't have a chance in Hell, Lewrie assessed. Stand on, tack, and come about to larboard tack to steer Easterly, or haul their wind and scud back the way they'd come; either choice they'd be too slow to escape their pursuers past noon.
The trio of schooners would be the handiest and quickest. Did they tack and run, there was a good chance that the chase could require the whole day and some of the next. But for the fact that East of 'em lay Grenada, St. Vincent and the Grenadines, and the maze of isles and cays, and coral reefs, which lay between St. Vincent and Grenada; all of which were either garrisoned, occupied, or patrolled by Royal Navy vessels, not ninety miles to windward of where they stood that instant. It would be a case of "out of the frying pan, into the fire" for them, did they choose that course.
"Oh, you are so gloriously… fucked," Lewrie gleefully whispered to himself as he closed the tubes of his telescope. "The longer you stay blind to us, down here in the dark, the worse it'll be, too."
He re-slung his glass, squirmed about to grasp firm hand-holds and toe-holds, and descended the inner face of the futtocks, threaded back through the cat-harpings, turned about, and made his way back to the bulwarks, where he could hop atop the carronade slide, then step onto safe and sure footing on his own quarterdeck once more, scented and smutted with fresh tar and "slush," the rancid, suety skimmings of the steep-tubs from boiled salt-meats, that kept the rigging supple and rainproof.
By God, ye can't stay clean aboard ship! he ruefully told himself as he swiped his tacky hands on the seat of his slop-trousers: Go through damn' near a quarter o' my pay with the Purser, just t'stay presentable-Just look at Mister Coote, the greedy bastard… takin ' my measure for fresh-issue slops, already. Gimlet-eyed 'Nip-Cheese'!
"Can't understand why they haven't spotted us yet," he said to his officers. "Not that it'd do 'em much good if they did. We'll bag all but the two dead ahead of us, one way or t'other. Ah, Aspinall!"
"Coffee f'r all, sir. No cream'r sugar, sorry t'say," his man said, passing out tin mugs dangled off a hank of twine, and holding a large black iron-lidded pot with the aid of a dish-clout.
"Your pardons, Captain Lewrie," their Purser, Mr. Coote, asked. "But I was wondering, should we serve a cold meal of cheese, biscuit and small-beer, or do you think we might have time to boil up burgoo?"
"Cold victuals, sorry t'say, Mister Coote," Lewrie told their much put-upon older, and straight-laced Purser. "Do the French spin out a long stern chase, though, I'd admire did the people be served a hot dinner to atone for it."
"Very good, sir," Coote agreed, with a small bow. "Oh my, sir. Do you wish, I've a new bale of slop-trousers, come aboard at Antigua. I'll root out a pair or two in your size, should I, Captain?"
Mr. Coote could not fathom why Lewrie chuckled and shook his head in secret amusement before giving his assent.
"Just enough f'r one mug, sir, sorry," Aspinall said as Lewrie was served last, per his standing instructions. "Galley's stanched."
"Barely time enough for the one, Aspinall," Lewrie said as he accepted the searing-hot thin tin mug. "And then it'll be Frogs a la fricasee for breakfast. We'll relight the galley fires and grill 'em to a turn."