"Hear, hear!" his assembled officers and warrants rumbled.
For at least another quarter-hour, the ad hoc squadron swooped onward as the gloom of predawn gradually lightened, without the French taking any notice of them, lost in the leeward darkness. Lewrie felt sure that their straining t'gallants and royals, then the tops'ls, must be spotted as the bowl of sunrise spilled over and expanded, illuminating their upper canvas, almost turning them as bright as so many mirrors. Weary tan sailcloth would first appear as white as new-fallen snow, practically shouting "Here We Are!" then glow as hot as a well-stoked fireplace when the rising sun coated them shimmery gilded. But they Were almost hull-up to the nearest pack, the square-riggers hull-up to them, before the French reacted.
The Sumter had caught up within two miles of Proteus by then and began to veer away, a little more off the wind on a direct course for the square-rigged ships and brigs. One mile ahead, Oglethorpe was within minutes of crossing the bows of the fore-and-aft-rigged group.
Lewrie, now turned out in proper uniform, including sword belt paced the quarterdeck, waiting for the inevitable escape manoeuvres on the part of the French. They had to tack or wear; run Sou'east after tacking, or run South or Sou'west after wearing about.
Lewrie had also decided to allow the Yankees the principal role in the endeavour; unless they ran into trouble, he would keep Proteus between Oglethorpe and Sumter, like a flagship directing the activities of subordinate ships. Those two schooners, up to windward by now and safe as houses… He turned to look in their direction, lifting his telescope. Yes, they were at least five miles upwind, in the Nor'east and sure to escape and carry word of this encounter to Guadeloupe, if they didn't run afoul of other British warships. And that was simply fine, to Lewrie's lights.
Except for one short fight off their own coast that had netted them a French privateer, the Yankees hadn't scored any successes, yet, and were more than due one. Reclaiming their missing merchant vessels and fighting a brace of French privateers or National ships would embolden their whole nation. That a British frigate had been a supporting partner might result in an even closer cooperation in future, even a formal alliance.
He couldn't take the lead role, though. The Americans' stubborn "younger brother" pride, and mistrust of their former enemy, would never allow him to play the old salt and senior officer on the scene. Had he tried, they'd have damned his blood and swanned off on their truculent own, Lewrie strongly suspected.
Yet… his standing off a bit, appearing in command of Yankee subordinates, would dovetail with French suspicions to a tee, he could speculate. The French espoused a lingering liking for the Jonathons. They had eagerly bankrupted themselves to support the Revolution, sent troops and fleets to aid them, and had embraced everything rustic, plain, and Yankee Doodle (including that damned song that had driven him half-daft, when he had been surrounded at Yorktown!) along with doddering old Benjamin Franklin and his ratty raccoon caps, as paragons of simple, plebeian Virtue-which had also dovetailed quite nicely with their reigning philosophers, like that Rousseau fellow with all his cant about Noble Savages, the Common Man, and Common Sense. The French had fallen in love with that wild-eyed radical Thomas Paine, and his rantings on Republicanism and Democracy. So much so that a few years later, they had staged a Revolution of their own; one they'd mucked up, o' course… being French, and all.
In the beginning of the French Revolution, it had been American grains, delivered in whole armadas of neutral ships, that kept them from wholesale famine.
No, no matter their unofficial "war" against American traders, the French still partways admired them. Of course, being French, the Americans were probably seen as child-like, raw bumpkins when compared to the superiority of French society. Weak, rude and rustic in their manners, overly prudish and Puritan in their mores, so unrealistic as to expect honesty, fair dealing, and prim rectitude from themselves and others… so hopelessly naive, so un-worldly!
Hugues, Choundas, and the Directory in Paris when word of this reached them, could never suspect the Americans of being realistic enough to make alliance with Great Britain; too weak on land and sea to take the lead. Too enamoured of, too awed by, the innate glory of La Belle France to… dare! Those hideous English, however, were just the sort of scheming, cynical master manipulators who could gull the ingenuous Americans into folly, could tempt them from the eternal gratitude the United States owed France!
Oh, how they'd curse, stamp their elegantly shod little feet! Lewrie happily thought. How the Frogs would feel betrayed… and feel fear! Fear enough to sulk for a time (as the French were wont to do) then declare war against the United States, piqued by such betrayal?
Here in local waters, Hugues and Choundas would be piqued, for certain, to have lost a brace of raiders, lost a flotilla of prizes; perhaps gained a new foe. It would be months before packets could carry word back and forth from Guadeloupe to France with news or instructions, and in the meantime they would operate as if befogged. They'd keep their main attention on British operations, but would be forced to keep glancing over their shoulders lest the United States launch a real war, perhaps assemble a hasty fleet to eliminate Guadeloupe as a privateering base, once and for all, by themselves, or in league with the odious English!
And Pelham an' Peel deem me a simpleton, ha! Lewrie thought in glee. Well, they wanted Choundas befuddled, didn't they? And I can't think of a thing that befuddles him better.
"Sumter is firing a challenge, sir!" Lt. Langlie reported, interrupting Lewrie's musings. "And the merchantmen are wearing off the wind to the Sou'west, it appears."
Lewrie turned his attention in the opposite direction, lifting his glass again. Indeed, he could now make out the dowdiness of the prize vessels, how deeply laden and slow they were as they wore, now they'd come completely hull-up. French Tricolours flew above Yankee "gridiron" flags at their sterns denoting them as prizes. Poorly manned prizes, he was certain. The Frogs could not allot a complete crew aboard them. Even so over-manned as French warships and privateers were when put to sea in expectation of captures, if there were now a dozen hands aboard each prize, he'd eat his hat! And half of those would have to stand guard against the original crews retaking their own ship in the wee hours of the Middle Watch. And, would a privateer or a warship captain willingly give up his best topmen and able seamen into a prize, weakening her own chances of survival or freedom if they met a storm or an enemy man o' war? He rather doubted it!
"The captor seems she'll play 'mother duck,' Mister Langlie," Lewrie said as he lowered his glass. "She's standing out to face the Sumter, to give her prizes time to get away."
"Hmmm… now we'll see what Yankee warships are made of, sir," Lt. Langlie said, as if sceptical of their fighting prowess. "Should we not, uhm… close Sumter and give her a hand, sir?"
"Oh, I expect Captain McGilliveray will give a good account of himself, and of his ship, Mister Langlie," Lewrie replied, chuckling almost indulgently. "Sumter's indeed fast and handy. Even delayed by a short action with yonder Frog, I'm sure he'll run all the prizes to earth by mid-afternoon. They're awfully slow. And do they see their own ship… their 'home,' taken, the French prize crews'll be so dispirited they'll most-like have themselves a little weep, smack their foreheads, say sacrebleu, and strike their colours. Nowhere to go."