"God in Heaven!" Lt. Langlie was forced to exclaim. "My word, I mean," he amended as he realised that prim Mr. Winwood was still near. And with his "holy" face on. "But what weight of artillery does that Yankee brig mount? How many cannon can a brig bear, and server
The French schooner staggered out of the smoke pall. Her foremast was sheered off about ten feet above the deck, her main-mast canted so far aft that it made a rough triangle, like a mast-hoisting sheer-legs, where it rested upon her mizen. And half her starboard side was hammered so badly that one could almost make out bare ribs! Her bowsprit and jib-boom pointed down into the water like a steering oar, and her starboard anchor and cat-head were simply gone! With such a drag, she emerged bows-down, flat on her bottom and low in the water, most of her way shot clean off her, surging up a vast patch of white-foaming sea around her as if she rested atop a stony shoal where the waves first broke as they came ashore.
"Enough, and more, it seems, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said, about to dare the sea-gods and whistle on deck in admiration, or surprise.
Proteus s crew raised another gleeful cheer to salute Oglethorpe for her quick victory. For them, it was better than a raree show or a championship cockfight. Any day they could see the despised French getting their just desserts was simply "the nuts" to them. And the bloodier and more brutal, the better!
"Damn my… bless me!" Mr. Langlie further commented, a glass to his eye, as the Sailing Master pointedly coughed into his fist and issued a cautionary "Ha-Hemm!" as if clearing his throat. "Taking the lee position as she did, sir, with a fair amount of her quick-work exposed at her angle of heel, there's sure to be shot-holes below her Waterline. Be a shame to lose such a fine prize, if she sinks. Why, I do believe you can already judge her down to starboard, as if taking water."
"It appears Captain Randolph is of the same mind, sir," Lewrie said in agreement with his assessment. "She is listing to starboard. Oglethorpe's coming about and taking in sail. Save her 'fore she goes down I s'pose. Ah, there she's struck her colours! Took them long enough. A blinding glimpse of the obvious, that. Mister Langlie?"
"Sir?"
"Oglethorpe's busy," Lewrie decided, swinging his telescope to eye those French prizes, now fleeing to the Sou'east. "Wish her well, and all that, but… if she won't run down the merchant schooners, we shall. A point to loo'rd, and let's crack on. They look deeply laden to me. No matter they're Yankee-built and fast, we stand an excellent chance of overhauling 'em. By mid-afternoon, at the latest."
"Aye aye, sir. Mister O'Leary, a point o' weather helm. Haul off a mite, and shape course just to windward of the schooners, there," Lt. Langlie instructed the Quartermaster of the watch.
"They're at least six miles or better off, Mister Langlie. For now, let's stand down from Quarters and serve the crew their breakfasts. Pass the word to Mister Coote and the galley folk."
"Aye aye, sir."
"Mister Grace?" Lewrie called aft, summoning the midshipman to his side.
"Aye, sir?" the lad asked, still afire with excitement.
"Pass the word for Aspinall, and tell him I'd admire a fresh pot of coffee… and tell the gun-room stewards that the officers'll most-like wish a pot of their own, too."
"Aye, sir!" Grace cried, dashing off forward and below, almost breathless with second-hand battle glee that had yet to flag.
Lewrie paced aft down the windward side of the quarterdeck, as the gun crews removed flintlock igniters, gathered up gun-tools, and re-inserted the tompions in their unloaded, unfired pieces. Mr. Peel was pacing forward, nearer to the centre of the quarterdeck.
"Well, that was exciting for a minute or two," Lewrie commented.
"And we were not required to fire our guns in concert, either, Peel took fairly hopeful note, as if he had his fingers crossed behind his back-on both hands. "So far, we haven't exactly sinned by an act of commission, have we? Mean t'say… we didn't do anything overt."
"Yet," Lewrie cautioned, with a wee, sly grin that was sure to bedevil Peel's shaky qualms and recriminations.
"We were merely… present," Peel insisted. "Just happened by."
"Still, it's early yet," Lewrie took delight in pointing out to him. "Who knows what could transpire 'fore sunset," he drawled.
"God's sake, don't do that, Lewrie," Peel almost pleaded. "You get your sly-boots look on, and there's the Devil t'pay."
"Pelham owe you money, Mister Peel?" Lewrie badly asked.
"Of course not!" Peel spluttered, nonplussed by such a query.
"You owe him, then?" Lewrie went on, tongue-in-check. "Engaged to his sister or some such? He catch you with the wrong woman, knows your deepest, darkest, most shameful secret, does he?"
"No, none of that," Peel insisted, though Lewrie noted that he turned a tad red-faced, and made it too bland for complete credence. "He controls my career, reports on my fitness for future employment in our little… bureau."
"That surely can't be all, Peel," Lewrie said, feigning a pout of disappointment. "But in some ways, you're not the same confident fellow I knew in the Med. Mister Twigg's a horrid old fart, but I cannot recall you bein' so meek with him, nor can I recall you bein' the sort to hide his light 'neath a bushel basket and not tell him when he's wrong, or give him a better idea."
"Diff rent era, diff rent superior," Peel bitterly replied. "I quite enjoyed working for Mister Twigg, for I could be open with him. And he couldn't abide time-servers and toadies. I was his partner."
Peel paused, working his mouth as he realised that it was time to reveal some home truths. "I was a cashiered ex-captain of the Household Cavalry, not quite the ton to polite Society, d'ye see, but that never mattered with Twigg. Pelham is a different proposition entirely."
"What sort o' blottin' did you do in your copybook?" Lewrie queried, sure there was a tantalising tale to be heard.
"Let's say it involved the wrong earl's daughter, affianceed to a fellow officer, a Major, in the same regiment, for starters," Peel hesitantly admitted.
"Hmmm… do tell," Lewrie gently pressed. "Doesn't sound much like a career-ender, though. Young love… all that."
"Let us say that the young lady in question, and the gallant Major, deserved each other," Peel said with a bitter sigh. "So easily bored, so needful of amusement she was, which cost me dear. We Peels're good landed squirearchy, Lewrie, well-enough off, but we ain't that rich' and the regiment was expensive enough to begin with. Cost of my 'colours' as a Cornet, then Lieutenant, then the vacancy as a Captain? String o' chargers, the proper kit and uniforms, and a sinful mess-bill each month. Skinflint maintenance of my dignity was half again steeper than my yearly pay, and two free-for-all mess-nights in a month all the sprees about town, could put me deep in the hole. Then she came along, I was utterly besotted, lost my head, and then splurged my way even deeper, 'til the sight o' tailors and tradesmen'd force me to hide in stables 'til they'd gone. Toward the end I… our estates are entailed, so my family could've cleared my debts, but I was foolishly stubborn it not come to that, so I…"
"You robbed the paymasters?" Lewrie gently nudged.
"I… I cheated my fellow officers at cards!" Peel ashamedly confessed, come over all hang-dog and unable to look at anything but his shoes. "To buy her baubles, dine her out, the theatres and such, and I… she swore she'd break her engagement, that she'd marry me, but…"