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"Mister Langlie," Lewrie finally said, turning to face his execcutive officer. "We will bear up hard on the wind. New course… Nor-Nor-west. Mister Grace, you still with us? Once we're settled on our new heading, you will lower the Yankee flag and break out our true colours. Smartly. And make a hoist to the convoy to heave to and prepare to be boarded, that same instant." To Langlie, he gleefully explained, "we'll sit out here off their starboard bows and let 'em sulk on things for a bit. Pull their hair and kick furniture, if they've a mind. They wish to come out and fight, we'll be more than happy to oblige 'em. Give the Americans the chance to participate, if they dally long enough, too."

"Ohe!" the lookout screamed, a minute after the "brig of war," or the "merchant brig," had worn about, revealing herself as a three-masted ship. "She is anglais!" Choundas ground his teeth, despising the shouts, and the man who made them. "Mille diables, she is a frigate!" he wailed, spreading consternation by reporting so emotionally. "Damn it!" Choundas rasped, stamping his cane on the deck.

"Ohe! She is that devil ship Proteus!" the lookout howled.

"Shoot that dog!" Choundas barked. "Do you not train your men to report correctly, Griot?"

"M'sieur, I…" Griot stammered, as flustered as his sailors at the sight of their nemesis. "How? How did he find us? Who could have betrayed our sailing, after all you did to stamp out traitors?"

"You are French, Griot! You are Breton!" Choundas bellowed in rage, his face gone the colour of red plums. "Behave accordingly, as a warship captain, or…!"

"Ohe, the deck!" the lookout shrilled once more, "the ships to the East are warships! Flags at every mast-head! A corvette, a brig of war, and… perhaps a small frigate, astern!"

"Damn that man!" Choundas spat, glaring upward as if his look could kill. "Lewrie is not a devil, Griot, he's but a man. A stupid, idle, arrogant British… amateur! He sits out there from fear, waiting for the Americans to come up before he acts. Americans! Revenue cutters armed with pop-guns, thin-sided merchant ships turned into poor substitutes for men of war! We sortie now against him, and we'll have nearly an hour to swarm over him. Three ships to one, and with him taken or crippled… Lewrie dead, at last, yes!… they'll stand off in fear of us! Oh, Lewrie dead at long last…"

"Proteus is a Fifth Rate frigate of thirty-two guns, Capitaine" Griot recited, suddenly so calm that Choundas got a crick in his neck from turning his head to glare at him. "Her main artillery consists of twelve-pounders. Her weight of metal is greater than ours, together."

"Get those damnable rags down, Griot," Choundas coldly ordered. "Hoist our glorious Tricolore, and signal La Resolue and La Mohican to form line-of-battle on us. We will fight, and… we… will… conquer, do you hear me, hein? Do it! Vite, vite!"

"And our charges, m'sieur?" Capt. Griot asked. "What should we do with them?"

"Order the convoy to wear about and make the best of their way back to Guadeloupe, Griot," Choundas quickly decided. "If they cannot drive that close to the Trades, they must run East-Sou'east, at least, until we come to fetch them, say. For now, they are no longer our main concern," he disparagingly said, hope, and rage, and a long unused acuity for tactics awakened in his breast, "We have a battle to fight!"

"Three-to-one, sir," Lt. Langlie said, slyly grinning. "Almost even odds, that. After all, they are French!" he japed.

"Takin' 'em long enough," Lewrie grunted back, brooding on the larboard bulwarks facing their foes. "They beat up to us, they'll hope to bracket us. I would, in their position. The lead corvette to lie off our bows, the second abeam, and the schooner t'play the 'bull-dog' and stern-rake us often as she can. Our Yankees?"

"Oglethorpe has worn about, and is after those merchant ships," Langlie said, craning about for a good look. "They're mostly out of it, bound due South, or thereabout, sir. Sumter and Hancock are still bound directly for us, 'bout five miles up to windward."

Lewrie took himself a long look-see, too, feeling oddly calm, and satisfied. Proteus still lay Nor'east of the French, only slowly angling closer to them as the escorting warships swanned about to get ready to fight. They were separated by little more than two miles of water, now, tantalisingly beyond even extreme gun-range. The leading French corvette was bound Nor'west, as close-hauled to the Trades as she could bear. The second corvette was still about a mile astern of the first one, perhaps a quarter-mile alee of her consort, and unable to pinch or claw up closer. The armed schooner showed much more dash, though; her fore-and-aft sails allowed her another point higher on the eyes of the wind, steering North-by-East, almost bows-on to Proteus's larboard quarter. Lewrie turned to slouch with his right arm on the bulwarks, most un-captainly-like, and squinted at her. He imagined a "dashing" schooner captain might haul up close, then tack and try to rake him, getting in his licks before the others, perhaps to fire up into his frigate's rigging and carry away something vital that would allow the corvettes to get into knife-fighting distance. Well… two could play that game, Lewrie thought. His ship had not yet reefed or clewed up her main course, which would be drawn up out of the way for fear of fire once the guns began to sing; she still had all the power of the wind to utilise. Proteus's yards, though she steered a point "free" of close-hauled, he'd had drawn in loose-braced, not quite gathering as much wind as they could if braced in sharp. Not that obvious to the approaching French yet, letting them gain, but…

Yes, there she went, starting to tack… the ambitious young shit! Get a bit to windward, then tack and fall down on his vulnerable stern… or so he thought!

"Mister Langlie, brace in hard and get a proper way back on her. Then we will wear," Lewrie decided of a sudden.

"And close them, sir?"

"For a while, Mister Langlie," Lewrie cheerfully replied. "In the process, we'll force them to tack, if they want at us that badly, upset whatever they're planning, and… bear down on yon schooner so frightful we'll make her commander squirt his breeches," Lewrie quickly sketched out. "Once about, we will go close-hauled on larboard tack and chase the little bastard, splitting their forces and isolating him. And give the 'cousins' the time to get up and have a proper whack at 'em.

"I'm feelin' devilish generous today, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said with a chuckle. "New course, East-Sou'east."

"Aye aye, sir," Langlie said with a sly grin.

"She wears!" Griot exclaimed.

"Then get us about, too, at once!" Choundas snapped. "Signal to La Resolue to conform to our manoeuvres."

"At once, m'sieur" Capt. Griot said, turning to pass the order to his First Officer, then turning back to Choundas. "Such a tack will bring us much closer to the American warships. Once we engage Proteus they will have time to sail up and take us on our dis-engaged side."

"If I cannot have that salaud Lewrie this time, I will at least damage him in passing, Griot," Choundas growled. "A quick action at three-to-one odds to cripple and kill, then we will break away and go to the rescue of our merchant ships… hacking that puny American brig of war apart in the process. Perhaps even taking her and teaching a lesson to those rustic ingrates. Oh, to be just a mile closer… what Hell we could play upon Lewrie as he wears!"