“Spare the transports?” Captain Chalmers wondered aloud, even as the French found the range upon another departing transport ship and scored several damaging hits. “I must say that Captain Lewrie has ‘bottom,’ in spades!”
“Yes, he does!” Midshipman Lewrie seconded that impression, if only under his breath.
* * *
“The ship is at Quarters, sir,” Lt. Westcott reported in his most formal and grave manner, then cast an eye towards the Sailing Master and his Master’s Mates, Stubbs and Dorton, all of whom were busy scribbling on their slates, their sticks of chalk squeaking in urgency between quick sights with their sextants.
“Soon, Mister Yelland?” Lewrie called to them.
“Soon, sir,” Mr. Yelland assured him, sounding anxious.
“There’s not enough room for us to go about,” Lewrie said to Lt. Westcott, waving an arm round the harbour. “We can’t stand close to the quays, wear about, and engage with the off-side battery. We would spend all our time at it. We’ll have to anchor, with the best bower and kedge, with springs on the cables.”
That drew a wince from Westcott, and a sucking of breath over his teeth. “Play target, to spare the other ships? Aye, nothing for it, then. Let go the kedge, first, and hope it finds good grounding, as rocky as the harbour is.”
“And use the best bower at a very short scope t’keep us from swinging, aye,” Lewrie grimly agreed. “Stand by to let go the kedge when Yelland decides we’re at the best place, then send topmen aloft as we free the bower.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Westcott said, doffing his hat most formally, again, sure that this would be a very hot business. He turned away to begin issuing Lewrie’s orders.
The French battery atop the hill had been busy during their slow approach, sending roundshot chasing after departing transports, but, after finally taking notice of such a big and tempting target, they began to shift the aim of their guns, even before Sapphire got to her optimum firing position.
“I think this will do, sir,” Yelland said at last.
“Very well, Mister Yelland. Let go the kedge, springs on the cable!” Lewrie cried. “Topmen aloft, trice up and lay out t’take in sail! Open the gun-ports and run out!”
Shot keened overhead, and the main tops’l puckered as a shot punched clean through it. Another roundshot snapped the halliards of the middle stays’l between the main and foremast, bringing it down to drape the waist.
Sapphire rumbled and groaned as the kedge anchor cable paid out the stern hawsehole, squealed as the sheaves of the gun-port blocks lowered the ports, roared and drummed as the larboard guns were run out to thud against the bulwarks and hull. She snubbed as the kedge bit into the rock and sand of Corunna’s harbour, and began to ghost to a stop.
“Seize, and bring to!” Lt. Westcott could be heard yelling to snub the kedge cable. “Breast to the aft capstan bars! Mister Ward!” he called to the forecastle with a brass speaking trumpet. “Let go the bower!”
A 12-pounder shot passed close over the poop deck, clearing the larboard bulwarks by inches, but smashing the cap-rails of the starboard bulwarks as it caromed off. The Sailing Master and his Mates came tumbling down from where they had been making their calculations in a trice.
“Pass word to the gun-decks,” Lewrie ordered, “quoin blocks all the way out, load, and lay the guns!”
The first serge cartridge bags were being rammed down muzzles, followed by wadding, then roundshot. Lewrie leaned over the side to see the 12-pounders and lower deck 24-pounders jutting from the side, barrels jerking upwards as the wooden elevating quoin blocks were withdrawn, allowing the breeches to rest on the truck carriage beds.
Westcott was back at Lewrie’s side, speaking trumpet still in his hand, and they shared a look in the moment it took for Mids to dash up from below and report the guns ready. Lewrie gave him a nod.
“The larboard battery will open,” Lewrie gravely ordered, “by broadside. And skin the sons of bitches!”
“Larboard battery … by broadside … fire!” Westcott yelled.
Unconsciously, Lewrie crossed the fingers of his right hand along the side of his thigh as the guns lit off in a titanic roar, a sudden fog bank of powder smoke, and amber-red flashes of jutting flame that erupted from her side.
“Two-thirds of a mile, you made it, Mister Yelland?” Lewrie asked, turning to look for the Sailing Master.
“Aye, sir, about that,” Yelland said through a dry throat.
“Can’t see a bloody thing,” Lewrie groused. “Mister Harvey,” he called to the nearest Midshipman. “Aloft to the cross-trees with a telescope, and spot the fall of shot!”
“Aye aye, sir!” the lad said, snatching a glass from the binnacle cabinet rack and making his way to the larboard main mast shrouds.
The first broadside’s smoke was wafting away over San Diego Point, and Santa Lucía Hill was emerging once more.
If we can’t take their fire, we can get the bower up and the wind’ll blow us back on the kedge, then wheel back out to sea, he thought, taking time to look over to starboard at the other ships in port. Fully laden ships were shifting their anchorages further out of range of the French guns, some in groups that were leaving the harbour to stand off-and-on outside. The one transport that had been hit several times looked to be in a bad way, her main topmasts hanging over, her yards a’cock-bill in disorder, and listing a bit to starboard. At least the French weren’t firing at her, anymore.
“Run out yer guns!” Lieutenants Harcourt and Elmes could be heard from below as they pressed their gun crews to prepare for one more broadside.
“Shot was high, sir!” Midshipman Harvey yelled from aloft. “High and right!”
“Quoin blocks in a bit, Mister Westcott, and take in on the kedge cable spring!” Lewrie snapped, impatient for the adjustment in aim to be completed.
“Ready!” was shouted up to the quarterdeck.
“By broadside … fire!” Lt. Westcott yelled, and Sapphire shook and roared as the guns lit off, as the truck carriages came rushing back in recoil. “Better aim as the barrels warm up, sir,” he said to Lewrie, with a confident wink.
A full battery of French artillery consisted of several 8-pounder guns, at least six of their famed 12-pounders, and a brace of howitzers. All were firing at a fixed target. Shot splashes towered close to the larboard side, Sapphire drummed to a solid hit, and a howitzer roundshot crashed down onto the starboard sail-tending gangway with a raucous shriek of rivened, splintered wood.
“Still high, sir!” Midshipman Harvey shouted over the din to the deck. “Traverse is still just a bit to the right!”
“Pass word, quoins in another inch,” Lewrie snapped, “and take another strain on the kedge cable spring!”
“Ready?” Westcott demanded after the adjustments were made. “By broadside … fire!”
What I’d give for fused shells! Lewrie bemoaned as the broadside bellowed, flinging heavy shot shoreward through the sudden pall of smoke. He’d dealt with fused mortar shells and bursting shot when he’d been at Toulon; he knew the dangers of such tricky, delicate shells being rammed down hot barrels, perhaps lighting the fuses as they were rammed down and bursting, destroying the guns and killing gunners. As he wished that he had stuffed some candle wax in his ringing ears, he began to imagine how that could be managed, despite the risks.
“Traverse is true, sir!” Harvey screeched, sounding triumphant. “Our shot is skimming the hill, by inches, I think!”
“Quoins out half an inch!” Lewrie shouted. “Serve the whores another!”