The smoke was quickly whisked away by the Trades, to scud downwind off her larboard bows, to the shore which was now only two miles away, so the officers could spot the fall of shot among those boats.
Another long second's pause, and geysers erupted from the sea, tall and slender feathery plumes that hung in the sky like suddenly frozen icicles, that only slowly collapsed downward upon themselves in matching circles of frothing spume, drenching the targets like a torrential summer squall, and making them heel and rock, their winged-out sails sluiced and drowned with seawater.
"Damn' good shooting," Lewrie commented. "Now, serve 'em another," he ordered, raising his telescope.
"Sir?" Mr. Winwood whispered from his right side. "Sir, we are getting rather close inshore, and we do have them abeam. Perhaps one point abaft of abeam."
"You wish to harden up and stand out from the shore?" Lewrie asked, the glass still to his eye.
"I would, sir. The best we have are century-old Spanish charts."
"Mister Langlie, a point to windward," Lewrie called. "And put some spare hands in the larboard fore-chains to sound with the lead."
"Aye, sir."
"As you bear… on the up-roll… fire!"
Under a mile now, Lt. Wyman was letting gun-captains aim for themselves, picking their own targets. Proteus shuddered and jerked, anew, as the 12-pounders exploded in a stutter that ran from her bow to her stern. Wyman paced the waist of the ship between the starboard and the idle larboard batteries, between the foremast and main, urging gun-captains and more experienced senior quarter-gunners for a steady pace to keep the guns firing two rounds every three minutes.
"Hit!" Lt. Devereux the Marine officer cried from among his men on the starboard gangway above the guns. "Well shot, you lads! You've hammered one of the luggers, and shot a mast clean away!"
The gun crews cheered, even as they tugged and hauled, even as ship's boys scampered along the deck with their leather cases holding sewn powder cartridges from the risk of premature explosion, even as barrels were swabbed out by the rammer men, as Number Twos held leather thumb-stalls over the touch-holes to prevent backblast from the lingering shards of cartridge bags and smouldering powder embers.
Cartridges were rammed down, roundshot was thumped firm against the charges, as vent-pricks were inserted into the touch-holes, piercing the bags to spill powder, so the jets of fire from the flintlock strikers and the priming powder in their pans could ignite the charges in the blink of an eye when the trigger lanyards were jerked.
Up the deck to the ports the guns were rolled one more time, as Proteus swung her bows seaward one point, not only to flee the risk of hidden rocks and shoals, but to close the range on the small craft and cut them off from running any longer to the Sou'west. With the wind more on the starboard beam, it was harder to run the guns out, but the fire-blackened muzzles jutted through the ports and began to wave and elevate in small jerks, 'til the gun-captains were satisfied.
"As you bear… on the up-roll… fire!"
The damaged lugger was struck again, a heavy ball smashing into her larboard side and spilling people into the sea. A one-masted sloop in the lead of their gaggle was hit near her sternquarters and jerked to the impact, rolling half on her starboard beam-ends before rocking slowly upright, but beginning to settle as she started to fill, stern down but still sailing, like a wounded goose.
"Too good to last, sir… the other two are breaking free from their partners," Lt. Langlie pointed out, his arm outstretched to the right and a bit aft. "Ducking astern of us."
Lewrie took a long look at the damaged sloop, and found it low in the water, aft, its transom almost level with the sea. It wouldn't last long, in his estimation; nor would the crippled lugger whose lone surviving foremast could not drag her to freedom fast enough.
"Two points more a'weather, Mister Langlie, and engage the two off the starboard quarters," Lewrie decided. "Those two'll be there, when we've dealt with these. Damme! Right plucky of 'em, to tack and cross our stern! They'll be within carronade shot in a minute. We'll open with the stern chasers and carronades! Ready, the after-guard!"
"Perhaps there's more fight in the Frogs than we thought, sir," Lt. Langlie commented.
Lewrie raised his telescope once more and eyed the boats that were aiming to beat Sou'easterly and run aground where they might on the Spanish shore of Santo Domingo… before Proteus could kill them.
"Whatever they are, Mister Langlie, they ain't French," Lewrie said, after he had gotten a closer look at their foe. "They're Black! Ev'ry man jack of 'em, from what I can see."
The surviving sloop and lugger were within four cables as they completed crossing the wind's eye and began to gather speed for their run to safety, and Lewrie could pick out details. The men aboard them were armed, and wore a semblance of uniforms; cocked hats, military or civilian, but all decorated with the red-white-blue cockade of revolutionary French Jacobins… white breeches and colourful sashes, into which pistols, swords, or cutlasses were jammed. Some wore shirts and dark blue French uniform coats, or coats with no shirts; some had to make do in waistcoats and no shirts, but with crossbelts and brass breastplates in the middle of their chests. There were a few in full uniforms and plumed hats, wearing officer's swords, and dragoon boots, or breeches without stockings or any footwear. But all bore muskets with their bayonets already affixed.
Closer still, and Lewrie could see kegs of what could only be taken for gunpowder, kegs at which some rebel slave soldiers chopped with hand axes and tomahawks, while others worked at flints and lint to kindle sparks and flames, whilst others held oiled-rag torches to be…!
"Damn my eyes, Mister Langlie, I do believe those bastards mean to blow themselves to Kingdom Come, and us with 'em!" he shouted as the two small craft fell off the wind even more and, gathering speed, began to turn toward Proteus's stern quarters… attacking the frigate!
"Marines to the quarterdeck, Mister Devereux! Man the swivels and the carronades, smartly now!" Lewrie urged, feeling a bit of panic. "Mister Winwood, a bit more speed t'get clear of 'em. Mister Wyman? A broadside would do right nicely, 'bout now!"
"Coming, sir, directly!"
"So's bloody Christmas!" Lewrie muttered under his breath, too fearful of the suicidal slaveys to care about "captainly" behaviour.
"Dem fools got de 'nutmegs,' sah," Cox'n Andrews breathed in awe as he appeared unbidden but welcome at Lewrie's side, with a brace of pistols and Lewrie's trusty Ferguson rifle and its accoutrements. "Dey Law', dey's laughin'!"
About two cables' distance now, the small boats surging up to carronade range, and Lewrie could hear a chant that nigh-shriveled his "stones" above the rumble of gun-trucks and the drum of running feet.
"Eh Eh! Heu! Canga, bajнo tй!
Canga, moune de le! Canga, do ki la!
Canga, li!"
"What the Devil's all that?" Lewrie demanded to know.
"Don' know, sah… Obeah stuff, maybe," Andrews replied, crossing himself for luck and blanching a touch pale. "Some sorta witchie workin'. Voodoo… voudoun. Deir Creole tongue."
"On the up-roll… fire!" Wyman screeched, at long last.
Not a full second after the guns erupted, before the spent gunpowder could even begin to wing alee, there came a huge tongue of yellow flame off the starboard side amid a titanic gust of wind that flung a pea-soup fog of reeking, blue-white smoke at them, stinging hot, and shot through with splinters, chunks, and burning embers! In that stentorian blasting roar, shrieks and screams could be heard. Things went wetly Plop! against the deck where they stood!