"Field pieces overrun as well, I suppose," Lewrie commented.
"We are short of artillery, yes, but…" Major James objected some more.
"You wish my help or not, sir?" Lewrie snapped. "Then let's be about it. An artillery officer aboard Proteus here, another ashore to relay the fall-of-shot… using your signal flags, or whatever it is that you do, so there's no errors in communication. Perhaps a chain of signallers from your trenchworks right back to the docks."
"I suppose we could, Captain Lewrie," Major James said, frowning. "Don't know much about artillery myself, all that Woolwich bang-bangin'? I'm infantry, d'ye see."
He drew himself up with a touch of pride; wounded pride, Lewrie suspected, that he was forced to reveal himself as just another drone who knew how to shout, square-bash on parade, and look good in scarlet, and hadn't learned a thing in his climb from subaltern rank outside of his own narrow interests. And his promotions bought, not earned!
"But you could arrange…?" Lewrie prompted, flexing his fingers on his sword hilt in frustration.
"Might be best, did you have your people do the signalling and use your own system, Captain Lewrie," Major James said at last. "Your guns… your fall-of-shot?" He tossed off a helpless shrug.
"Don't have a system for such as this!" Lewrie quickly growled. "I can send a midshipman or two ashore, but only to aid your people."
"Well, uhm…"
"Damme, sir, you wish help? I didn't short-tack in here, six hours' worth o' hard labour, then put my people rowin' so hard they'd herniate, just t'watch a raree-show. You refuse, I'll put about and stand back out to sea, and bedamned to ya!"
And naval captains outrank Army majors, Lewrie told himself: I am almost sure of it!
"On your head be it, Captain Lewrie," Major James demurred.
"No… on some over-educated Woolwich graduate be it," Lewrie countered, knowing how Redcoat officers demeaned the blue-coated artillery corps, "tradesmen," who could not buy a commission, but had to learn, work and think, before the Woolwich Arsenal passed them for field duty.
Sure enough, Major James treated Lewrie to an smirk of sudden understanding, and began to bow himself away.
Now, who do I send ashore? Lewrie wondered, after doffing his hat to the soldiers, and turning away to see to his ship's snail-like progress. Midshipmen Sevier and Nicholas were the oldest and smartest, the rest aboard too young, too impressionable, and not yet challenged by independent command away from the ship; none of them were, really.
And who do I stand to lose? Who dies… at my command?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I think we're ready for a try, sir," the scruffy, and worried, Royal Artillery officer, a Captain Wandsworth, announced at last, after several minutes of arcane scribbling and muttering over a slate with his assistant, a younger lieutenant; arcs, windage, elevation, range, charge to be used et al had been figured and refigured.
"Very well, Captain Wandsworth. Carry on, if you please, and Devil take the hindmost," Lewrie said, hands in the small of his back and his fingers crossed for luck; hands well clear of actual responsibility! Then Lewrie nodded to Mr. Carling on the forecastle; the man stiffened and winced so openly that Lewrie could almost feel the fellow's lips stretch as he stepped clear of a 6-pounder chase-gun and yanked the trigger lanyard.
The 6-pounder yapped, spewing a great cloud of smoke from a barrel elevated higher than normal, and rolled back on its truck-carriage, slewing a bit out of true as it recoiled. The solid shot soared into the sky, visible for a split-second as it slowed at its peak of apogee and dashed downward.
"May work, after all," Captain Wandsworth muttered, taking off his cocked hat and running his fingers through his sweaty hair. "Did we fire direct, well… your decks are only twenty feet above the sea, and our trenches are about fifty. At ten degrees elevation, as high as one'd risk an iron barrel with a full charge without bursting… hope no one's standing up, over there, else he'll have his head took off."
Lewrie wasn't quite sure that Wandsworth had addressed him directly, so he raised one eyebrow and said "Hmmm?"
"Not to mind, just nattering," Wandsworth said, waving him off. "Ah! There! Fifty yards beyond our lines… no effect. Still…"
"Shame we don't have Colonel Shrapnel's bursting case-shot, sir," the lieutenant told his superior. "Timed fuses… spread some grief?"
"No way to graze solid shot, true," Wandsworth responded, lost in his arcane work, whilst he scribbled some more on a slate. "Can't lay 'em waste like a game o' bowls, this way. What guns we have on the line'll have to see to that. Droppin' heavy things on their heads… wheee… plop. Cow-pats. Won't even bounce, I'll warrant." "This won't do any good, after all?" Lewrie asked. "Put the wind up 'em, Captain Lewrie, t'be sure," Wandsworth replied with a fiendish little grin. "Who knows? You hammer away at a wall for days, before you effect a breach. I'm thinking grape-shot or cannister might get a rise out of 'em. Saturate an area, 'stead of an aimed shot at high angle, where a miss is as good as a mile. Try one of your carronades?"
"Lovely things," the lieutenant said in praise and envy. "We never get to play with such. Now, do we increase the charge by a dram or two, sir… stand of grape on its wooden wad base… uhm, that's eighteen and one-half pounds total shot, with one cannister atop…?" Lewrie shared a look with his lieutenants, Langlie and Wyman. Like watchin ' witches stir their pot, Lewrie thought; one more eye o ' newt, or no? Two wolf teeth, or was it three?
"No no, four drams, at the least, but…!" Wandsworth quibbled. They fussed with one of the quarterdeck carronades, pushing the regular crew out of the way, whose members looked to Lewrie for a clue as to whether they should submit or not. All he could do was toss them a shrug and let the Army piddle.
"Now, then!" Wandsworth announced. "Would you be so good as to let fly, my man? What's your name? Harper? Blaze away, Gun-Captain Harper, blaze away!"
The 24-pounder carronade, never meant to be fired at such high elevation, lurched backwards on its slide-carriage, wood rails groaning and smoking despite the grease and slush slathered on to prevent too much friction, and slammed into the cross-timber at the rear that stopped the recoil.
"You know, sir," the Royal Artillery Lieutenant said, "was it up to me, I'd come up with some sort of snubbers, some screw-jack compressors to increase friction, and reduce recoil."
"Well, it's a thought… ah!" Wandsworth mused, before raising his telescope to peer shoreward for the signalmen. "Well, damme! One hundred paces beyond our troops, and roughly on target! Well, well! I make out… saturation. Twenty… yards… wide, oh how wondrous!"
"Did it do any good?" Lewrie asked once more.
"A fall of hail, twenty yards wide and perhaps twenty deep, sir? Grape and cannister shot?" Wandsworth crowed. "I should imagine that'd take down young trees, Captain Lewrie. Knock more than a few heads to flinders. Here, let's load up all your carronades, and give it a go!"