“If they’re indeed French, then they’re hopeful bastards. Or half-blind,” Lewrie commented. “They know Comus is a frigate by now, but can’t they see we’re not a big transport?”
“Even if they do recognise us for a warship, perhaps they’re counting on our lack of speed or manoeuvrability to cut one or two of the transports from our clumsy grasp, sir,” Westcott posed, tongue-in-cheek.
“Strange sail are French!” a lookout called down. “Deck, there! I kin see the cut o’ their jibs!”
“Jibs, sir?” Midshipman Fywell muttered.
“Jibs, younker,” Lt. Westcott turned to instruct him. “The way sailmakers in other nations cut their cloth and saw the panels together varies, depending on what they think the best and strongest way to take strong winds. A sharp-eyed, experienced man can sometime spot the difference.”
“I see, sir,” Fywell said with what passed for a sage nod.
Other Mids were coming to the quarterdeck to report that the lower gun deck was at Quarters, that the upper gun deck was ready, that sail tenders, brace and sheet and halliard tenders were in their assigned places and ready for action. Once reporting, they dashed back to their stations for Quarters.
“At Quarters, and ready for action, sir,” Lt. Westcott said at last, very formally doffing his hat in salute.
“Very good, sir,” Lewrie replied, all his attention on the two approaching ships. They were within two miles, by then, still on the wind. The one furthest off seemed to steer for the head of Lewrie’s column, as if to take on Knolles in Comus. The left-handed ship nearest to Sapphire seemed intent on sailing right up to the middle of the column. They still showed no colours.
“They couldn’t be ours, could they, sir?” Lt. Westcott wondered. “Two of our sloops of war or light frigates pulling a ‘Grierson’?”
A year or so before, a Commodore Grierson had come to Nassau to re-enforce Lewrie’s weak squadron of sloops, brigs of war and vessels “below the Rates”, keeping his identity secret ’til the very last moment, a very clumsy jest that had frightened the life out of the good residents of New Providence, and had re-dounded to no good credit.
“If it is, I’ll have both captains at the gratings, and flog ’em half t’death,” Lewrie vowed. “I didn’t find it all that amusin’ then, and damned if anyone pulls that jape on me a second time.”
He had ordered his frigate, Reliant, and three weak and small ships, all he had in harbour, out to confront Grierson’s large squadron, knowing it was suicide, but prepared to go game and fulfill his duty to the last.
“About a mile and a half, now, sir,” Sailing Master Yelland estimated. “Ah, there’s their damned Tricolour flags, at last. Frogs for certain.”
“And we’re s’posed t’be terrified,” Lewrie growled.
Damme, don’t they find it odd that we ain’t turnin’ about Sou’west and runnin’ for our lives? he had to ask himself; These must be the stupidest, or the greediest, Frenchmen in all Creation!
“Sir, I do believe that they’re not frigates, but corvettes,” Lt. Westcott exclaimed after a long look with his glass. “Like our old twenty-gunned sloops of war.”
“And about a mile off,” Mr. Yelland pointed out.
“I’d like ’em t’come nigh half a mile, first,” Lewrie said in rising excitement. It appeared that the French would not be daunted by the stolidly-plodding line of ships that showed no sign of fleeing.
Come on, come on, Lewrie thought, beginning a slow grin; Come see what we have for ye!
“Ehm … I estimate that it is half a mile, sir,” Mr. Yelland announced.
“Mister Britton?” Lewrie barked. “Hoist the Blue Ensign, and make a signal to the convoy. Number Ten!”
“Open the ports and run out, sir?” Westcott eagerly asked.
“Damned right, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie snapped. He ran up the larboard ladderway to the poop deck to see how all the other ships were obeying his orders, schemed with Ralph Knolles and pre-planned long before while still in port at the Nore.
Step One; Hoist Blue Ensign.
Step Two; Brail up main course, Navy fashion.
Step Three; Fifty Fusiliers to form by engaged side.
Step Four; Copy manoeuvres of escort ahead of you.
All four troop transports were showing the Blue Ensign, and their main courses were being brailed up, as a warship would to avoid the risk of sparks from her own gunfire setting it on fire. Soldiers in full kit were forming along the larboard bulwarks of the transports with their firearms. The Fusiliers wore shakos, not the tall, narrow-brimmed black hats of real Marines, but they gave a good impression of a frigate’s Marine complement, at a half-mile’s range. Good enough to fool the French.
Lewrie looked forward to see that Sapphire’s huge main course was brailed up out of the way, and that Lt. Keane and Lt. Roe were sending some of their men to the fighting tops, at last, and arraying the rest behind the stout bulwarks and stowed hammock racks.
And the French!
“Got you, you ignorant shits!” Lewrie bellowed in his best quarterdeck voice at the foe, hoping they could hear him. “Mister Westcott? Serve the nearest one a broadside!”
The right-hand corvette, a little further off and aiming for the head of the long column, was already hauling her wind, putting her helm hard over and beginning to wear off the wind. Her main course was still spread, so she was fast off the mark. She had not even opened her gun-ports.
The one closest to Sapphire had begun to take in her course, and had opened her ports, but was also beginning to turn, presenting her starboard side to Lewrie’s ship.
“By broadside … fire!”
HMS Sapphire erupted, guns bellowing, great clouds of gunpowder smoke gushing out, and clouds of sparks swirling. Lewrie found that he had crossed the fingers of his right hand for luck. He knew that his gunners could shoot off a concentrated broadside at one cable’s range, but how would they do at close to half a mile?
“Beautiful!” he shouted, clapping his hands in glee.
There were tall pillars and feathers of spray arising round the French corvette, great slaps from 24-pounder shot, smaller ones from the 12-pounders, huge ones from the carronades that didn’t have the range and struck short, lumbering up from First Graze to still do damage when they hit the corvette’s outer plankings. Before his view was blocked out by the thick cloud of smoke, he even saw some roundshot slamming into her, punching star-shaped holes!
“Mister Westcott, come about to East-Sou’east!” he ordered. “Let’s go after her and serve her another!”
“Aye aye, sir! Helmsmen, make her head East-Sou’east,” Lieutenant Westcott repeated. “Bosun, hands to the sheets and braces, and take the wind fine on the quarter, nigh a ‘soldier’s wind’!”
“Mister Britton?” Lewrie shouted aft to the signals Midshipman. “Make to Comus … her number, and Pursue The Enemy More Closely.”
“Aye, sir!” Britton replied, sounding right chipper.
Sapphire was wheeling about, altering course to pursue her own target, slowly sailing back into the thinning, drifting pall of spent gunpowder smoke from her first broadside. That was a disadvantage for her, for this close to running “both sheets aft”, almost dead downwind, she could sail no faster than the wind itself, and would wreath herself with every broadside. He could feel the motion of his ship change under his feet.
Lewrie could barely make out the right-hand French corvette, which had managed to complete her wear-about, crossing the eye of the winds and taking it on her larboard quarter to run as fast as her wee legs could carry her. His own, the left-hand one, was emerging from the smoke, becoming more substantial by the second. And she had been struck, for he could make out bashed-in scantlings, pale raw patches where heavy roundshot had shattered her oak side and bulwarks, leaving base wood clean of paint, tar, and grime. And she was close, no more than two cables off, now! She was turning away to run, but he had her.