A Hard, Cruel Shore Page 13

  “A little over a mile to the nearest, I make it, sir,” Yelland estimated. “Not quite time for a shot under her bows, hah hah.”

  “Why not?” Lewrie asked him with a grin. “Pass word forrud to the starboard bow chaser … quoin fully out, and fire a warnin’ shot.”

  Midshipman Chenery scampered forward to the forecastle to tell the gun crew what Lewrie wanted, prompting some shifting with crow-levers to aim the whole carriage, removing the wooded quoin block to rest the gun breech on the truck carriage. A last peek down the barrel of the 9-pounder, a tautening of the flintlock striker line, a last look-see to the recoil tackle, and a warning to stand clear and mind where your feet were, and … Bang!

  The bow chaser reeled back to the extent of the breeching ropes, snubbing, as a cloud of yellow-white gun smoke blossomed to life, to be quickly whisked downwind, and a wee black dot of iron could almost be made out as it soared off in a low arc.

  “A hit, damn my eyes!” Lt. Westcott shouted as the nine-pounder shot struck, not under the bows as requested, but upon the larboard bulwarks just abaft of the anchor cat-head, flinging up a shower of splintered wood, paint flecks, and long engrained dust and dirt.

  “A little under one mile, now, sir,” Mr. Yelland told them.

  “Serve her another,” Lewrie ordered, and within a minute the chase gun barked again, flinging a round shot that punched a neat hole right through the wee brig’s inner jib, a hole that rapidly turned into a long rent in what was surely old and worn-out canvas, right down to the bolt-ropes on the jib’s foot.

  “She’s struck!” Lt. Westcott chortled. “Her colours are down!”

  “Haul up the barge to the entry-port, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered, then shouted forward to the waiting boarding party. “Boarders, away, smartly now!” Which order raised a brief cheer from those men, and the hands on deck. “That was damned quick, I must say. Now, let’s get on after another. Ready another boarding party, and be ready to draw the pinnace up, next.”

  “Aye aye, sir!” Westcott replied, about ready to rub his hands together over what value their prize might fetch.

  “Seven and one-half knots, sir!” someone called out from the taffrails as the chip-log was nipped.

  “Why, just blisterin’ speed,” Lewrie hooted in mirth, “so fast it’ll take your breath away!”

  He looked down overside to see how the boarding party was getting on. The barge was now up beneath the mainmast chain platform, its towline snubbed round a thick rope stay, madly tilting, rising, and falling into the suck of the ship’s creaming wake, and sailors were carefully timing their jumps from the chain platform or the last battens, with the Marine party carefully clambering down to join them. At last, the barge was manned, and the bow-man cast her free. Former Cox’n Crawley put the tiller hard over to let the barge surge away on the fuming bow wave, even as oarsmen were lifting their oars from the barge’s sole and poising them upright, waiting for orders to ship them in the tholes and begin the stroke.

  Further away from his ship, Lewrie could see that the French prize brig had wallowed to a stop, her courses and tops’ls clewed up in untidy bights, subserviently waiting for her captors to claim her.

  Forward, three points off the starboard bows, the second brig they pursued was being fetched up right smartly, temptingly almost within range for a warning shot. Lewrie’s cabin-servant, Jessop, was hopping from one foot to the other in excitement by his un-used carronade, now and then looking aft as if pleading that his gun be employed, but the new one looked as fragile as the first one, and Lewrie shook his head in the negative.

  Lewrie felt as if he could hop about in impatience, too, if he could get away with behaving so, as the long minutes passed before his ship could close the range to where a hit or two would be certain.

  Beyond the second prospective prize, the other two French ships were striding off for the jutting headland West of Gijon, Luanco-Gozón, and Candás-Carreño, the lead ship, a ketch-rig, altering course to go closer inshore in hopes that the threatening British warship couldn’t follow into shoal waters. The one in trail of her, third in the line, was much slower, which gave Lewrie hopes that they might be able to take her, too, before she got round the headland.

  “Half a mile, I make it, sir,” Mr. Yelland announced after he’d lowered his sextant and done some scribbling on a slate.

  “Bow chaser!” Lewrie snapped. “Fire into her!”

  The 9-pounder’s gun captain did so much fiddling that Lewrie almost repeated the order, but at last, the crew stepped clear, the gun captain jerked the flintlock striker lanyard, and the gun erupted with a shrill bark. This time, the roundshot hit the sea close under the brig’s forefoot, flinging up a shower of water, a feathery column of spray that drenched the brig’s forecastle.

  “It appears this ’un is more stubborn than the other, sir,” the Sailing Master said with a scowl.

  “Mister Westcott, open the ports of the upper gun deck and run out the starboard battery,” Lewrie snapped. A moment later and HMS Sapphire rumbled to the sounds of truck carriages being run up to the gun-port sills to thump against the hull timbers.

  If that don’t put the wind up that Frog, nothing will, Lewrie told himself.

  “Damn my eyes, but I do believe her master’s lifting his coat and showing us his backside, sir!” Lt. Westcott said with a telescope to his eye.

  “Very stubborn,” Mr. Yelland said.

  “The Devil with that,” Lewrie fumed. “Twelve-pounders, as you bear … fire!”

  Sapphire’s gunners had had copious amounts of live-fire drills in the two years Lewrie had had her, and they had honed their craft to a fine degree in action, as well. Barely had the order been relayed below than the first gun forward of the upper gun deck battery fired, slowly followed by carefully aimed shots from the other ten 12-pounder guns, almost as regular as a salute, each gun captain waiting for the ship to pend on the top of the up-roll before jerking his lanyard to spark the flintlock striker of his gun, which lit off immediately, not like the old loose powder poured round the touch hole fashion.

  “How’s your arse now, ye snail-eatin’ bastard!” Lewrie whooped with joy as heavier roundshot ploughed the sea round the brig’s hull, one or two striking home higher up to blast away lighter bulwarks.

  God, but I do love the guns, Lewrie thought; the roar, stinks, and all, even if I end up deaf as a post.

  No real engagement had been expected, so hardly anyone had gotten some candle wax to plug their ears, and most of the gun crews had merely bound the neckerchiefs over their heads.

  “That’s the second one struck,” Westcott hooted. “Just needed a bit more convincing, was all.”

  The French brig’s colours were lowered very quickly, cut away it appeared, in her master’s haste to surrender. Sails were being clewed up to take the way off her, and her jibs were struck down as well.

  “Away, the boarding party!” Lewrie shouted down to the waist, then took up his telescope to peer hard at the next French ship which lay off their starboard bows, three points off the bows, and looked to be within a little more than a mile off. She was altering course to point at that distant headland, trying to get into shallower waters where Sapphire could not dare go, hoping to shave the headland by the slimmest margin, then hug the coast to the nearest fishing port.

  “The pinnace is away, sir,” Lt. Westcott announced, jutting his chin at the third French ship. “I don’t know as if we’ll fetch her up before she gets into the shallows. The lead ship, that ketch, is sure to get round the cape, first.”

  “Well, three out of four ain’t bad, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said with a grin and a shrug. “If we can convince her Frog master that his situation’s hopeless, that is.”

  “Ehm, sir,” the Sailing Master said near Lewrie’s elbow. “Permission to put leadsmen in the forechains? We’re only three miles off the shore.”

  “Aye, Mister Yelland, do so,” Lewrie agreed distractedly, intent upon the third ship. It wa
s minutes later, as Sapphire slowly stalked up on the French brig, that he heard a leadsman sing out that he had only five fathoms to his line.

  “Ehm, sir…” Yelland cautioned, harumphing loudly.

  “Aye, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie replied, letting his disappointment show. “Mister Westcott, steer more Due East and get us some safer sea room.”

  “Aye, sir,” an obviously disappointed Westcott said, groaning.

  As the helm was put over, and the braces altered, that French brig swam over from three points off the starboard bows to a broad four points, and looked to be no more than half a mile off.

  “Another point free, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered, feeling hope renewed. “That’ll place her almost abeam of us. Ready the upper gun deck, load the carronades at maximum elevation.”

  Jessop whooped in glee, snapping his fingers at the waiting powder monkey to fetch his leather case up and hand over the serge cartridge bag inside it.

  “If we can’t make prize of her, I’ll be damned if the French have any joy from her,” Lewrie said in a growl.

  Sapphire rumbled and trembled as her upper gun deck 12-pounders were re-loaded and run up to the port sills, again, as the weather deck 9-pounders were run in, loaded, and run out, too.

  “All guns ready, sir,” Westcott reported after a long moment.

  “By broadside this time, give her fire, Mister Westcott. Hull the bitch!” Lewrie barked.

  “By broadside … ready … on the up-roll … fire!” and the two-decker was wreathed in a bank of spent powder smoke, shuddering as the guns slammed back in recoil.

  Tall pillars of spray erupted round the French brig where shot struck short to carom on into her, and everyone could hear the sounds of the parrot-shrieks as wood was punched clean through.

  “Lower deck twenty-four pounders, too!” Lewrie demanded. “Swat her like a fly!” and he was answered with the deeper rumbles and shudders of the heavier lower deck guns being run out to the port sills.

  “All guns … by broadside … fire!” Lt. Westcott bellowed.

  Sapphire slowly wallowed, heeling to the press of wind on her sails and the scend of the sea, coming upright to the top of the up-roll and hanging there for a second or two. At that moment, the guns roared, wreathing the ship in an instant fog bank of spent powder smoke, stabbed through by jets of flame, with swirling firefly clouds of cartridge cloth and wadding flaring, dying, and falling to the sea along her starboard side.

  “Got her!” Midshipman Chenery screeched in awe and delight to experience his first full broadside. “Now, she must strike!”

  As the winds blew the smoke clear, all could see that the brig had been hit hard by a few roundshot, but, embarrassingly, there were far too many pillars of spray from misses collapsing upon themselves short of her, or wide off her bows and stern.

  “Serve her another, and aim closer, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie snapped, disappointed with his formerly stellar gun crews. He bit his lip in frustration. “She must strike, or face the consequences.”

  The French brig’s Tricolour flag still flew.

  “Weather deck guns ready … upper deck ready,” the reports came in. “Lower gun deck ready!”

  “By broadside … fire!” Westcott yelled, with the fingers of his right hand crossed behind his back.

  Once again, Sapphire hung at the top of the up-roll, and once again, the old two-decker shuddered, pushed a few feet to leeward by the force of her guns’ discharges, groaning and rumbling as the guns recoiled to the extents of the stout breeching ropes and the iron ring-bolts in the ship’s side.

  “This time we got her!” Lewrie crowed once the smoke had dissipated enough to give him a clear view of the brig. There were star-shaped shot holes all down her larboard side, sails torn to rags by shot that had soared high, and there didn’t appear to be anyone still standing on her small quarterdeck, or round her helm. But that damned French flag still flew! Lewrie raised his telescope for a closer look and saw a hopeful sign. There were crewmen on deck, mostly gathered round the brig’s boats which were stored amidships. Lashings were being slashed, and hoisting blocks were being fitted from her main course yard.

  “Smoke, sir,” Westcott pointed out. “Fire, sir!”

  Up forward near the brig’s forecastle and galley, grey smoke began to boil upwards, blown over her bows, and flames could be seen licking above the bulwarks.

  “They’re just jumping into the sea,” Mr. Yelland said, “quite hastily, and to Hell with the boats. Wonder what…”

  He was interrupted by a large explosion aboard the French brig, a blossoming cloud of grey and black smoke shot through with rolling flame that enveloped her foremast and throwing deck planking skyward.

  A second later, and there was a second, larger explosion that ripped the entire brig apart, and this time it was shattered boats and sections of her mainmast that rocketed skyward.

  “Good Lord in Heaven!” Lt. Westcott said, wincing. “No wonder her crew was so quick to abandon her. She must have been packed to the deck heads with gunpowder and ammunition.”

  “That the French army won’t have,” Yelland said with a satisfied sniff.

  “Do you imagine that anyone survived that, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked, turning to Lewrie. “Should we send a boat to look for survivors?”

  “Aye, I s’pose that’d be charitable,” Lewrie decided after a long moment, “though I doubt we’ll find many. Secure from Quarters and fetch the ship into the wind, sir. Haul up one of the cutters from towing astern, and pass word for my boat crew t’man her.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the First Officer replied, still stunned by the sudden destruction.

  “Like I said, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie told him with a wry grin, “three outta four’s not bad. And, not bad by way of a beginning.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HMS Sapphire had loitered off Gijon for another two days before pressing on towards Santander, catching a large brig bound West with supplies for the French armies. Her master was most indignant that he had been captured, when just hours before he had been congratulating himself for successfully escaping the clutches of two British warships off Santõna, the only one of five to remain free, a happy confirmation that Undaunted and Peregrine were feasting well off to the East.

  Lewrie could peer astern from the taffrails of the poop deck, and now and then when the weather moderated from his cabins’ stern gallery, at the prizes that wallowed in his ship’s wake. In addition to those three, Sapphire had come across yet another large brig bound back to Bayonne, sailing empty, which had been lured in close by the ruse of flying a French flag ’til it was too late for her to escape.

  That ship was now a cartel ship, with the crews off all four transferred aboard her and placed under guard belowdecks, leaving the other three manned by Sapphire sailors under the command of the older, experienced Midshipmen. That was one Hell of a risk, for all the prizes were crammed full of wine, a harsh brandy called ratafia, and rum, and placing British sailors in close proximity to all that was sure to engender pilferage, and drunken riot and insubordination, so it took sharp eyes and harsh punishments to keep the prize crews somewhat sobre, and obedient, but the situation could get out of hand in a Dog Watch.

  Some of that wine and rum had been brought aboard Sapphire to supplement her own stocks, along with foodstuffs other than salt-meats. Most of the French wine was almost as bad, vinegary and thin as Navy issue “Blackstrap” or “Miss Taylor”, making most who partook of it wondering why the French ever had a reputation as a people who made fine wines. Rum, Sapphire’s people thought, was merely rum.

  French bisquit was the same as British bisquit, though fresher and easier to chew than what was in Sapphire’s bread bags, with nary a crop of weevils, yet.

  What excited the Midshipmen’s berth, the officer’s wardroom, and Lewrie’s table were the large litre bottles, in the French measure, of broths, soups, and gravies, sealed with corks and the necks liberally dipped in wax or lead. Bean s
oup, pea soup, even an onion soup that, with an admixture of cheese and crumbled, water-soaked bisquit, was declared as good as any onion soup that they had ever tasted. Even salt beef or salt pork, far too long in cask, tasted better when slathered with broth or gravy.

  Even more bottles had been found in the West-bound prize that contained pickled vegetables of all varieties; large jars of carrots, sweet and dill gherkins, tangy radishes, mushrooms, long green beans, even asparagus spears. Lewrie’s cook, Yeovill, had almost wept over the sudden, unexpected bounty, and had sworn that he would create one feast after another, hinting strongly that Lewrie should host as many suppers for his officers as possible. So he could show off, Lewrie strongly suspected, but he was more than happy to oblige the man, since it would be his plate that would be filled with succulent, and fairly fresh, delights nightly.

  * * *

  “Whew! Talk about farting proudly,” Lt. Westcott said to his compatriot, Lt. Elmes, at the change of watch at 8 A.M.

  “Sorry, sir,” Lt. Elmes replied. “All the beans, the sausages, and the sauerkraut we ate last night. Who knew that Napoleon has so many Germans in his army to feed.”

  “An excellent preventative for scurvy,” Westcott japed.

  “So is wine, or apples,” Elmes carped, “and I’d much prefer either. Captain Cook forced his sailors to eat sauerkraut. Just because we have lashings of the stuff is no reason for our mess cook to keep shoving it on us.”

  “You’ll miss it when it’s gone,” Westcott told him.

  “No, I won’t,” Elmes declared. “Sir, I relieve you,” he added, turning formal and doffing his hat in salute.

  “I stand relieved, sir. The deck and the watch is yours,” Lt. Westcott replied, doffing his own hat. “We are at present twelve miles off Llanes, the wind is from the Nor’west, the’ weather mild and clear … there’s a bloody wonder … and we steer Due East. The last cast of the log showed six and one half knots. No enemy in sight, dammit.”