The King's Marauder (49 page)

“Ehm, aye, sir,” Ward said with a gulp, then dashed below.

“Pardons, sir, but their timing?” Captain Pomfret said, waving his pocket watch. “It’s taking them just about one minute ’twixt their broadsides, and the last one appeared rather ragged, taking about ten seconds from the first shot to the last. Almost ‘fire at will’, hey?”

“Now, that’s what I hoped to hear, sir!” Lewrie crowed, quite pleased. “They’re gettin’ tired and dis-organised.”

“By broadside, fire!”

Crash-bang-tinkle! A Spanish shot smashed into the starboard quarter gallery of the officer’s wardroom and carried straight through the other side. Another crashed into the starboard bulwarks, scattering stowed hammocks, ripping a chunk from the bulwark in a cloud of splinters, and cutting a brace-tender in two!

“You may not have that spare cabin you’ve been using, Captain Pomfret,” Lewrie said, leaning far out over the starboard bulwarks to survey the damage, “or the ‘necessaries’, either.”

“Lord, what was that?” Lt. Westcott cried, pointing at their foe. “I could have sworn I saw a flash of flame and smoke aboard her!”

There
was
a sooty cloud of smoke forward of amidships, a rising cloud that lingered long after her last gush of powder smoke drifted alee. Lewrie raised a telescope and saw ant-like Spanish sailors with water buckets, dipping them overside into the sea and hauling them up. A longer perusal showed that the frigate’s side had been chewed up, two gun-ports had been turned into one, her larboard side best bower anchor was gone, and the long, out-jutting cat-head beam was amputated, and aloft. “Hah!” he cheered. Both her fore and main masts were missing her royal and t’gallant upperworks! “
That’ll
slow her down! She won’t get beyond us! Mister Westcott, steer one more point alee!”

“Helmsmen, make her head Due West. Bosun Terrell, ease braces and sheets,” Westcott called out through a brass speaking-trumpet.

“Damme, but I do believe she’s sheeting home her main course!” the Sailing Master, Mr. Yelland, shouted. “She is!”

“Hell of a risk, that,” Lewrie commented with a scowl.

“Why, sir?” Pomfret asked.

“There’s always a risk that it’d catch fire from the discharge of the guns, sir,” Lewrie told him, “That’s why ours is reefed out of danger, and if this scow was any faster, it’d be brailed all the way up.”

“Steady on Due West, thus!” Westcott shouted. “By broadside, fire!”

The Spanish frigate still insisted on sailing close-hauled to the winds, and was spreading her main course to make up for the loss of her fore and main mast upperworks, but their course, and
Sapphire
’s course, would eventually result in an intersection.

Question is, who crosses whose bows first?
Lewrie wondered.

“Carronades and six-pounders in the next broadside, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie snapped. “Shoot her to wood scraps! Pass word to aim to hull her!”

The Spanish frigate was swimming up to only one point abaft of abeam, out-footing
Sapphire,
and firing yet another broadside of her own, yet this one was very ragged; a pair of guns, several single discharges, another pair, then some more seconds apart. Lewrie reckoned that if Pomfret was right, it would be at least another full minute or longer before she could fire again.

“All guns, on the up-roll, by broadside … fire!” and their ship rocked as if gut-punched by the recoil. A vast fogbank of smoke blossomed into being, swept downwind by the breeze, smothering their view of the enemy, and rolling down onto the frigate.

“Make our head West by North, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie yelled. “Close the range!” He knew that he was getting “gun-drunk”, caught up in the fight to the point that fine tactics were abandoned, but Lewrie didn’t care, by then. The evil reek of spent powder and the titanic roar of his guns were too intoxicating for cool, detached thinking any longer.

“By broadside, fire!” and when the pall of gunsmoke drifted alee, there was the enemy frigate, with her bowsprit shot away and her jibs flagging to leeward, with her larboard-side main course yard a shattered stub that had ripped that great sail in half as it had fallen. There were more holes in her bulwarks, along her row of gun-ports. At last, she was beginning to haul her wind and bear away towards the coast, but that was many miles off, by then. She had come up fully abeam to
Sapphire
but she would not out-foot her any longer, and it was the two-decker which would do the over-taking, still holding the wind gage.

“By broadside, fire!” this time at about one cable’s range and above the smoke, everyone on deck could see her masts shiver and shake at the impact. The frigate’s return fire was no more a broadside but a feeble stutter. At such close range, Lewrie was surprised by how many roundshot moaned overhead, not into the hull, wondering if the Spanish gunners were even trying to aim any longer.

“Hit her again!” Lewrie demanded, pounding a fist on the caprails. “Cut her bloody
guts
out!
Skin
the bastards!”

“By broadside … fire!”

“Steer North-Nor’west, Mister Westcott,” he ordered, his ears ringing despite the wax he’d crammed into them. “Fetch her up close!”

The Spanish captain must have realised that he could no longer fight an equal fight against those heavy 24-pounders and the “Smashers”, the heavy carronades. The frigate was suddenly swinging away to Due North with the range down to two hundred yards or less, appearing as if she’d put completely about, wearing to the opposite tack to flee for Almeria and the safety of its harbour and shore batteries.

“Put the wind fine on the larboard quarters, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie shouted. “Hands to the sheets and braces and ease her! If she keeps on turnin’, we might get a chance to rake her!”

Sapphire
hauled her wind, sagging off the wind and plodding at her slow, sedate pace to follow the Spanish frigate, which was starting to wear, and show her stern!

“Make it count! Slow and steady … on the up-roll, as you
bear
 … fire!”

No, it would not be a perfect right-angled rake, the sort that tore through the transom and stern windows and concentrated roundshot down the full length of an enemy’s decks like a blast from a fowling piece, over-turning guns and slaughtering sailors by the dozens.

Sapphire
’s gunfire took the frigate on her larboard quarters, shattering the lighter wood of her quarter-galleries, grazing through the stern transom, shattering and tearing away glass and window sashes, destroying her taffrails and both night lanthorns, punching into her captain’s and her officers’ quarters, and dis-mounting or over-turning guns and carriages. The frigate’s mizen mast swayed to the impact of heavy shot that hit its thicker lower section below the quarterdeck. A section of the quarterdeck’s larboard bulwarks was turned into a cloud of arm-length splinters, scything away men of her After-Guard, helmsmen, and her officers. She ceased her turn and sagged to leeward, as if no longer under control, The spanker, boomed out over the quarterdeck, was shot full of holes, but her proud flag still flew from its after-most lift line, as did another from a signal halliard.

“Lay us alongside, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie shouted. “Ready a boarding party!”

“Sir! Sir!” Midshipman Fywell called from the poop deck. “The first frigate is back under way, and is coming up astern of us!”

Lewrie dashed up the ladderway to the poop deck for a look-see, and was astounded to see that the Spanish had managed to get her back into action, with jury-rigged jibs stretched from her foremast fighting top to her forecastle, jib boom, and her figurehead. She barely crawled, her gripe and cut-water parting the sea with hardly a ripple of a foam mustachio. She heeled to larboard a few degrees, even with the wind pressing her from the Sou’east. Her un-damaged starboard gun battery was run out, though.

“Still a mile off, and it’ll take her a quarter-hour ’til she comes up with us,” Lewrie decided aloud. “If her captain had any sense, he’d make off for repairs, or strike his colours.”

But, he won’t,
Lewrie thought;
He’s going to atone for Trafalgar and win some glory for the Spanish Navy, even if it kills him!

“’Vast the boarding party, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie called down to his quarterdeck. “That first frigate’s back in action, and is makin’ for us. Lay us abeam of this ’un,” he said, pointing to the nearest frigate, “and continue firing.”

He stayed on the poop deck to make some quick calculations and decisions. The nearest Spaniard was headed North by West, driven by the wind and most-likely with her steering tackle damaged or shot away and unable to change course ’til it was re-roved, which might take a few minutes.
Sapphire
was steering North-Nor’west with the wind fine on her larboard quarters, slowly separating from her unless she wore to take the wind fine on her starboard quarters, and sailing at about the same pace as the Spaniard, going no faster than the wind blew.

A mile or so off to the Sou’east, that first Spanish frigate was limping back into the fight, bound Nor’west as if she hoped to get onto
Sapphire
’s stern for at least one rake.

“By broadside … fire!”

The range to their opponent, though slowly opening, was about a hundred yards, and it was simply devastating. They were close enough to hear the frigate’s hull scream in parroty squawks as her scantlings were shot clean through. Her gun deck was so ravaged that it was impossible to count her original number of gun-ports. Her response, when it came, was a meagre six or seven guns before her damaged mizen mast gave way to another hit or two, and it slowly toppled forward, swivelling, wrenching up deck timbers and planking through which it pierced, crashing against her main mast and taking down sails, yards, and running rigging, and spilling sailors and naval infantry from the tops to the decks. Both of the flags were dragged down with it, and it was a long minute before Lewrie could see an officer digging through her smashed-open flag lockers for another. At the same time, another officer came up from below with a bed sheet, and the two men began to argue as to which should be displayed! They tugged each others’ flags, swung fists, and one of them pulled a pistol on his fellow!

“Speaking-trumpet, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie demanded, and one of the Mids stationed on the quarterdeck ran it up to him.

“Hey!” Lewrie shouted across. “
Hola!
Make up your bloody minds what you’re going t’do! Strike, or fight? Uh,
rendición
, or …
combato
?” he yelled, not knowing if those were even Spanish words. “What is ‘broadside’ in Spanish? Anybody?” he called down his officers.

“Try
andanada,
sir,” Captain Pomfret offered, looking as if he found amusement in Lewrie’s flummoxing in a foreign language.

“
Andanada, muchos andanada, comprend?”
Lewrie shouted over to the Spanish frigate, wondering if “comprend” was French. He pointed at the side of his ship and the two re-loaded and run-out gun batteries.

The two Spaniards had themselves a short palaver, then the one with the large national flag went to the stern and draped it over the shattered stern. The one with the bed sheet gave his to a sailor who went up the mainmast shrouds to the ravaged fighting top to bind it to the after-most stay.

“We … yield to you,
señor
!” a young
Aspirante,
the Spanish equivalent of a Midshipman, shouted back. “We strike!”

“
Now,
you can form a boarding party, Mister Westcott, and take possession of her,” Lewrie said, whooping in triumph. He looked aft to see how close the other Spanish frigate was, and caught sight of her as she began a slow turn alee. She was breaking off, now that her consort had surrendered. Whatever her captain had intended in bringing his ship back into action despite her parlous condition, it was evident that he’d seen the light, and recognised the futility of the gesture. She continued turning, performing a sloppy wear cross the eye of the wind, and began to limp Nor’east, possibly for Almeria.

“Should we go after her, too, sir?” Westcott asked from the foot of the starboard poop deck ladderway.

“Wish we could, but…” Lewrie said with a grimace. “Better we deal with the bird in hand. Fetch-to, sir, and fetch up the boats from astern. Somebody who knows the language tell our Spaniards to fetch-to, as well.”

Captain Pomfret shouted that over to the frigate, then frowned over the reply. “They say their steering’s gone, Captain Lewrie, and are unable. They…” He paused to listen to further shouts. “They say they will take in all sail, but they will need assistance to set things back in order.”

“Very well,” Lewrie said with a weary sigh, “I’ll have the Carpenter and his crew, the Bosun and his Mate, the Sailmaker and his Mate, and a working-party of topmen, with some strong-backed Landsmen, board her, along with two files of Marines.”

“Aye, sir,” Westcott said, “I’ll see it organised, directly.”

“Best include Mister Snelling and his Surgeon’s Mates, too, if they can be spared from tending our own wounded,” Lewrie added. “How many of ours are down?”

“Ehm, seven dead and nineteen wounded, sir,” Westcott grimly toted up. “Amazing, really.”

Lewrie leaned far out over the poop deck bulwarks to survey the engaged side of his ship, noting the shot holes, the places where enemy roundshot had lodged when they failed to penetrate, and the dents in the stout oak scantlings where balls had struck but bounced off. The order for Secure From Quarters had been piped, and the muzzles of the guns were jerking back in-board, and those ports that had survived were being lowered. He was amazed, and grateful, that all those hits that should have filled his gun decks with swarms of splinters had not scythed down dozens more of his men!

“Put Mister Harcourt and Mister Elmes to our own repairs, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered, then shambled loose-hipped down the ladderway to the quarterdeck, strongly desiring a sit-down, perhaps even a lie-down, and a pint of small-beer. His throat was parched and raspy from shouting orders, his leg, which he had thought completely healed, was faintly aching, and he was suddenly bone-weary and drooping in the lassitude which always seemed to overtake him after a long, hard fight. His head was nodding, and it was hard for him to keep his eyes open.