Dewey Lambdin - Havoc`s Sword

"Une voile!" the lookout atop Le Gascons main-mast cried. "A sail, to windward! One point aft of the starboard beam! Royals, and topgallants… studding sails on topsail yards, I see!"

"Mon Dieu, merde alors" Capt. Griot said with a grimace. "The enemy has found us, after all." Griot raised his telescope and swept the tubes to their full extension, though there was little chance that he could espy anything from the quarterdeck, yet.

"What course does she steer?" Capt. Guillaume Choundas shouted upward, clump-shuffle-ticking to the starboard side.

"Bows on… no! She shows her larboard bows! Steering North-West!" the lookout responded.

"How many masts?" Choundas cried, his throat rasping harshly in unwonted effort, and with his eye shut in furious contemplation, with an imagined chart of the Caribbean in his mind.

"Twol So much canvas, messieurs, I can only make out two!" the lookout cried, after a long, frustrating pause of half a minute.

"Out of Antigua, for certain, Capitaine" Griot fretted, as he paced, "which lies almost due East of our present position. Shaping course to the North-West…" Griot was hushed by the raising of his master's left hand, for Choundas was still thinking, and would not be distracted.

"Two-masted, flying studding sail booms, hmm… bound out of Antigua to the North-West," Choundas muttered to himself, transferring his left hand to massage his throat, for it had been years since he'd actually commanded at sea where shouting orders had been required. "I think we see a British packet brig, Griot. North-West, perhaps a half-point more Westerly, would be the shortest course to Jamaica. She might be carrying despatches or orders. At speed."

His good eye flew open and transfixed the scowling Griot like a collector would pin a butterfly to a board.

"Their Contre-Amiral Harvey to their Vice-Amiral Sir Hyde Parker at Kingston, perhaps?" Choundas said with a wicked smile. "If she stands on, she falls into our laps. What the accursed Huguenots, the so-called Acadians call a lagniappe, Griot. 'A little something extra' to make our success complete. Stand on, as innocent as you please. I think a false-flag ruse may serve. American would be best. We could appear as a late-season convoy on our way to America. The few trifling excuses for warships the Americans have in these seas are much the size and strength of ours."

Choundas took hold of a mizen shroud and swivelled about slowly to clap eyes on his convoy. Le Gascon and La Resolue lay to windward of the merchant ship and trading brig by at least two miles, out near where the greatest threat could make the most likely approach. One of them, La Resolue, lay aft and to windward, about four miles astern of La Gascon, on the convoy's rear flank. Hainaut's much faster and much handier armed schooner scouted ahead by at least another four or five miles, quartering back and forth like a bloodhound casting for spoor.

Choundas shut his eye, again, recalling how La Resolue looked; could she pass for a merchantman? Perhaps, he decided. Jules out so far in advance of them, though… that would never do. If any ship could resemble a typical American trader, his La Mohican was it.

"Signal to Hainaut," Choundas briskly ordered, his eye and his mouth snapping open, "to take close station at the head of the convoy. Spell that out, if you must. Then make signals to Capitaine MacPherson in La Resolue. He is to close up as the last ship in column, astern of the three-master. No national flags aloft, 'til ordered, and then the first to be displayed will be the American. We will remain in position, to appear as the only escort to a convoy of four, and will hoist the American flag when queried."

"She might not wish to come that close, Capitaine" Griot said.

"Let her fear be only slightly allayed, Griot, let her maintain her present, quick, and direct course for Jamaica, and our bows will at some point come within a few scant miles of intersecting. I think she will bear off a little, to pass ahead of us without forcing us to back and fill, or alter course. And that will be close enough for a quick dash out to snap her up."

O ne brig, sor!" Midshipman Larkin, precariously perched aloft on the main royal yard where it crossed the slim upper mast, reported. "There's one schooner… and three… full-rigged ships, sor!"

"Very well, Mister Larkin!" Lewrie cried back, hands cupped at his mouth. "Now, lay below and make me a fuller report!"

Midshipman Larkin, as agile and sure-handed as the best of the frigate's elite topmen, slung his borrowed telescope like a musketoon and descended to the cross-trees, down the narrow upper shrouds, and then found a back-stay round which he wrapped his limbs and slid like a street-pedlar's monkey to the starboard gangway, where he landed with a solid thump, to a round of cheers and a clap or two from his mess-mates in the cockpit, and the hands. Larkin took a brief second to doff his hat, perform a bow from the waist, then trotted aft to the quarterdeck.

"Show me," Lewrie bade, handing the incorrigible young fellow a wood-framed slate and stub of chalk, and Larkin quickly bent to sketch out several sharp-pointed long ovals, with dashes for masts. Halfway through, Larkin had to snort and snuffle, then wipe his runny nose on his coat sleeve; still panting like a pony from his exertions.

"That's why they put buttons on the cuffs in the first place," Lt. Langlie commented, "so well-dressed nobles wouldn't use fine clothing as snot-rags and chin-wipes, Mister Larkin."

"Sorry, sor… touch o' sniffles. Here, Cap'm, sor. Schooner's ahead, three-masted. Full-rigged ship aftermost, another ship, then a brig, and closer to us, another full-rigged ship, sor. Sir, I mean."

"Standing out like an escort?" Lewrie puzzled, aloud.

"Aye, sir, seemed t'be," Larkin answered, his shaggy head cocked to one side over his sketchy results. "Th' schooner 'twas showin' 'er tops'ls, but begun t'take 'em in whilst I was watchin'."

"Sight of a frigate in the offing, sir, I'd reduce sail and get snug to my fellows, too," Lt. Catterall deduced in his gruff and blunt way. " 'Misery loves company,' so they say, hey?"

"Any flags showing, Mister Larkin?" Lewrie asked.

"None, sor… sir. Though… this ship here," Larkin said, as he tapped his stub of chalk on the slate by the ship closest to them, "she was runnin' up sets o' signal flags, an' then t'others… this'n far aft, and th' schooner, seemed t'answer her, sir."

"Like other escorting vessels, Mister Larkin?" Lewrie pressed.

"Uhm, well… sorta like, sir, aye," Larkin ventured, nodding.

Lewrie clapped his hands in the small of his back and rocked on the balls of his feet, beginning to beam a sly grin. "What, gentlemen, did the learned Doctor Samuel Johnson call it, what was the word in his Dictionary for when you go in search of one thing, but find a better, all unexpected? Mister Adair, you're our resident scholar…"

"It is 'serendipity,' Captain," Lt. Adair supplied, grinning in mounting expectation. "We've discovered the French convoy, sir?"

"I do b'lieve we have, sir," Lewrie replied. "Mister Langlie, a point more Westerly, do you please. Put us bows-on to them, so they see a ship, for now. And I'll have the stuns'ls, sprits'l, and royals taken in, to boot. We may need to manoeuvre hard on the wind. Chain-slings to be rigged on the other yards, and boarding nets fetched out ready for hoisting. Mister Grace?"

"Aye, sir?"

"Bend on and be ready to hoist our number and the challenge in this month's private signals book… the one we share with the American Navy," Lewrie slyly said, "and dig into your flag lockers and get that Yankee courtesy flag ready to hoist as well. With our own near to hand, of course. Hop to it, gentlemen, make it happen, instanter!"