Dewey Lambdin - Havoc`s Sword

"Hold fire, Mister Catterall, 'til she sails below Sumter! We don't want t'hit our friends with 'overs'!" Lewrie cautioned. But all four vessels were running off the wind to the Suth'rd, denying Proteus a clean shot for long minutes whilst topmen aboard the schooner raked her tops'l gaskets free and let her extra canvas fall. With more sail aloft, she slowly began to inch ahead-then had the sauce to let loose her starboard guns at Sumter's dis-engaged side, and, once settled down on course, raised her larboard ports and let fly at Proteus, to boot! The sharp, yipping bangs didn't amount to guns much larger than 4-pounders, and her small-diametre shot grazed twice or thrice, before sinking close-aboard with no effect, but Lewrie found it galling. And, as she finally sailed alee of Sumter and the battling corvette, out in clear air where they could fire on her, Proteus had to swing two points to windward so her guns could bear, even as the range began to open…

"Fire!" Lt. Catterall at last could howl, slashing his sword at the

deck after long stomp-about-cursing moments of utter frustration. Low-aimed roundshot pillared and columned the waters round the French schooner, bounding from First Graze to dash low over her decks, gnaw a vicious bite from her bulwarks here and there, but… she sailed on, still firing-as if it were an equal contest!

"Point more to windward, Mister Langlie! Hit her, again, lads! Gut that poxy, slug-eatin' whore!" Lewrie raged, knowing that the schooner was out-footing his frigate, that if they didn't cripple her soon, he'd be forced to fall in astern of her and spin out a day-long stern-chase in hopes of a few lucky hits from his forward chase-guns to whittle off her speed advantage. Had he been able to fire on her when she'd been closer, and dead abeam…!

Far down to leeward, USS Oglethorpe had merged with those fleeing merchantmen, a quick peek with a glass showed him. It looked like they had already struck their colours and fetched-to.

There goes all hope o'profit, Lewrie miserably surmised; damme. .. / said / was feelin ' generous, but not that generous, by God!

"Hancock is engaging, Captain!" Lt. Langlie screeched, the only way he could be heard over the general din.

"This ought t'be int'resting," Lewrie muttered, turning aft.

The American frigate had clewed up her main course, and had let her way fall off a bit. Better than a mile and a half astern, she now appeared close enough to the French corvette to crash her yardarm tips against the French ship's yard ends, though there probably remained at least two cables' separation between them.

There was a concerted crash as Hancock's weather-deck guns, the 12-pounders mounted on her stout and wide gangway, went off together, stabbing hot amber and red daggers at the corvette, creating a pall of gun-smoke that drifted down on the French warship. And the corvette's sails and yards were savaged, spindly top-masts and shattered yardarms sent flying in ragged chunks, her dun-coloured sails clawed and bitten into great rents, whipping and collapsing in on themselves.

Hancock altered course in the last seconds as the two warships images overlapped, laying her beam parallel to the French ship's side, and then…

"God help the Frogs," Lewrie muttered; rather insincerely, that.

Hancock's heavy lower-deck 24-pounders raged, and even at that distance it looked as if the corvette rocked and tipped, bobbing like a folded-paper boat on a pond, assailed by a heaping handful of pebbles flung by a spiteful child. Then, almost mercifully, all sight of her was blotted out by a titanic pall of powder smoke that blew down upon her, hiding her hurts from view. Even hidden, Hancock's massive guns, firing as they bore and not in broadside, still thundered.

"Gawd!" was all that Lt. Langlie could say after seeing that.

"Exeunt, one French corvette, stage left," Lewrie said, awed by such a powerful display. "Damme if she ain't completely dis-masted… right down to the level of her bulwarks," he pointed out, as the smoke drifted alee and clear of the corvette, which now wallowed with all her motive power, and most of her way, stolen.

For their own part, Lt. Catterall was getting off another broadside at the French schooner, gnawing her just a bit more, peppering the sea about her, but inflicting no lasting harm. Proteus had to turn up to windward two more points to keep her guns aimed at her, but at the same time the schooner was hardening up to the Trades, too, and was in the lead, curving out a course ahead of their frigate's starboard bow.

Lewrie grimaced in frustration. The schooner would prove to be handier and more weatherly. Proteus could press up another point, and then she'd be close-hauled, sailing on the ragged edge of the wind and could go no higher. The schooner with its fore-and-aft sails could go at least a point higher, and end up directly ahead of them, where only the pair of chase-guns could worry at her, and not very effectively at that, as the bows plunged and soared, bludgeoning their way windward.

Within an hour, Lewrie knew, the schooner would be far enough up to windward on the larboard bows that only one chase-gun could fire; a swing to leeward to use all his larboard battery would put Proteus even farther behind and alee. One hour more, and the schooner would be out of gun-range.

He looked about for aid, but there was none. Oglethorpe was now back under sail after securing her two prizes, but was too far down in the South, alee of Proteus, to be of any avail. Oh, he could continue to chase the schooner, but he doubted he could catch her this side of Guadeloupe, unless something in her rigging carried away.

Lewrie drew a deep breath, held it, then let it out in a bitter sigh. He had the Americans to flatter and congratulate, in hopes that their sudden and complete victory might make them so giddy they might leap at continued cooperation, even alliance; and that was worth much more in the long run than a puny armed schooner taken as prize.

A lack of gunfire turned his attention Westerly. Far off, now almost hull-down, Sumter and the other French corvette had ceased firing, and were now cocked up to windward, fetched-to. No flag flew on the Frenchman's masts.

"Well, damme," Lewrie groaned aloud. "Might as well secure the guns, Mister Langlie. We'll not overhaul our Chase before beaching us on Guadeloupe. Do you concur, sir? Or do you prefer a shore supper? "

"Sadly, I do, sir," Langlie said, pouting with distaste and disappointment. "Game's not worth the candle. That is one fortunate Frog captain, out yonder. Skillful, too, sir."

"Aye, damn him… whoever he is," Lewrie spat. "I fear we will hear more from him, in future. Very well, sir. Secure the guns, then get us about and lay us alongside Hancock. Where I must come over all 'Merry Andrew' and back-slap 'em. Makes me wish Mister Pelham had got aboard before we sailed… he'd know how to 'piss down their backs' in the proper manner. He's the smarmy skill to appear sincere."

" 'Til they serve him boiled okra, sir," his First Lieutenant chirped, tongue-in-cheek. "Green, boiled, disgusting… did he not say, Captain? With a dash of ground coal stirred in, too, sir."

"Hey?"

"Okra, and ashes from a coke furnace, Captain… okra-coke, do ye see?" Langlie further japed.

"Now you're really reaching, Mister Langlie. Lame, lame, lame!"

"Very good, sir."

I t was a rather crowded little assembly as Lewrie's gig stroked over to the USS Hancock. Oglethorpe had fetched up her two prizes, as had Sumter, now looking a little worse for wear after fighting the longest engagement of the day with her French corvette. Eight vessels, now cocked up to windward within the compass of a quarter-mile, with boats bearing victorious officers back and forth, other boats transferring a host of prisoners into custody aboard the Yankee ships, or transferring U.S. Marines aboard the prizes to guard captured ships' companies.