Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"Christ!" Lewrie gasped, appalled by his stupidity. She would claw up abeam the wind, cross his stern and rake Jester at close range!

"Quartermaster, helm hard alee!" he cried, trying not to sound panicky, as Jester trundled on north, with the poleacre slipping astern on her, moving from afore the main chains to afore the mizzen chains in the blink of an eye. Shorthanded, he could not man his starboard guns in time. He must keep the larboard battery engaged! And round Jester up abeam the wind on the opposite tack, to keep her thicker side wood facing those unexpectedly heavy guns, instead of her frail transom!

"Mister Knolles, scandalize her, eveiy square sail!" Alan said in a rush. "Waisters, bend on main and mizzen stays'ls! Bow-rake her now, Bittfield, while we have the chance!"

A bloom of smoke from the French poleacre's bow, from her forecastle. A damn' heavy chase gun, its report deeper-bellied than a six-pounder, as ominously loud, even upwind of her for the moment, as any twentv-four-pounder gun aboard a 3rd Rate! A tremendous pillar of spray, which leaped into being close-aboard. Jester feeling almost wrenched off her course by the slamming impact! A damn' heavy gun, of some kind!

"Carronade, Mister Lewrie!" Cony screeched from the gangways, reverting to his old form of address to him. "Th' buggers got a carronade'r two, yonder, sir!"

The French warship was blotted out of sight by the blossoms of gun smoke as Bittfield got off his broadside. A ragged effort, starting amidships of the waist, and stuttering left or right from there, or from the far ends to the center, the gunners half blinded and pulling their lanyards as quick as their sweating crews could stand clear.

Jib boom tip, poking through the sudden pall, abaft the mizzen stays! Jester heeling hard to starboard, as her wheel was forced hard-over. Square-rig canvas aloft shivering and flapping.

"Carronades!" Lewrie screeched. "Load with canister… grape-shot! Mister Rahl, hear me? Clear her decks with canister! And her quarterdeck, when we're close-aboard! Ease your helm, Quartermaster. Steer due west, as best you're able."

"Aye aye, zir!" Brauer, the Hamburg seaman replied crisply.

Jester had just worn from one tack to the other, off the wind, everything crying and screaming aloft, as out of order, and confusing as a rioting mob, yards cocked any-old-how, some tops'Is and t'gallants aback against the masts, others flapping useless.

Aye, canister, Lewrie thought grimly! Murder that bastard over there who outsmarted me! Powder monkeys staggered under the weight of the canister tins come up from the lower deck shot-lockers as the guns on the quarterdeck were loaded.

"Ready, larboard, Mister Bittfield! At 'close pistol shot'! Fire as you bear!" he cautioned. "She's coming up, fast!"

And did his foe have men enough to man both his own batteries, Lewrie gulped with a sudden cringing, in a throat gone bone-dry from shock, and excitement? And, did that Frenchman have his own artillery loaded with canister and grape, to return the favor? If he was smart he did. And this'un was bloody clever!

"Christ." Alan sighed as the poleacre loomed up, as if sailing through a parting in a stage curtain. Not sixty yards off, larboard to face the poleacre's larboard. Gunners and sailors lined her bulwarks, French Marine Infantry with muskets leveled. Her antiboarding nets were down, and her guns were run out in-battery; at least one carronade on her foredeck to fear, Lewrie saw. Another aft on what passed for a quarterdeck. And five long guns amidships, upon that flush spar/gun deck; Frog eight-pounders, thank God, no heavier than his.

"Feuer!" Quarter-gunner Rahl shouted up forrud, and the larboard eighteen-pounder carronade lit off with a deafening roar.

"Fire as you bear!" Mister Bittfield screamed, as soon as the first larboard gun could bear in its port, and the long guns began to bark like ferocious guard dogs.

Out of my hands, now, Lewrie groaned to himself, heaving a philosophical shrug; our weight of iron prevails… or theirs does. Sweet Jesus, just a little help, here, he prayed. Let 'em not have thought to load with grape or canister!

Jester bucked and trembled like a first-saddled colt as her guns, the enemy's guns, filled the short space between the racing hulls with hot gushes of gray-tan smoke, as both ships screamed in agony as heavy iron took them in their vitals!

Lewrie could barely see enemy sailors at her rails, being tossed aside; bulwark timbers flying, bodies flying, hear the stupendous boomings of guns fired straight into his face. Oak screamed, masts cried, short stabbing blooms of pink fire lilies and swarms of amber-reddish sparks swirled spent as dazed lightning bugs in the smoke wall! Quick splinters of wood flew from Jesters wounds, flicking past, whickering and fluting, a giant's toothpicks, their sharp edges hungry for flesh!

The high, terrier-yip blasts of swivel guns at the rails, which spewed loose bags of pistol shot and langridge-scrap-iron bits-at the French. And then the blessed barroomingl of the quarterdeck carronades, as the enemy command staff came abeam!

Lewrie shut his eyes, staring directly down the barrel of their quarterdeck carronade the instant before the sight of his own death was blotted out, and he was staggered almost off his feet by the noise and the shock waves. Another shock wave, which made his heart flutter and pause, the breath stop in his chest! Turned half sidewise, and hammered to his knees for real, this time, as a round-shot passed within a few feet of him, howling over the quarterdeck, ululating off into the distance like an irate eagle robbed of its prey at the last moment!

"Jesus, sir, ya hurt, sir?" his cabin steward whimpered, coming to his side with a box of pistols. Aspinall was shaking like a sodden hound might just after leaving a stream, terror-tears streaking, lower lip blubbering.

"Don't think so, Aspinall." Alan grimaced, as if in real pain, feeling himself over quickly. "But thankee for askin'. Bloody hell, what're you doing on deck?" Aspinall's post during quarters was down on the orlop, to assist "Chips," Ship's Carpenter Mister Rees, as a dumb carrier and fetcher should any repairs be necessary.

"B… bosun's mate, sir," Aspinall wailed, his teeth chattering so badly he could barely avoid biting his tongue. "Mister Cony, he toP me t'fetch ya yer pistols, sir. Said 'e thought ya'd be needin' 'em, so I did, an'. kin I go below, agin, Captain, sir? Now ya have 'em, like?"

"Aye, with my gratitude, Aspinall, me lad. Just help me to my feet, first. Mister Knolles?"

"Aye, sir?" the first lieutenant rasped back, his throat raw with gun smoke, and his hat gone somewhere on its own.

"Helm down, sir!" Lewrie ordered, once he'd gotten erect. "A tack, cross the wind, and keep the wind gauge 'bove that bastard! My telescope."

So close, one bloody instant; so far apart the next. The Frog poleacre had fallen off the wind, was running large to the nor'east-minus her mizzenmast and lateen spanker. In the round ocular, Lewrie saw she'd been beaten to a pulp by that broadside, fired so close they could have spit at each other. Her larboard side was bashed in, with several large punctures below her gun ports, and about a third of her bulwarks had been torn away, merging two gun ports into one long tear. Larboard mainmast stays were sagging loose, the chain platforms, and the deadeye blocks that tensioned those shrouds savaged! And on her quarterdeck! That mob on her stern, her officers and after-guard, were gone! Barely half a dozen figures could be seen moving about, mostly throwing themselves on the abandoned helm. Topmen were sheeting home her main course and tops'l, not trusting the upper t'gallant mast with the pressure of canvas, her foremast lateen sail swung almost athwartship. Trimmed for a run!