Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission

"Round-shot and grape should do it, sir," Alan commented.

"I'd worry more 'bout some Frog ship comin' in from seaward, if I were you, Mister Lewrie," the captain said, turning to look at the horizon from which the sun was threatening to rise. "Might've been more ships'n La Coquette and a sloop of war come here. Maybe a brace o' sloops already sweepin' the Caicos Passage up north to make some profit from this expedition of theirs. You keep a wary eye out for that."

"I shall, sir," Alan told him.

"An' you'll not muck about with my little ship while I'm gone, will you now, Mister Lewrie," Lilycrop said in a softer voice for him alone, not so much a question as an order.

"I'll not, sir, but I cannot speak for any French battery up in those woods." Alan grinned back, knowing by now that Lilycrop's blusterings were not as dire as he made them sound.

"Signal from Albemarle , sir!" Midshipman Edgar called.

"Were off. then," Lilycrop said with a grin. "Only wished wed o' packed a heartier dinner. Ready, Mister Walsham?"

"Aye. sir." the Marine said moving towards the gangway entry port.

"Boats are alongside to starboard, sir, so the French did not see any preparations," Alan stuck in. "Side-party!"

The seamen and Marines gathered to render salute to their captain as he stepped to the lip of the entry-port for the first boat, doffing hats and raising swords or muskets in honor as Lilycrop swung out and faced inward to lower himself down the man-ropes and battens to the boat.

The entire squadron was issuing forth its landing force, most of it from the two remaining frigates, as they had more men to spare from much larger crews, while the little brigs below the Rate were perenially short of hands even on their best days. By counting heads in the boats nearest him, and then multiplying by the number of boats issuing forth, Alan could determine that they were fielding around one hundred eighty to two hundred men for the effort, minus those whose duty it would be to stay on the beach and safeguard the boats. They would at least equal the estimated French troops ashore. And the gunfire from well-drilled fighting ships would make the critical difference.

"Pendant's down, sir!" Edgar shouted.

"Cast off! Out oars! Give way together!" the captain's cox'n ordered as the signal for execution was given.

It took about half an hour for all boats to gather before the frigates, line themselves up in some sort of order, and then shove off for the silent, waiting beach.

" Albemarle signals 'Open Fire,' sir," Edgar said.

"Mister Cox, make it hot for them," Alan directed. The ships began to thunder out their broadsides over the heads of the rowing boats, thrashing the woods above the beach and, the low hills behind with iron sleet.

"Slow but steady, boys," Cox shouted to his remaining gunnery crews, and Shrike 's little six-pounders began to bark, one at a time, aiming high with quoins full out, which made the deck rock and seem to sag down with each blast. Cox and his gunner's mate walked from one end of the waist to the other as the guns fired, counting out a pace which would allow the forward-most gun to be reloaded by the time the after-most piece had discharged, so a continual hail of round-shot and grape canister would keep the French down under cover, never allowing them to rise between broadsides for a musket volley.

"A little low, Mister Cox?" Alan asked as he saw the trees and bushes just above the beach tremble to a well-directed shot.

"Aim'll lift as the barrels get hotter, sir," Cox said, replying with a touch of petulant whine to his voice, unwilling to be questioned at his science, or his skill in the execution of it. But Alan did note that Cox then sent a gunner's mate to correct the elevation of Number 4 larboard gun, which had been shooting too low.

The boats were having a lively time of it, even inside the reefs that should have protected them from the worst of the offshore rollers that swept in, driven by a fresh Sou'east Trade Wind. They rocked bow to stern, with the oarsmen slaving away to keep them moving.

Then the first stems were grounding on the sands, and Captain Dixon was ashore and waving back at the frigates. A signal went up from Albemarle, ordering "Cease Fire" so their broadsides would not hurt their own landing parties.

"Cease fire, Mister Cox!" Alan shouted down into the waist. "Mister Biggs, water butts for the gunners."

"Aye, sir," their weasely purser replied, sounding as if he even begrudged issuing "free" water.

"Looks like the landing is unopposed," Alan said. "Might be some French troops up in those woods, but they couldn't form for volleys under our fire."

"Marines are going in, sir," Caldwell pointed out.

Through the glass, he could see the thin red ranks form shoulder to shoulder, open out in skirmish order, lower their bayoneted muskets and start off for the interior, being swallowed up by the thick undergrowth almost at once, with the seemingly disordered packs of seamen in their mis-matched shirts following.

From then on, it was anyone's guess as to what was happening inland. There was no mast available for flag signals from the men ashore. Muskets popped, sometimes a whole squad fired by volley, and the rags of spent powder-smoke rose above the greenery, perhaps just above where they had been fired or perhaps blown through the trees before rising. It was impossible to know which side had fired, or where the true positions of whoever had done the shooting were. All in all, it didn't sound or look like much of a battle so far; just a little skirmishing and skulking, very desultorily conducted.

"Can't see a damned thing from the deck, sir,'" Caldwell growled.

"Aye," Alan agreed. "Nothing for it, then."

"Oh, send the lad, do, sir. Mind your leg," Caldwell replied, and, was it perhaps Alan's imagination, but he felt from Caldwell's tone that he was "on to him" about his earlier malingering.

"I told the captain I was spry enough, and I am, sir," Alan shot back, going to the main-mast shrouds. He ascended slowly, but he gained the fighting-top; though instead of trusting his leg's strength to go outboard on the futtock shrouds where he would have to dangle by fingers and toes like a fly, he took the easier path up through the lubber's-hole like a Marine or landsman.

Damme if I'm acting, he thought, massaging his thigh as it complained loudly at the demands made upon it. He sat down on the edge of the top facing inland, legs and arms threaded through the ratlines of the top-mast shrouds, and rested his telescope on one of the dead-eyes. Even from there, sixty or more feet above the deck and higher than the low hills of the island he could see nothing of note. The sun was up high enough to show him the small town on the western side, further down the coast. Was there a battery there, he asked himself, or was that a row of houses with their blank backsides to the offshore winds for comfort?

Mister Edgar came up soon after, scrambling and puffing at the exertion of ascending the shrouds (properly using the futtocks) and the concentration necessary to coordinate his body and mind to the task. He went on up past Alan to the cross-trees with the lookout, saying, "Mister Caldwell sent me, sir," on the way up.

As if his clumsy arrival had set events in motion, the lookout shouted not five minutes later. "Sail ho, to seaward!"

"Where, away?" Alan demanded, getting to his feet with a thrill of dread. Perhaps Lilycrop had been right, and a French ship had come back to check up on her new base. "Mister Cox, prepare the starboard battery to engage!"

"There, sir!" Mister Edgar called with excitement in his voice.

The ship headed for the anchorage was a brig, about five miles off, but she had the wind free and was making good progress. Perhaps a privateer or a French-what did they call them, corvette?