Kings and Emperors (11 page)

“Answerin' her helm, now, sir,” Marlowe announced, sounding relieved.

“Close-haul her 'til we get some speed,” Lewrie ordered. “A cast of the log!” A minute later and some Midshipman aft reported that the ship was making three knots; Lewrie could not differentiate who it was by the screech.

“Aloft, there! Lay out and free the fore course!” Westcott yelled. “Sorry about the shout, sir,” he apologised to a shadow on the quarterdeck he took for Lewrie. “Will you wish to tack or wear once we get some drive on her?”

“A wear's safer, Mister Wesctott,” Lewrie replied. “Do we miss stays, those Spaniards will get clean away.”

Westcott took a long look aft towards Tetuán and must have reckoned that they were now better than a mile out to sea and out of ear-shot, for he yelled aloft for the main course to be freed and let fall. More rustling, groaning, and squealing resulted.

“Five knots, sir!” came the call from the chip-log tender.

“Stations to wear, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie snapped. “Thank God our night-time doings last Summer got the people used t'doing their duties in the dark.”

“Then I will not disappoint you with a description of what a muddle it was, sir,” Westcott teased. “Hands to sheets and braces! Prepare to wear ship!” he shouted.

Lewrie could not see the long commissioning pendant high aloft, but he could judge the direction and strength of the night winds by turning his face left and right; they were light but steady, coming from the East-Nor'east. A peek into the compass bowl confirmed that. Once fully about, the ship could jog towards Ceuta on a close reach, haul her wind to close the coast in pursuit of the Spaniards, and go “full and by” to clear the coast, later.

Unless it changes,
Lewrie fretted to himself;
Pray God that it don't. Just a little help here, please Jesus?

“In all the rush, Mister Westcott, has anyone kept track of our Dons?” he asked. “Have they cleared the inlet?”

“Ehm … don't know, sir,” Lt. Westcott had to confess.

Lewrie fumbled about for a night-glass at the binnacle cabinet and went up to the poop deck, leaving the wear to Westcott. He could see absolutely nothing! Tetuán lay astern, and there were some weak lights ashore there, but nothing moved across them; the harbour was asleep, with nothing moving. He peered urgently up the coast beyond the entrance to the inlet, knowing that there was solid land there, but it was invisible, and nothing moved in front of it … wait!

He was high enough above the sea to barely make out two tiny glows, about one cable apart. The Spanish
had
cleared the inlet and gotten to sea in total darkness just as
Sapphire
had, but they had to see their own compasses to avoid getting too close to shore and grounding. Their compass bowls were lit, but shrouded by cloth so the helmsmen could take a squint now and then!

“
Got
you, you bastards!” Lewrie growled, just as
Sapphire
began to put about.

*   *   *

Dhows
with two large lateen sails could be fast, but
Sapphire,
under courses, tops'ls, spanker, and her stays'ls, had much more sail aloft, and she had a much longer waterline. The
dhows
might be sixty or seventy feet overall, but they were built with a lot of that length in bow and stern overhangs. Once
Sapphire
got a way on her, even in light night winds, she was a lot faster than their foes.

“All officers to the quarterdeck,” Lewrie called out, waiting for them to assemble. When they were all present, he amended his plans. “They're over yonder, gentlemen, about a mile alee of us, three points off our larboard bows, and we're closing on 'em. You can spot 'em by their compass bowl lights, a faint amber glow, with a flash now and then when they take a peek under a burlap covering. They look to be sailin' close together, about a cable apart in line-ahead. I think we can close with both of 'em, about evenly 'twixt both, and open fire on them both at the same time, six-pounders and carronades on one, and the upper-deck twelve-pounders on the second, at a long musket-shot's range. We'll call on them to strike, close one, and board her, while we shoot the second to surrender, but it'll have t'be quick, brutal, and overpowering. No boat-work tonight, sorry, Mister Harcourt, but we'll save that for another day … or night, rather.”

“Work up ahead of the leader, then haul our wind and fall down with one on the bows, and the other abeam, sir?” Westcott said, getting it in one.

“Exactly, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said. “No pipes, again, and no bellowing or drumming, but let's go to Quarters. Here are the keys to the arms lockers, sir.”

“Very good, sir,” Westcott said, accepting the keys.

“Now, let's be at it,” Lewrie said.

While the two-decker rumbled to the tumult of hands turning out to man and load their guns, and the Marines assembled with their weapons on the sail-tending gangway on the larboard side, Lewrie went atop it all to the poop deck, where he could get a better view of the two Spanish vessels, where their shrouded compass binnacle glims showed more clearly. They were still sailing close together, the stern-most
dhow
about three points off the larboard bows, slowly sliding to four points as
Sapphire
's greater speed out-paced the Spaniards.

God above,
he told himself with a grin;
we're
faster
than somebody, at long last? Wonders never cease!

“Pass word to the gun-decks t'keep the ports closed 'til we're ready to open fire!” Lewrie called down to the quarterdeck in a harsh mutter, not daring to shout aloud. “The Dons may spot us by the glows of our slow-match linstocks and battle lanthorns!”

Slow-match fuse was coiled round the tops of the swab-water tubs, and lit in case the flintlock strikers failed, and thick red-glass, metal-re-enforced lanthorns were usually lit for night actions, so the men serving the guns had some light to work in.

A Midshipman, Lewrie could not say who, dashed below to pass the word, a moving shadow on a black deck, barely made out by white collar patches and white slop-trousers.

He looked North towards the massive fortress of Ceuta, finding its bulk by the lanthorns along its ramparts, and judged it to be six or seven miles off the starboard bows. He had no chance to peek at the chart, but knew that on a course of Due North,
Sapphire
would be closing the coast, which trended Nor'east in a long arc. The North African coast off to larboard was as black as a boot, its nearness impossible to judge, but if the Spanish sailed this short trading route often, he could not go wrong by being to seaward of them; they would know where the soundings shoaled, and were hugging it for safety.

“The leader's almost abeam now, sir,” Lt. Westcott announced at the foot of the ladderway.

“Aye, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie replied. “Alter course to fall down on them.” The helm was put over a few spokes, and Lewrie had to hold his breath and cross the fingers of his right hand that the enemy did not hear the creaks and groans that the yards made as they were eased to cup the night winds at a slightly new angle.

Slowly, slowly,
Sapphire
fell down on the two un-suspecting
dhows
, 'til Lewrie could almost make out their dark bulks and the triangular lateen sails. The lead
dhow
was off the larboard bows, the trailing vessel was just a bit aft of abeam, and he
thought
that the range was less than one hundred yards.

Are they deaf, dumb,
and
blind?
he had to wonder.

“Mister Westcott!” he cried. “Open the ports and run out!”

HMS
Sapphire
trembled as the ports were lowered and hands tailed on the run-out tackles to drive the carriages to thump right against the ship's thick timbers. Eleven squares of red light blossomed down her larboard side as the ports' lowering revealed the ship's presence.

“Take aim at yer targets!” Lewrie shouted, abandoning stealth. “Open fire!”

“Upper gun-deck … by broadside,
fire
!” Lt. Westcott howled.

Lewrie shut his eyes to preserve his night vision as the 12-pounders bellowed as one, spearing the night with jets of flame and swirling sparks of burning powder and shreds of flaming cloth cartridge.

“Helm hard down! Ready, six-pounders and carronades!” Lt. Westcott shouted. He was swinging the ship back onto the wind for a moment so the weather deck and quarterdeck guns could bear more easily. “As you bear …
fire
!”

Lewrie shut his eyes again, opening them after the last loud roar, though red-amber sparks still whirled amid the dense cloud of powder smoke. He could see
nothing
of their targets, for the smoke was drifting down-wind onto them, masking them completely. Even the aid of a night-glass, which gathered more ambient light, didn't help.

“
There
they are!” the Sailing Master cried, pointing off to the larboard side. “I think the leader's dis-masted!”

“Fall down on 'em, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie called out. “Close with 'em, gunnel-to-gunnel!”

“Hah! Got the both of 'em!” Mr. Yelland whooped. “Damned if the tailing one's not run into the first'un!”

Damned if they haven't!
Lewrie told himself.

Their first target, the trailing
dhow,
had held her course, so surprised or stunned that no one had thought to bear away shoreward. The leader had had time to hear the 12-pounders' roars, and
had
hauled her wind to escape into shallow waters and the blackness of the shore, but the 6-pounders and carronades had scythed away both of her masts and long lateener yards and sails, leaving her wallowing in the path of her sister, which had rammed into her amidships, entangling both!

“Boarders, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie shouted exultantly. “Away boarders!”

Sailors manning the carronades and lighter guns abandoned their charges, took up cutlasses and boarding axes from the arms chests, and massed along the larboard bulwarks. Marines were taking individual pot-shots at anyone that moved on the trailing
dhow
's decks. As
Sapphire
thumped against the stern of the lead
dhow
and the side of the other, Westcott, the Marine officers, and eager Midshipmen waved their swords or dirks in the air and ordered men over the side, and away they went with great, feral cheers. There were opposing shouts from the Spaniards, mostly
“rendicíon!”
and
“clemencia!”
, with their hands in the air, empty of weapons, some kneeling as if at prayer in supplication. A few scrambled from the bows of the trailing
dhow
to the other, and sought refuge right at the other
dhow
's bows.

There were some screams as a Spaniard was hacked or bayonetted, but it was quickly over, and they made prize of both ships.

“Grapnel to 'em, there!” Lewrie ordered, unwilling to lose his prizes in the dark as
Sapphire
kept a way on her.

Lieutenant Westcott scrambled back up the ship's side, crawling over the closed entry-port, followed by most of the armed hands. He thumped to the deck in a most un-dignified fashion, then made his way to the quarterdeck, where Lewrie met him.

“Have an adventure, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked him.

“Not much of one, sir,” Westcott griped. “There was no fight in them. Too stunned, I reckon, and I doubt if they had no more than nine or ten hands in each crew, so putting up resistance was out of the question.”

“We need to fetch-to,” Lewrie told him, “before we all drift shoreward and wreck ourselves. Then, we'll discover what condition the
dhows
are in. You've told off men for prize crews?”

“Aye, sir, ten hands each, with five Marines as guards,” Westcott said. “Mister Roe, who's fluent in Spanish, is questioning one of their captains. Mixed bag, really. They were officered by navy men, but half the hands were army conscripts who knew a little about boats, I gathered. Sailing to and from Tetuán may be much preferable to ‘square-bashing' and standing guard on the walls at Ceuta. We're grapnelled to them, sir? Best we take in all sail, for now. I will see to it, directly.”

“Are they worth saving?” Lewrie asked.

“Taken into Gibraltar, burned where they sit, sir. Either course costs the Dons their cargoes, and makes them tighten their belts,” Westcott said with a shrug.

“Sir? Captain, sir?” someone else came back aboard in the dark, stumbling over ring-bolts and thumping up a ladderway to the quarterdeck. “Leftenant Roe, sir! I've been questioning one of the Spanish naval officers. These two vessels aren't the only ones the Dons have at Ceuta. They've six, in all, and they make the trip to Tetuán at least twice a week, sometimes in threes, for provisions. The other four are alongside the quays at Ceuta, waiting to make their runs later.”

“Have they? Damn!” Lewrie spat. “Do ye gather that the Dons in the fortress know when these two will return?”

“Hmm, don't know, sir,” Roe replied. “Didn't think to ask.”

“Go ask, Mister Roe,” Lewrie urged him. “Mister Westcott? I wish the Bosun and his Mates to go over to the prizes and determine if they're able to sail, without sinking. I wish the ship, and the prizes, well out to sea off Tetuán by sunrise, and out of sight of the fortress. I've a nasty idea, if they're seaworthy.”

 

CHAPTER TEN

HMS
Sapphire
entered Gibraltar Bay, firing off a salute to honour the Governor, Sir Hew Dalrymple, and proudly, to draw attention to herself and the four shabby prizes that trailed her to anchorages nearby the Old Mole. As soon as the ship was at rest, Midshipmen Hillhouse and Britton were sent ashore, each bearing reports to Dalrymple at the Convent, and to Thomas Mountjoy's false-front offices further down the town. They had distinguished themselves in carrying the other two prize
dhows
and Lewrie felt that they were deserving of some recognition from senior officers, or even from a spy.