Текст книги "Kings and Emperors"
Автор книги: Dewey Lambdin
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
“What did we buy ashore, Mister Cadrick?” Lewrie asked. “And, do we have to await delivery?”
“An hundredweight of flour, sir,” Cadrick easily ticked off, “two bullocks, four sheep, a dozen chickens, and small lots of goods for the wardroom, mostly coffee beans, spices, and fruit. Neither your cook nor your steward made any requests, else I would have gotten some items for your needs, sir.”
“How long before the goods come aboard, Mister Cadrick?” Lewrie asked him.
“A-rabs have their own sense of time, sir,” Cadrick said with a dismissive laugh. “Inshallah, they say, ‘God willing,’ which I took for sometime in the afternoon, perhaps by the start of the First Dog.”
“Stringy bullocks, most-like?” Lewrie wondered aloud. “That means those two will only make one meal for a crew this size. Hmm, slaughterin’ ’em, carvin’ ’em into eight-pound chunks for each mess, and the pumpin’ and sluicin’ the decks clean, after … We’ll remain at anchor overnight, then, keepin’ a close-eyed watch on those Spanish boats in the harbour, and that damned Corsair.”
“Very good, sir,” Cadrick said, bobbing his head. “Would you be interested in some of the goods, sir? There are dates, honey, and coffee beans, some of that couscous—”
“A bit of each, sir … along with a good-sized beef steak,” Lewrie said, perking up.
“A pound of dates, a crock of honey, and say, a five-pound bag of coffee beans, for … oh … two pounds, sir?” Cadrick said, looking crafty.
“Sounds good, Mister Cadrick,” Lewrie agreed, sure that he was being over-charged, even so. “You may go, and thankee. Don’t forget the steak!”
“We won’t act tonight, sir?” Lt. Harcourt asked, disappointed.
“If the winds allow, we’ll up-anchor round two in the morning, hopefully as quiet as mice, Mister Harcourt,” Lewrie told him. “And hope to be off Ceuta’s piers, close to the coast, just before dawn.”
“Then the boat-work, and cutting-out parties, sir?” Harcourt asked, perking up at the hint of action.
“Hopefully, sir,” Lewrie told him. “Once the bullocks’ve been slaughtered, and the decks are clean, I’ll send for all officers, and we’ll thrash things out together.”
“Very good, sir!” Lt. Harcourt said, taking his leave.
Lewrie bent over the desk, ready to go to the chart room for another peek at the old chart of the North African coast, but halted. Something in Midshipman Fywell’s rough sketches caught his eyes, something he’d missed the first time round.
“Just damn my eyes!” he spat as he shuffled through them.
Fywell’s quick pencilled impressions of the suspected Corsair showed a three-masted xebec, and the two Spanish “boats” that Harcourt had described as feluccas were not small single-masted lateeners, but two-masted dhows, much bigger than little feluccas! The figures that Fywell had shown on their decks made him think that both were about sixty or seventy feet in length, which left bags of room aboard for crews large enough to put up a stiff resistance to any attempt at boarding them, even in the wee hours.
It was like mistaking a brig for a gig!
Scheme yer way outta this, ye damned fool! Lewrie chid himself.
He’d promised action by dawn, and should it have to be abandoned, or attempted and result in failure, he’d look like the biggest idiot in all Creation!
CHAPTER NINE
He’d dined alone after the long meeting with Lieutenants Westcott, Harcourt, and Elmes, and Marine Lieutenants Keane and Roe. The steak was fresh and juicy, though a bit tough going. Yeovill found some wrinkled old potatoes, had cut out the bad bits, and made him a spicy hash, with some chick peas and flat local bread, all sloshed down with a very passable Spanish red. Yeovill had done an appetiser with the chick peas, sesame oil, lemon juice, and garlic in which he could dip shreds of the bread, something Arabic he called hummus. A few of the preserved pitted dates made a superbly sweet pudding, too.
Chalky was not deprived, either, getting hashed potatoes along with some steak ground after roasting to manageable bites, while Bisquit got strips of meat, and a meaty bone to gnaw after, so he didn’t go after Chalky’s bowl.
After a turn on deck in the cool darkness, a look at the sky, and an observation of the night’s moon, Lewrie determined that their attempt might be disguised ’til the last moment. The moon had risen just at dusk, and would be almost below the horizon by three in the morning. There was a slight overcast by the end of the First Dog Watch at 6 P.M., which might thicken during the night. The Sailing Master, Mr. Yelland, had cautiously concurred.
By nine in the evening, Sapphire went dark. Her Master-At-Arms, Mr. Baggett, and his Ship’s Corporals, Wray and Packer, had gone round ordering the extinguishing of all candles, lanthorns, and glims belowdecks, and the soft amber glows from the gun-ports opened for fresh air disappeared. Below the thick bulwarks, and hopefully out of sight, there remained one tiny glim up by the forecastle belfry so a ship’s boy could see his sand-glasses and ring the bells at the proper time, and one glim in the compass binnacle cabinet. Out of the ordinary, and also hopefully un-noticed by anyone ashore, the large taffrail lanthorns were not lit. Sapphire was a black mass in a night as black as a boot.
Lewrie napped in his darkened cabins, fully-clothed upon his settee, not sleeping exactly, for his mind was going like a galloping Cambridge coach. He might have drifted off for ten minutes at a stretch, at best, before a new worry arose, snapping him back awake. Midnight’s Eight Bells were struck, beginning the long, dark Middle Watch. He did drift off and missed the single stroke of half-past midnight, but came round as Two Bells was struck at 1 A.M. A moment later, and there was a knock on his door.
“Midshipman Hillhouse, sir!” the Marine sentry called out, much softer than usual.
“Enter!” Lewrie called back, rising from his impromptu bed.
“Sir, those two Spanish boats are moving!” Hillhouse said in an excited rush as he entered the cabins. “The lookouts spotted them just this instant, coming down the inlet from the quays against the few lights burning in the town.”
“No pipes, Mister Hillhouse, pass the word for All Hands, and take stations to raise the anchor!” Lewrie told him in a conspiratorial whisper. “Off ye go, instanter!”
“Aye aye, sir!”
Belowdecks, the Bosun and his Mates would be rousing sailors from their hammocks and urging them to the fore capstan, where the long bars had been shipped in place before Lights Out, surely a give-away to one and all that something out of the ordinary would happen; else, hunting them up and shipping them into the pigeon-holes and the drop-bolts fitted, and the light “swifter” line passed through the outer ends of the bars, much less finding the mauls to fleet the messenger cable round the capstan drum, would have been chaos in the dark.
“Fore capstan manned and ready, sir,” Lieutenant Westcott reported a few minutes later. “Messenger’s fleeted, and the nippers are standing by.”
“Very well, Mister Westcott, let’s have ’em breast to the bars at once. Once the bower’s free, I’ll have spanker, all jibs, and all stays’ls set t’get a way on her.” Lewrie ordered, “No music, mind! Let’s keep it as quiet as possible.”
There was supposed to be good holding ground off Tetuán, according to the Sailing Master’s books, so Sapphire had come to anchor in six fathoms of water, and had paid out a five-to-one scope, meaning the men at the capstan bars only had to haul in 180 feet of cable. It would not be noiseless, though. The capstan pawls clanked as loud as pistol-shots, the thick cable groaned as it came slowly in against the hawsehole’s lower rim, and even horny bare sailors’ feet drummed on the decks. Despite the need for quiet, the ship’s boy “nippers” just had to stumble and argue with each other as they dashed back and forth to nip the lighter messenger line to the cable, follow it near to the drum of the capstan, then dash to nip on again to seize onto a freshly-revealed length of cable. And the drumming of the mauls fleeting the messenger up the capstan drum put Lewrie in mind of a dance among the Muskogee Indians in Spanish Florida ages before!
“Short stays!” the word came from the forecastle, followed a very long moment later by “Up and down!” and a harsh voice up forrud calling for the Heavy Haul, for the hands to stamp and go!
“Anchor’s free, and haul away!” the Bosun cried.
“Make sail, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered. “Hands aloft to the tops’l yards.”
The stock of the bower anchor was snagged and “fished,” a fluke “catted” and men on the forecastle and weather deck walked away with the “fish,” then the “cat” to ring the anchor up to the out-jutting cat-head beam and swung it up for stowage, even as the ship began to get a slight way on her.
“No bite, sir!” Senior Quartermaster Marlowe reported from the double-wheel helm, turning spokes either way. “Her head’s fallin’ off to starboard. Sou’east.”
Aloft, tops’ls were being loosed and let fall, clew lines sang in the blocks to draw them down, and brace lines groaned through theirs. The wooden parrel balls squealed as the yards were braced round to cup wind in the sails, impossible to see, and only imagined in the mind by the sounds of sails pivotting on the masts, and the rustling of canvas.
“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.”
