Dewey Lambdin - H.M.S. COCKEREL
Quoins inserted deeper this time, lowering the aim of the barrels, gunners shouting and babbling, waving their hands to instruct their raw assistants to shift the lay of the guns with crow levers and handspikes to right or left. Then the excess crewmen were hustling away to avoid the recoil, the roar and the stink, after overhauling the tackles. A last once-over, then matches were blown on, lowered near the vents…
On the uproll. "Tirez!"
Another brutal clap of sound, another howling broadside! Guns rolled backwards to snub on the breeching ropes, making the stout bulwarks cry, rope groan, iron ring-bolts squeal. They juddered and they reeked, some slewed off-line, gushing thin trails of spent smoke. And their frigate, shaken to her heart by the force of the run-back.
A moaning in the air, a shrill shrieking, as round-shot returned towards them. Dull thuds, splashes alongside towering over the bulwarks, iron ball flying across the ship, sizzling sibilantly. Crisp bangs up above, where the furled main-course yard was struck, one end turning to a shattered stub as the ball glanced off.
The corvette twitched anew, her main-mast struck this time. More destruction rained down from aloft onto her decks, to dangle in her overhead boarding nettings. There was a hole in her spanker where bar-shot pierced it, a handful of men in her main-mast fighting-top spilled out by a whirling multiple bar-shot. Her main t'gallant mast above shook, then slowly leaned forward under the press of the wind, as upper shroud lines parted, the cross-tree braces shattered.
More fire was returned, raggedly. As if in retribution, a shot screamed over Radical's quarterdeck, slapping a hole in her spanker… just over Lewrie's head. Forward, the starboard gangway bulwark caved in as an eight-pounder round-shot pierced it, making a rent about two feet across, and the air was awhirl with jagged oak splinters. Three French infantrymen standing behind the rent were ripped away, tossed over the rope railings into the waist, onto the gun deck, riddled with wood and iron shards. Another ball struck lower down, below the gunwale, with a dull thonk, creating wails of sudden terror among the noncombatants on the orlop deck. A third hit a closed gunport, behind which tacklemen were sheltering, waiting for orders to throw themselves on the guns once more. There were screams of pain and disbelief as two volunteers were cut down, cries from a dozen more throats as they beheld the ruins of men, twitching and thrashing bloody at their feet. Lieutenant de Crillart and his senior gunners were there in an instant, to shout them down, shove them back to their duties, urging them to be brave… no longer gently tutorial. The time was past for that.
"Loblolly boys!" Lewrie shouted, directing the pasty whey-faces framed in the midships companionway hatch. "Help 'em, damn yer eyes!" The dentist appeared, seized the one at die top of the companionway ladder and dragged him out. They skittered fearful, as low as hounds to the decks, following him with a mess table turned into a stretcher. Three men were dead, abandoned round the base of the main-mast, while two who screamed and wept were carried below to whatever further horrors awaited them at the surgeons' hands.
The range had closed to about three-quarters of a mile. Alan took a quick look astern for the second corvette. She was coming on, still on the wind, bows pointed almost directly at him. There was a bloom of gun-smoke from her larboard forecastle chase gun. Still about a mile off, he decided; still time to hurt the other even worse.
"Hit her again, Charles! Rip her guts out!" he shouted. "Hurry!"
Shocked as they were, though, the gun crews hadn't much "hurry" in them. A well-served artillery piece could average three rounds in two minutes, in Royal Navy practice. These poor fellows were lucky to get off one in a minute and a half.
The corvette managed to fire again, a ragged, stuttering broadside. More shot coming for them, trembling volunteers flinging themselves flat on the deck to hide from it. Radical quivered as she was struck twice, thrice… then thrice again.
Not bad shootin', Lewrie thought, for a crew who'd been in port so long, without much chance for live-firing practice. Quivering in his boots himself, willing himself not to flinch or duck. Damme!
There was a crash above his head, a groan of livened timber, and he looked up to see their mizzen-royal and t'gallant masts shot away, to come down in a spiral like a badly sawn tree!
"'Ware below!" he shouted, scampering aft, away from its arrival. Jack-knifing upon themselves, the masts dropped, trailing rope rigging and furled canvas, yard ends flailing blindly, ripping across the face of the mizzen tops'l before the entire mess speared into the deck just at the forward edge of the quarterdeck, hung up by the broken spars on the nettings over the waist. Down with it had come two topmen, and one of the aristocratic French marksmen from the fighting-top.
"Cut it away, sir?" Spendlove yelled through chattering teeth at his side.
"No men to spare," Lewrie groaned. "No, leave it. But see to the men who were aloft."
"Aye, sir," Spendlove nodded, his eyes wide. But he dashed off on his errand, chivvying loblolly boys to their ministrations.
"Prйparez!" de Crillart screeched from forward and below, ordering his spare tacklemen away to the sides. "Tirez!"
Slow they might be, quaking and gulping hot bile in near terror, but the gun crews were still slaving away, sticking to it like men. A broadside lashed out and away, ordered, controlled and well aimed by the steadiest older men. Eight-pounders yapping, twelve-pounders erupting in harsher barks… and the four eighteen-pounders bellowing, almost going off as one immense avalanche of noise, fired on the uproll, when the ship would hang pent for a breathless second of steadiness.
The French corvette took the brunt of it, as the sea beside her frothed with near misses and ricochets from the lighter guns. Heavier twelve-pound round-shot tore through her sides this time, flinging bulwarks and scantlings into trash, flicking planks into the air. And her main-mast was shot away completely! It was shorn off, halfway between gun deck and fighting-top, that massive trunk carved in twain. It jumped, hung suspended for a second upon the very air, then the shattered butt slid forward, and it teetered, half-turned and fell to starboard, and all above it came crashing down in disparate bits, the fighting-top to hammer itself onto her starboard gangway, crushing everything beneath its brutal weight! She showed her coppering as she rolled and rocked.
"Cheer, lads, cheer!" Lewrie shouted, encouraging his English sailors. "Charles! Vivats, vive… what you call 'em! Make 'em yell and cheer! Look what they just did!"
The poor, scared buggers, he thought. Aye, cheer, you bastards. Put some heart in yourselves, at last! You can do it, if you try!
For a moment, they gaped in total disbelief, then began to yell, to throw their hats in the air, clap each other on the back, embrace and buss in Gallic fashion, and exult.
Not Navy practice, is it, Alan asked himself with a smirk, but they needed that. Now maybe they'll have more confidence. Now, just where do we stand? he wondered, peering about. He went to the side to look out with his telescope, past the ruin of the corvette, which was sagging down to leeward, all her masts and sails trailing over the side and acting like a sea anchor. She wouldn't be going anywhere but round about in circles for a while, not until they hacked all that loose. And without replacement upper masts and main-mast, nowhere very quickly for some time after, either, with only her mizzen standing.
The frigate! The most dangerous warship present had finally put about, taken in her stuns'ls and stays'ls, and was close on the wind on the larboard tack. But she was at least four miles down alee, and four more miles farther to the nor'west. To beat back to Radical where she was at the moment would be the better part of an hour, since she would have to tack first. And Lewrie was mortal certain he'd not be anywhere near his current position when she arrived.
The second corvette had fallen off, had hauled her wind, a little below the ruin of the first, as if she were about to go alongside to aid her. She was less than a mile off, still on Radical's starboard quarter.
No, not to aid, Lewrie saw-to shoot! Her gunports were open, already blossoming with orange-y flashes and gushes of smoke! Feathers of spray leapt into the air astern, glass and transom wood shattered as round-shot lashed her stern. A portion of the taffrail went flying, and one of the lanterns burst asunder.
"Cease fire, cease fire!" he directed. "Mister Porter, lay us on the wind! Man the braces and sheets, ready to haul taut! Quartermaster, helm alee. Lay her full and by."
"Full an' by, sir, aye," the senior man grunted, already heaving on the spokes.
He'd whittled the odds down, thoroughly disabled one corvette-and most importantly, placed himself so advantageously that the frigate might have to spend the rest of the morning to catch him up. And close-hauled, Radical would all the time be driving roughly sou-sou'west, to the Balearics, into shelter, into the patrol areas, perhaps, of Spanish warships which might aid him.
No, he thought; let's not be greedy ourselves. Get back up to windward, draw this last one after us, if he wishes. I think we might run him a decent chase. He follows us, the transports get clean away, too. If he follows.
With a shrug, he realised that the corvette and frigate might be more amenable to going to the aid of their crippled consort, or bagging the transports, after all, and letting Radical escape, too tough a bone to gnaw. Realising, too, that he'd shot his bolt, in essence. Fought and won, without getting his precious civilian charges slaughtered by artillery and sword-swinging boarders. Well, not too many, he amended.
Yet, what if they went after the transports, at least? Aye, I've saved most of my own, but those others are just as full of йmigrйs, just as packed with women and children. Can I turn a blind eye? Perhaps I must. Every man for himself now, and save what you can?
The corvette astern turned back onto the wind, barely a minute after Radical had altered course. This put her, from Lewrie's view by the wheel, just atop the starboard corner of the taffrail, bows-on to him, heeled hard over as she laboured for every last inch of windward progress. She got a gust, he saw, a puff of wind that he did not, and she pinched up higher as that gust backed, clawing out ten yards or so.
"Mister Porter, I think we're ready to send the topmen to loose the fore and main t'gallants," Lewrie ordered, then checked himself… aghast. "And let fall the main course! Let fall and sheet home!" He flushed with anger that he'd been so remiss, so muzzy without sleep!
As more canvas appeared aloft, Radical heeled further over and began to surge, hobbyhorsing over the waves, casting first her bows, then her stern towards the sky. Spray began to dash alongside, droplets wetting the starboard gangway.
"Mister Lewrie, sir," Cony called, appearing from below. "Got a leak, sir. Starb'rd side, forrud. Betwixt th' cat-head an' fore chains. Think we got hulled by one o' their shot." "Bad?" he muttered.
"On this tack, aye, sir," Cony winced. "Suckin' water like a drain. Got a couple o' chair-makers down there, nailin' on a patch t'slow h'it down, but we need to fother a patch from over-side. There's nigh on five inch o' water in th' bilges now, an' it's climbin'. An' the seams're workin', o' course, but that's nothin' new, sir. But, I 'spects, long'z we beat t'wind-ward, sir, they'll work 'arder. Need t'pump soon, sir."
