C H A P T E R 6

Lewrie had kept them out of those forbidding hills, though he wasn’t exactly sure he’d done them any favours. Rear Admiral Goodall had only the briefest sketch of Lewrie’s career, and had been intent upon a large map of the area, in the middle of a conference with his opposite number, Rear Admiral Gravina of the Spanish Navy, and a host of subordinates, all of whom had a loud opinion of what should be done, and at that very instant before . . .

“Commanded two bomb ketches, I see, sir,” Goodall had commented.

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Batt’ry at Yorktown, by God. Land service.”

“Yes, sir, although—”

“That folderol in the Far East, shellin’ pirates an’ such?”

“Well, in fact . . .”

They’d been converted bombs, reduced to tiny but stoutly built ketch-rigged gunships; his two-gun batteries at Yorktown hadn’t fired a single shot, much less had a target; the folderol in the Far East was not exactly mortar work now, was it, but . . .

“Cheesy-lookin’ raft,” Lewrie muttered. “Ain’t it.”

They’d given him a floating battery. They’d also given him an “all-nations” to sort out. Lieutenant de Crillart showed up, full of ginger and good cheer, eager to be doing something at last, out of the water once more. He brought with him about forty men— all Royalists, thank God—former members of the Royal Corps of Marine Gunners, once a body of 10,000, the most expert and perfectly trained naval artillery known. With cunning, the latest scientific artifice, lavish support from the greatest minds and mathematicians, the most modern gun foundries, they had developed a complete “la jeune école,” a New School for gunnery.

The Revolutionaries, though, had broken them up, parcelled them out in tiny leavenings to land units, unable to abide any elite superior to the Common Man, nor any organisation left over from royal days.

There was a further complication, an equal draft of artillerists more experienced with mortars, for which Lewrie might have backhandedly thanked God. Unfortunately, they were Spanish bombardiers under a lean, haughty coach whip of an officer; one Comandante (Major) Don Luis Emiliano de Esquevarre y Saltado y Perez. To make matters even worse, he was not a naval officer but a military artillerist, and had about as much English as Lewrie had Spanish. Which wasn’t saying much, beyond “dos vinos” and “sucar tus putas.” El Comandante would be in charge of the pair of massive thirteen-inch brass mortars sunk in the middle of the waist, where the mainmast used to be, whilst Lieutenant de Crillart and his grizzled veterans would service the six heavy thirty-two-pounders, three to either beam.

Zélé, the battery had been named once, a proud two-decker 74 of about 160 feet on the range of her gun deck and over 40 feet in beam. Now, she was a “rasé,” a ship shaved down. Gone were her tall foc’s’le and poop deck. Gone, indeed, was her quarterdeck as well, along with an upper gun deck and the original sail-tending gangways.

She’d been reduced to a hulking, squat water beetle, wide and low to the water, with the only shelter for her crew the foremost wedge of the bows on the remaining gun deck, and what went unused on that deck aft, under what was left of the upper gun deck. Her mainmast had been drawn out like a rotten tooth, and her fore and mizzen had been reduced to the fighting-tops—“to a gantline,” they would say in the Royal Navy. There was still a forecourse yard on which a sail was set, an inner and an outer jib forward set on stays which ran to a shortened jib boom without a sprit yard doubled atop it. Aft, the mizzen could set a course on the usually bare cro’jack yard, and an ancient lateen spanker awaited.

Lewrie didn’t think he’d be winning any regattas with her, though. Her sails were tattered and mildewed, mere afterthoughts. Had she half-a-gale abeam, he reckoned, she might log a quim-hair above two knots. No, to get this beamish, overbuilt and deep-draughted beast about the bay, it would be necessary to use the long, thick sweep oars which lay piled atop the centerline of the gun deck, and extend them out the many ports where artillery no longer nested. Sure enough, he could see tholepins the size of pier bollards at several empty gun ports.

“Christ, what a bloody . . .” he began to carp. “Ow! Goddamn an’ blast it . . .” He’d stubbed his toe on a knot. The ship was so old, so pared down by holystoning during her half century of service, that hard pine knots had arisen from the softer planking material, and now stood as high as flattopped islands all over the gun deck, making an archipelago of dark burls against the pale gray of her weathered decking.

“So what do we do, sir?” Scott asked, looking about as dubious as Lewrie did about their prospects.

“We’re the coachees, Mister Scott,” Lewrie told him, rubbing his foot through his shoe. “The Frogs and the Dons shall make the loudish banging noises whilst we steer them round, wherever they wish to go.”

“Hack-work,” Scott opined. “We’ll need more men, a power more, just to row her, or . . .” He pointed at the size of the capstans fore and aft. They’d have to row her, then anchor with both bowers, the stream and the kedge, put springs on the cables, and use the secondary capstans, which were about as massive as Cockerel ’s, to nudge her bearing, so the guns and mortars could aim.

“About forty more hands, I should think,” Lewrie scowled. “Landsmen, mostly. Be wonderful, were we to get ’em. But . . . we’re not. This is it. All the Fleet or the garrison may spare right now. Charles?”

“Oui, mon capitaine?”

“We’ll need your men to share the sweepwork, when it’s needful. La. . . oars? Les capstans?” Alan flustered, trying for the life of him to recall what the French called things. “Until we’re in position and ready to open fire, of course.”

“Ah, ze rames et ze cabestan, je comprend. D’accord. I . . . un’erstan’. Oui, I agree, Alain,” Crillart beamed most agreeably.

“Still, there’re the Spanish. We could use their help, too,” Alan said. “If we really have quick need of ’em. Uhm, perhaps you should be the one to broach the subject with Don ‘whatsit,’ Charles. You have so much more Spanish than I.”

“Moi?” de Crillart sighed, taking a long look at the nose-high, and immensely bored, expression of their bombardier. “Merde.”