“There’s a fight in the offing, Mister Cadbury, and there’s no reason for the pigs and goats to be shot to pieces, or drown!” Lewrie told him with hard-summoned false good humour.

“I see, sir,” Cadbury said, much sobered and subdued.

“Lieutenant Westcott is coming?” Lewrie asked the Purser.

“I’m sure he is, sir, though…” Cadbury shrugged and turned to look shoreward for the second barge.

Coming! Lewrie told himself with an audible snort; I’m bound that he has, the once at least.

Besides himself in his younger days, Lieutenant Geoffrey Westcott was as mad for strange and lovely “quim” as any man ever he did see, and after better than two years in active commission, so did every Man Jack in Reliant’s crew! His harsh hatchet face and alarmingly fierce and brief smiles to the contrary, Westcott always seemed to find himself a bit of “fresh mutton”, was he set down on a desert isle, and the sailors were right proud of him for it!

Aha! Lewrie told himself as he spotted the second barge setting out from the town docks; There’s our Lothario! The set of Westcott’s uniform might be askew, but he was up and dressed, after a fashion, and standing by Midshipman Rossyngton near the tiller, urging the oarsmen for more effort.

Lewrie turned his attention closer aboard, to the gigs bearing Lieutenants Darling, Lovett, and Bury to the main-chains. He glanced at their vessels, satisfied that Thorn, Lizard, and Firefly were being stripped down for action, as well.

Before his ju nior officers ascended the man-ropes and battens in order of se niority, Lewrie could spare another glance shorewards to the fine houses at the top of the hill behind the fort and the government buildings, and let out a wistful sigh.

She might’ve refused me, anyway, he sadly thought.

CHAPTER TWO

“There’s little I can tell you, gentlemen,” Lewrie said to his ju nior officers as they stood round the dining table in his cabins to hold a quick conference. “There are reports of warships approaching, whose we don’t know, or how many so far. We are it as far as a naval defence goes, so…we will up-anchor and stand out into the Nor’east Providence Channel. Reliant will lead, and draw their initial fire, should it come to that. Lovett, Bury…you must pair together with your six-pounders and get Thorn into range where her carronades might have some effect. After that, you must stay together as a pair, and double on another target…one that looks beat-able.”

It was a grim crowd, with pursed lips and dark scowls once he told them that. Lt. Oliver Lovett of Firefly, a slim, dark, and piratical-looking fellow, game for anything, usually. Lt. Tristan Bury, their scholar and marine artist, who had surprised them all with his daring and energy, looked pale and stiffly prim. Merry Lt. Peter Darling of Thorn slowly nodded his head, his round face flushed.

“Of course, if the foe is come in substantial strength, with large frigates and two-deckers, then all bets are off,” Lewrie went on. “Then, discretion may be the better part of valour, and the best we may do will be to return to the harbour entrance and anchor athwart it, delaying their entry to the last of our shot and powder.”

“If they do plan to land troops as well, sir,” the young but sage Lt. Bury said in cold logic, “might I or Lovett be allowed free rein to cover the shoal waters and beaches West of Fort Fincastle, to take their small boats under fire? Reliant and Thorn can block the entrance channel with eighteen-pounder long guns and carronades for a goodly time.”

“Hmmm…,” Lewrie pondered, then shook his head. “I fear that your presence may block the fire from Fort Fincastle’s guns, which are already sited to cover those beaches. Best we stick together to the end.”

“If they do bring troop ships, sir, why not have a go at ’em?” Lt. Lovett said with a chuckle, and a feral look on his long Cornish face. “If we could get round, or past, the escorts, we could make a very bloody meal of ’em? What say to that, hey?”

“Damned good idea, Lovett!” Lt. Darling congratulated him, with a hearty thump on the shoulder. “Kick them in their ‘nut-megs’, while they expect us to box them toe-to-toe!”

“A forlorn hope,” Lt. Bury intoned most gravely, as was his wont. “I believe that is what the Army terms such fights. But…” For once, Bury smiled, adding, “such battles win undying glory for the participants, and gild their honour forever.”

Mad as hatters, the lot of ’em, Lewrie thought, but feeling a pride in their courage.

“Very well,” Lewrie instructed. “If there are transports, and I see a chance to get at them, I will hoist the ‘General Chase.’ If we face ships against which it appears we stand a chance, I will make ‘Engage The Enemy More Closely’.

“If, however, we are hopelessly out-matched,” he went on with a shrug, “and the best we could do would be to deny them entrance to the harbour, Reliant will hoist—”

“How about the ‘Church’ flag, sir?” Lt. Darling puckishly japed, making them all bray with gallows humour, and amazing Lewrie, again.

“ ‘Church’ it is, then,” Lewrie allowed. “Gentlemen, my steward left no glasses, but I do have a decanter of aged American corn whiskey. Let’s pass it round t’larboard like we do the port, and take a bit of liquid cheer.”

“Most welcome, sir!” Lovett roared his approval.

“And, if this is the last time we may stand together in this life,” Lewrie concluded, “let me just say that I have never served with a group of officers more energetic, more daring and skillful, and full of courage.”

“Hear him, hear him!” Darling crowed.

Lewrie took a gulp from the decanter, savouring the whisky as it burned its way down to his gullet, telling himself that there was no spirit to match aged corn whisky. He liked the look of it in a glass, its smoothness on the palate, even its slightly sweet aroma. He passed the decanter on to Lovett, who glugged down a good measure. Darling was next, and he grimaced when the whisky’s bite reached his throat. Bury took the decanter, but paused.

“Gentlemen, recall when first our little squadron was formed, and we first dined together,” Bury stiffly said. “I give you the toast we made then. ‘Here’s to us, none like us, a bold band of English sea-rovers!’ ”

Bury took his drink then as the rest loudly echoed their agreement with his sentiment.

“Now, let us prepare our ships for sea,” Lewrie ordered as he got the decanter back. “Up-anchor and make sail, quick as you can, and follow me out in line-astern.”

They shook hands, then departed. Lewrie lingered in the great-cabins for a moment, looking round at how bare it appeared with only the painted black-and-white deck chequer canvas nailed to the planks, and the eighteen-pounders resting on their carriages, un-manned so far. Even the pillows and padded seats of the transom settee had been sent below for safekeeping, and he wondered if he would ever see his cabins set up properly, again…if anyone aboard Reliant would.

He took another gulp of whisky, then went on deck, carrying the decanter to the quarterdeck, popping the stopper into place.

“Take it down, sir?” Bosun Sprague asked at the foot of the larboard ladderway.

“Aye, Mister Sprague,” Lewrie agreed, and the last deal-and-canvas partitions were taken down, the dining table was collapsed and put to one side, and the great-cabins were now open to the weather deck, just an extension to the rows of guns to either beam.

Lewrie stowed the decanter in the compass binnacle cabinet forward of the double-wheel helm, nodded to the two Quartermasters’ Mates already manning the helm, noting their avid interest in where liquour would be if no one noticed them pilfering, and walked over to Lieutenant Westcott.