“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