Kings and Emperors by Dewey Lambdin Page B

’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!
    â€œPass 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.
    â€œThe leader’s almost abeam now, sir,” Lt. Westcott announced at the foot of the ladderway.
    â€œAye, 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.
    â€œMister 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.
    â€œTake aim at yer targets!” Lewrie shouted, abandoning stealth. “Open fire!”
    â€œUpper 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.
    â€œHelm 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.
    â€œ There they are!” the Sailing Master cried, pointing off to the larboard side. “I think the leader’s dis-masted!”
    â€œFall down on ’em, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie called out. “Close with ’em, gunnel-to-gunnel!”
    â€œHah! Got the both of ’em!” Mr. Yelland whooped. “Damned if the tailing