"Maybe Carteau's leadin' us by the nose, waiting for all the men coining down from Lyons. Keep our attention fixed here, whilst…"
"Oh, there you are, Mister Lewrie, sir!" the teenaged mid-
shipman cried, the same little pest they'd met their first day ashore. "Been searching all over Creation for you," he panted. "Rear-Admiral Goodall's finest compliments to you, Lieutenant Lewrie, and he begs me to direct you to his presence, as soon as is practicable, sir."
"Something useful for us to do, at last?" Lewrie wondered aloud.
"One may not presume to, uhm… presume, sir, but…" the midshipman shrugged.
"Mister Scott, take charge of the hands. Keep 'em busy, whilst I toddle off," Lewrie said, swinging his legs back over the bulwark.
"Aye, sir," Scott replied. "And whatever business they wish of us, sir…?"
"Aye, Mister Scott?"
"Well, damme, we're sailors… keep us out of those hills, could you, at least?" Scott implored.
"I'll do my best, sir," Lewrie smiled.
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 on 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 "lajeune ecole," 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 tusputas." 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.
Zele, the battery had been named once, a proud two-decker 74 of about 160 feet on the range of her gun deck and over forty feet in beam. Now, she was a "rase," 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 main-mast 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 thole-pins the size of pier bollards at several empty gunports.
"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 flat-topped islands all over the gun deck, making an archipelago of dark burls against the pale grey 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," de 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."
Falconer's Marine Dictionary had quite a lot to say on Mortars and Range, and the precautions the prudent officer might undertake to keep from being blown to flinders. So, too, did de Crillart's tattered copy of Le Blond's Elements of War, and Lewrie's copy of the standard Muller's Treatise on the Artillery.
Zele should have had munitions-tenders astern, where the shells were filled with powder, and rowing boats to fetch shot as needed, and where, during transit, the fuses were inserted, the fused shells being termed "fixed"; then hoisted aboard and stored in a hide- or hair-cloth-covered rack on the safest space of the deck-called "kiting." Well, they didn't have tenders, and too few men to spare to row shells about, so they extemporised.
The rudimentary captain's cabin aft under the thick remains of the upper gun deck was to be the filling room, its doors and windows covered with tanned hides, equipped with water tubs, and the passages to it constantly watered with a wash-deck pump. The filled shells to be carried most carefully to the waist, where two senior bombardiers would "fix" them with fuses, as needed for each shot, and no shell was to be "fixed" and "kited," then left untended, no matter how secure a storage area they had.
There were more tubs of water round the depression in the waist where the mortars sat, two more bombardiers or gunner's mates on duty to oversee port-fires and slow matches the mortarmen would apply to the fuse and the mortars' touch holes. Propellant gunpowder charges were loaded below, in the old orlop hanging-magazine, also well watered and guarded, with the door shut except to pass out premeasured cartridges through a secondary felt screen inside the actual door, slitted to let the charges be passed out in fireproof leather cylinders.
The fuses would come from a "laboratory chest" in the captain's cabin, too. These were conical tubes made of beech or willow wood and filled with a composition of sulphur, saltpetre and mealed powder. A mixture of tallow, pitch and beeswax sealed both ends. The tapering end of the cone would go inside the shell, stripped of its protective coating, but the great end must keep its tallow until just before firing. And they all agreed that, whilst the mortars were in service, it would be impossible to employ the thirty-two-pounder great-guns simultaneously, for they would require other lit port-fires and slow matches, and that was a risk too great to contemplate.
It helped immensely, Lewrie learned from observation, that their mortars were mounted on central pintles which passed completely through the bed of the mortar carriages, through the supporting timbers and deck beams of the mortar wells, through the overhead beams on the orlop, and terminated in large baulks of timber which held the whole affair up; so the mortars could be "laid" or "pointed" left and right. All they had to do was anchor with the best-bower and single kedge (with springs, of course, on their cables), roughly abeam of the target or the coast, and the bombardiers could heave their massive charges about for aiming.
Thirteen-inch mortar; weight, eighty-one hundredweight, two quarters, one pound, according to Falconer. Powder charge when the chamber at its base was full, thirty pounds. Weight of a "fixed" shell, 198 pounds; and filled with seven pounds of the very best powder. The shells were cast-iron balls, hollow, with their greatest thickness on the bottom, the better to resist the awful force of discharge from the bore, and to keep that heaviest part away from the fuse, flying first through the air, and landing on that thick portion, with the thinner, and lighter, filling and fusing end uppermost. There were two carrying handles cast or hammer-welded to either side of the fuse hole. Perhaps to avoid confusion for slower minds.
Beyond that, Lewrie's theory got a little vague; he'd never had the greatest head for numbers. Falconer's, under Range, listed a table of practice for sea mortars, giving the specific weights of propelling charges, and the proper fuses to use. For instance, he could discover that at forty-five degrees of elevation, a thirteen-inch mortar took an eighteen-pound charge to hurl the shot, which resulted in a flight of twenty-six seconds, and range of roughly 2,873 yards. And for the fuse to explode at the right moment, burning at the rate of four seconds and forty-eight parts to the inch, would require a premade fuse of the exact length of five inches, seventy-two parts, to be selected from the "laboratory chest." Then, of course, there was the niggling matter of the gunners who would light the fuse, and the mortar's touch hole, with slow match, doing both at the same instant. But Alan assumed that the Spanish bombardiers, and the insufferably laconic Don Luis, might know what they were doing, and if they made a hash of it, then it was their own damned fault.
