awaiting this moment.
Mugs were filled, drained, lifted hopefully again. The slave, Barabbas, appeared with a tray for the poop deck. Jack did not
hesitate. He remembered how, before Quebec, he had turned down a tot. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
Red Hugh nodded approvingly. ‘That’s it. ’Tis a fine balance, much like the mix of gunpowder in a fuse. Too much rum and one’s
abilities are hampered. Too little and one’s courage is restrained.’ He held out his palm, refusing a second mug. ‘I think
I’ve got the mix just about right.’
Jack felt he could have had a little more. But seeing Link slurp at a second overfilled mug like a hound at a bucket, he too
declined.
Red Hugh came over, placed an arm around Jack’s shoulder. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘to make sure you don’t end up like One-Handed Tom,
let me apprise you of a few other things you’ll need to know about grenades.’
Engledue had been wrong or perhaps over-hopeful. The second glass had barely begun to decant its sand into the lower chamber
and the enemy was already not more than two hundred yards astern. Indeed, Jack had watched thesailors there reef some sails, obviously slowing the vessel to the
Sweet Eliza’s
pace.
‘Why don’t she fire?’ whispered Jack from his place on the poop.
Engledue heard him. ‘French frigates don’t have a chase gun,’ he said. ‘And we have none astern to trouble him. Since he has
the weather gauge he’s content to hang back and awe us with his numbers. He thinks we’ll strike before we fight.’
The Captain of the
Robuste –
for so she was, the name now clear in gold letters on the prow, a cloth ostentatiously removed to reveal it – had obviously
ordered all hands to the rails where they jeered and shook weapons. Music blared, too, and Jack could make out several fiddles,
drums and horns. Indeed, the numbers told him that the original estimate had been more likely: they were closer to triple
the
Sweet Eliza’s
strength of forty-six men than double.
Jack licked dry lips. Wonder if it’s too late for another rum? he thought. Then he saw it probably was, for the sails that
had been reefed were hoisted again and the enemy began to overhaul them.
‘Raise the portholes. To the guns!’
Men ran to their stations. The nine four-pounders on the starboard station were rolled out. Immediately the jeering redoubled
on the French ship and, a moment later, their portholes were raised. But their guns rolled out not only on their quarterdeck,
for their gundeck was not
en flute.
Double the number of barrels pointed to larboard and Jack remembered Engledue saying these were likely to be nine-pounders.
Double the weight of ball, too, then.
‘Steady, lads. On my command!’
Jack felt bound by the order, even though the French ship was now coming into good range of his rifle. There was also a peculiar
feeling that, if neither of them started the fight, it would not happen. Besides, as the ship got closer, Jack could see the
enemy wasn’t quite ready to commence.
‘Messieurs! Messieurs!’
A Frenchman, dressed as if for breakfast with a napkin shoved into his silk shirt, was balanced on the bowsprit like a tumbler
at the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. He leaned far out over the water, waving his tricorn hat with one hand casually threaded
round the stay that ran to the foremast; his other hand pressed a bullhorn to his mouth.
‘Does anyone here speak French?’ called Link.
Jack looked to Red Hugh. The Irishman tutted. ‘No, no, Jack, I defer to you. Mine’s rusted and largely conned for use in taverns
and brothels. I’d only offend the fellow and provoke his fire. You have a chat. I’ll just back you up.’
‘I’ll speak to him, Captain, if you like.’
‘Do so,’ said Link. ‘Damn his eyes and tell him we’ve only salt cod aboard.’
Jack nodded. He was handed a bullhorn and stepped up to the rail, Red Hugh a pace behind him. The
Robuste’s
prow was now nearly
Mugs were filled, drained, lifted hopefully again. The slave, Barabbas, appeared with a tray for the poop deck. Jack did not
hesitate. He remembered how, before Quebec, he had turned down a tot. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
Red Hugh nodded approvingly. ‘That’s it. ’Tis a fine balance, much like the mix of gunpowder in a fuse. Too much rum and one’s
abilities are hampered. Too little and one’s courage is restrained.’ He held out his palm, refusing a second mug. ‘I think
I’ve got the mix just about right.’
Jack felt he could have had a little more. But seeing Link slurp at a second overfilled mug like a hound at a bucket, he too
declined.
Red Hugh came over, placed an arm around Jack’s shoulder. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘to make sure you don’t end up like One-Handed Tom,
let me apprise you of a few other things you’ll need to know about grenades.’
Engledue had been wrong or perhaps over-hopeful. The second glass had barely begun to decant its sand into the lower chamber
and the enemy was already not more than two hundred yards astern. Indeed, Jack had watched thesailors there reef some sails, obviously slowing the vessel to the
Sweet Eliza’s
pace.
‘Why don’t she fire?’ whispered Jack from his place on the poop.
Engledue heard him. ‘French frigates don’t have a chase gun,’ he said. ‘And we have none astern to trouble him. Since he has
the weather gauge he’s content to hang back and awe us with his numbers. He thinks we’ll strike before we fight.’
The Captain of the
Robuste –
for so she was, the name now clear in gold letters on the prow, a cloth ostentatiously removed to reveal it – had obviously
ordered all hands to the rails where they jeered and shook weapons. Music blared, too, and Jack could make out several fiddles,
drums and horns. Indeed, the numbers told him that the original estimate had been more likely: they were closer to triple
the
Sweet Eliza’s
strength of forty-six men than double.
Jack licked dry lips. Wonder if it’s too late for another rum? he thought. Then he saw it probably was, for the sails that
had been reefed were hoisted again and the enemy began to overhaul them.
‘Raise the portholes. To the guns!’
Men ran to their stations. The nine four-pounders on the starboard station were rolled out. Immediately the jeering redoubled
on the French ship and, a moment later, their portholes were raised. But their guns rolled out not only on their quarterdeck,
for their gundeck was not
en flute.
Double the number of barrels pointed to larboard and Jack remembered Engledue saying these were likely to be nine-pounders.
Double the weight of ball, too, then.
‘Steady, lads. On my command!’
Jack felt bound by the order, even though the French ship was now coming into good range of his rifle. There was also a peculiar
feeling that, if neither of them started the fight, it would not happen. Besides, as the ship got closer, Jack could see the
enemy wasn’t quite ready to commence.
‘Messieurs! Messieurs!’
A Frenchman, dressed as if for breakfast with a napkin shoved into his silk shirt, was balanced on the bowsprit like a tumbler
at the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. He leaned far out over the water, waving his tricorn hat with one hand casually threaded
round the stay that ran to the foremast; his other hand pressed a bullhorn to his mouth.
‘Does anyone here speak French?’ called Link.
Jack looked to Red Hugh. The Irishman tutted. ‘No, no, Jack, I defer to you. Mine’s rusted and largely conned for use in taverns
and brothels. I’d only offend the fellow and provoke his fire. You have a chat. I’ll just back you up.’
‘I’ll speak to him, Captain, if you like.’
‘Do so,’ said Link. ‘Damn his eyes and tell him we’ve only salt cod aboard.’
Jack nodded. He was handed a bullhorn and stepped up to the rail, Red Hugh a pace behind him. The
Robuste’s
prow was now nearly
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