“Quarters!” Renzi exclaimed.
They looked at each other and descended hastily to the deck, moving past the raucous volleying of the drum at the main hatch to their respective stations.
“What cheer, mates?” said Salter. “What’s the alarum, then?” His eyes glittered in the lower-deck gloom as he cleared away the muzzle lashing of their gun.
“No idea, Will. Did see sail close inshore, but that’d be one of our frigates, I’ll wager.” Kydd had not been prepared to risk a rope’s end by hanging about to find out.
This was a call for a full sweep fore and aft — anything that could not immediately be struck down into the hold was dumped overboard, and the sea astern was studded by floating debris. The men worked fast — this was no drill.
Renzi’s action quarters was at one of the upper-deck twelve-pounders. There was perhaps a chance that Kydd would see him if he was called away to handle sails, which was his secondary battle station.
Down the fore hatch ladder clattered Midshipman Cantlow, still buckling on his dirk, his cocked hat askew. Kydd disliked him — the gangling man was older by far than the others, in his late twenties at least, not having the interest or ability to pass for lieutenant. He had once ordered a starting for Kydd over some trivial matter; it was not the colt whipping painfully across his shoulders that he remembered, it was the spite that had triggered it — Cantlow was embittered at his lot.
“What news — sir?” asked Stirk. He was ignored, Cantlow adjusting his cross-belt and scabbard over the threadbare uniform coat. He would take charge of the foremost six guns under a lieutenant of the gundeck. With a significant look, Stirk called over to Doggo loudly, “Looks like we got ourselves a right smashin’ match, mate. Yer’ve made yer arrangements, then?”
Kydd looked at him sharply.
“Why, o’ course — but it ain’t no use, there won’t be many of us left after the fightin’ really gets started, we bein’ down here in the slaughterhouse ’n’ all,” Doggo replied, his face blank.
“What are you yattering about, you useless swabs?” Cantlow said irritably, fiddling nervously with his dirk.
“Seen the doc sharpenin’ his saws,” Salter said gloomily. “Shoulda got the carpenter to do a better job — never could stand a blunt saw at me bones.”
“An’ where’s the priest?” Velasquez added mournfully. “’Ow we can die wi’out we ha’ a priest?”
“Silence! Do you think to bait me? You stinking, worthless scum!” Cantlow glared around.
“Why, sir,” Stirk said, with a saintly expression, “we’re cruel a-feared, ’n’ we need some words, some strong words, from an orficer to steady us in our time o’ need-sir!”
Cantlow’s venomous glare was interrupted by the arrival of Lieutenant Lockwood. “Report, Mr. Cantlow,” he ordered.
“Well, sir, I — ”
“You’re useless, and stupid,” Lockwood said, “so muster your men again and report.” Lockwood took position on the centerline. Although he was young, his voice already had the crack of authority. “Still!” All activity on the gundeck ceased. “We have just been alerted by Amphion frigate that the French have taken advantage of this easterly to put to sea. But not from Brest. Four ships-of-the-line and frigates have sailed from Douarnenez to the south of here, and we think they mean to proceed to the Caribbean and our valuable sugar islands. They did not reckon on our vigilance, and now we will make sure that they never arrive!”
A savage growl arose from the gun crews.
“The weather in this light blow is not in our favor — but they have formed line and are offering battle. We will oblige them!”
A deeper-throated sound swelled into cheers.
“Haaaands to make sail!”
The boatswain’s calls pierced into the excitement. Kydd ran topsides with the others of the gun crews assigned to sail trimming. The brilliant sun made him screw up his eyes, but he knew by instinct the position of the mizzen shrouds and his leap took him into the ratlines. He swarmed up to the mizzen top.
It was a chance to take in the scene of impending battle. Far ahead against the nondescript line of the coast were the enemy — four small clusters of ivory sails emerging from Douarnenez Bay and sailing large before the light easterly wind, four big vessels in line formation, taking advantage of the offshore winds of the morning. They were headed from right to left across Duke William’s bows, standing out for the Atlantic, but seemingly in no hurry to close and grapple.
On the starboard tack Duke William was heading toward a point of intersection ahead of them, clawing her way to windward in the frustrating light winds, doing her best to get within range. The ripple under her forefoot sounded like the contented chuckle of a country millstream at a sleepy knot or two.