Free A King's Commander by Dewey Lambdin

about hard on the wind. But, to whom? he wondered. It was hard to make out—plain red square flag atop, what seemed like the Blue Peter next-below, a yellow-white beneath that, and a fourth he couldn’t make out. That, of a certainty, wasn’t a recognition signal in the Howe System he knew; nor was it one of the private signals to identify one Royal Navy ship to another!
    He turned back to the ship up in the nor’east. Sure enough, she was replying. Making a single hoist of what he took to be a red square with a white speck in the center. A one-flag signal—that could only be a reply to an order. More like, an affirmative. And it was not a British “Yes”! And was she turning, too, foreshortening the broadside view of her upper sails? Also coming onto the wind? Merchantmen had no desire to speak each other with flags. Nor be curious about strange vessels. A merchantman sailing independently would shy from the sight of any other ship, even were HMS Victory to heave up alongside with an invitation to dinner!
    They had to be French!
    A brace of frigates, he decided, out scouting in the van of the main body of that fleet Howe had been seeking. And had just discovered a weak and tasty treat!
    â€œDeck, there!” he shouted. “Pipe ‘All Hands’! Mister Knolles? Make sail! Royals, t’gallants, and stays’ls!”
    A little faster now, though heeled perhaps a bit too far hard-over, Jester began to trundle along, adding another knot to her speed. To keep their minds off it, and prepare them for the worst, Alan told his officers to practice gun drill.
    Five weeks in port, and not a shot fired! he lamented.
    Port admirals didn’t like the sound of guns going off in their harbors. Bad for their digestions, he supposed; interrupts any naps they take. And was a “waste” of good gunpowder that they’d have to replace, at Admiralty expense, before a ship sailed.
    Jester had a good warrant gunner and mate in Bittfield and Mister Crewe; her quarter-gunner was a Prussian named Rahl, who claimed that he’d been one of Friedrich the Great’s artillery masters. Cockerels and Victorys, Agamemnons and a few others, were experienced. But except for dry-firing, mostly running-in, loading, and running-out work with the new-comes, his guns wouldn’t be well-served. Not after the landsmen and Marines, who would be forced to assist on the tackles, were deafened and quivered to a state of nerves by the first blasts. And half of that had been instruction, employing only a single piece at a time, mostly letting them watch, before trying them out at the least-skillful jobs. There’d only been a week of dry-firing, using an entire broadside at once, and that wasn’t nearly enough.
    â€œWould you say this seems a bit familiar, sir?” Knolles said, after going below to change into clean clothing, and silk stockings and shirt, which were easier for the surgeon to draw out from wounds.
    â€œIt appears pretty much the way we got Jester, sir.” Lewrie nodded, playing along in spirit with Knolles’s humor. The officer was possessed of a very dry wit to begin with, and was purposefully japing, for the crew’s benefit, to make them think that things were not quite as bad as they appeared.
    â€œDamme, Mister Knolles,” Alan said more loudly. Again, for the crew’s ears. “Chased by two corvettes. Shot one to flinders, and took this’un! Do you think, sir, that the French’ll oblige me a second time, and make me a post-captain, when we serve these, alike?”
    He got the appreciative laugh he’d expected, though most of his inexperienced new men merely tittered nervously; and that only because the older hands had done so.
    French frigates, he pondered, pacing aft to the taffrail for a peek.  Longer on the waterlines, perhaps one hundred twenty feet, to his one hundred. They’d be at least a full knot faster. The one down to