Free A King's Commander by Dewey Lambdin Page A

the nor’east was too far off, and with only a knot advantage, would take until sundown to catch him up. No, the main threat was the one to the east, now almost abeam. She’d cut the corner on Jester, sail a shorter course, with a half-a-knot to a full knot greater speed than her consort, because she wasn’t beating to weather, but was sailing a point “free” on a damned close reach, to intercept off Jester ’s larboard bows.
    When she came up to shooting range, Lewrie decided, he’d have no choice but to wear off the wind himself, reach across the wind due west, to escape, far out into the Atlantic. Scouting frigates, that’d be most likely, he thought; out ahead of the French fleet’s van division, looking for Howe’s fleet, so they could steer their admiral into a massive battle. If Jester showed no sign of leading them to Howe’s main body, they might break off their chase, he most fervently hoped; perhaps by sundown, at the latest?
    â€œWe’re nigh on three hundred fifty miles out to sea,” he mused; “three hundred fifty miles west of Ushant or Land’s End, for God’s sake! What do they think I’m leadin’ em to— the Happy Isles of the West?” he whispered.
    And the weather . . . ! Alan felt like ordering “All Hands” up on the gangways to begin whistling, if it would stir up one more pint of wind. That remained steady from the southwest or south-southwest, and none too strong. The morning was less humid than the day before, less dew and mist upon the decks at dawning. The clouds were higher and thinner, a first thin coat of whitewash brushed over cerulean blue, with many traceried gaps of open sky. Not superb sailing weather, but no sign of bad weather, of a certainty, which might bring a rising of the winds. For the Atlantic in early summer, it was almost warm and pleasant, too.
    Just warm enough a day, as it progressed, to bring a stronger wind as the seas warmed. Or enough heat to stifle any winds, leaving all three warships boxing the compass on lying little zephyrs. And a longer and heavier French frigate might still coast through the dead spots, maintain her steerageway even in very light air, whereas the lighter, shorter ship would struggle and flag.
    â€œMister Knolles,” Lewrie called out, coming back to the center of the quarterdeck. “We’ll run in the starboard battery to loading position, and bowse the carriages to the deck ringbolts. Then, open the larboard gun ports and run out the larboard battery to firing position. That should shift enough weight to set her flatter on her keel.”
    â€œAye aye, sir,” Knolles responded. “Mister Bittfield?”
    If that didn’t work, next he’d try shifting all the round-shot into garlands on the larboard side, by hand, then crack the water casks and use the wash-deck pumps to “start” all that weight over the side, to lighten her. He’d heard of people jettisoning cumbersome cargo, even artillery, during a stern chase. Of course . . . most of the time, that’d been the heroic captains doing the chasing, not the chased. And the prize money afterward paid for all.
    â€œIt occurs t’me, sir . . .” Knolles began in a soft voice, minus his confident japery, and a tad shy of making a suggestion at all.
    â€œAye, Mister Knolles?” Alan rejoined with a smile.
    â€œWell, Captain . . .” Knolles coughed into his fist nervously as he dared advise a senior officer. “Should we stand on, close-hauled . . . uhm . . .”
    â€œSurely, our brief spell together, since Gibraltar, sir,” Alan chuckled to put him at his ease, “and you’re still afraid I’ll bite? Ease her a point free, is that your thinking?”
    â€œAye, sir!” Knolles grinned shyly. “Spin the chase out. Make her work harder for her supper.”
    â€œAn excellent idea, Mister Knolles. Very well, ease her. Wear