Dewey Lambdin - Sea of Grey

"Aye, and leave nought out!" another pressed. "Well…" Lewrie said, unwillingly forced to his feet again by their enthusiasm and the chance to preen for an audience. "I will need the biscuits, nuts, and such, if you really insist."

A row of salted biscuits quickly formed the Dutch coast, while walnuts became ships of the line, and smaller hickories became frigates and sloops of war. Lewrie looked at his creation, trying to picture a bird's view from the confused, smoke and haze-riddled scene he'd had from his quarterdeck, wondering where or how to start to explain it at all. How does one re-organise chaos?

"When we sighted them, the wind was out of the Nor'Nor'west and fairly strong," he said, arrowing a hand, slant-wise, at the long line of Dutch ships. "I'm told they had been sailing Easterly, making for Calais and the Channel, but came about when our scouting frigates got hull-up on 'em."

"Running," the abstemious gentleman pronounced. "Or luring us into shoal water, where their shallow-draught ships could fight, sir," Lewrie corrected him. "The coast was only five miles or so to loo'rd, and it shoals quickly, like tilting this table just a bit… at low tide, a man could wade out half a mile, and be only up to his chest by then. Last cast of the log showed ten fathom… only sixty feet of water."

"We'll need a translator, for all the nautical jargon!" one of the diners hooted.

"The Dutch had sixteen ships of the line… well, lighter than ours, really, and not all of 'em built as warships. Converted Dutch East Indiamen trapped in home ports," Lewrie went on. "Admiral Duncan had eight ships in his division, with his flagship, Venerable, in the very lead. Here," he said, pointing to the easternmost gaggle. "And Vice-Admiral

Onslow's division, with Monarch in the lead, were quite a bit West of Duncan's, strung out all higgledy-piggledly, d'ye see, in no proper order, since some of the older ships were poor sailers, even off the wind. 'Round eleven of the morning, Admiral Duncan even had to haul up to windward and beat back towards Onslow's group, so we could go in as a fleet, not a complete shambles."

Venerable, Ardent, and Triumph had led, two 3rd Rate 74s, with a two-decker 64; a following wedge was made up of a lone 74-gunner, Bedford, flanked by a pair of 64s, Lancaster, and Capt. William "Breadfruit" Bligh's HMS Director. A third trio in loose order was even further astern; Belliqueiux, a 64-gunner, supported by two old two-deck 50-gun 4th Rate ships, Adamant and his.

Vice-Admiral Onslow's group to the West had his flagship Monarch in the lead, with Powerful and Monmouth echeloned off to her right and stern, another pair of 74s with a 64; aft of them sailed a brace of 3rd Rate 74s, Russel and Montagu; trailing them was another pair, the 64-gunned Veteran and the 40-gun frigate Beaulieu.

Well, there should have been a third 64-gun 3rd Rate with them, HMS Agincourt, but she was far astern, and damn her Capt. Williamson for hanging back the entire three hours of the battle!

"Not the strongest fleet, gentlemen," Lewrie said, after naming them. "The rest, we frigates and gunboats, were in the centre. Rose, Active, and Martin were line-ahead together… a pair of twelve-gunned sloops, with a sixteen-gunner. Near their larboard side were Diligent and King George, hired cutters with six and twelve guns. Speculator, astern of them, was a hired lugger with only eight guns! The Circe frigate was here, East of the sloops and cutters, and my own ship was here… a bit East of Circe, and nigh level with Captain Bligh's ship, Director… well, perhaps a tad ahead of her, nearer the Bedford," he said, shifting a hickory nut forward a half-inch.

"We were about four miles to windward of 'em when Duncan gave a signal to bear down and engage 'em. We repeated the signal, then bore off Easterly, with a touch of Southing, to pin the Dutch against their own coast, as it trends Northerly…"

"Translator!" an idle stroller who had come to observe over the others' shoulders cried.

"This way." Lewrie grinned, employing a nutcracker for use as a wind-pointer. "With the wind large on our larboard quarters. Admiral Duncan hoisted orders as we. neared them; first, to pass through their line and engage from leeward, meaning to break their line apart with a pair of hammer-blows 'gainst their centre and rear. It was cloudy and hazy, so how many ships got that signal, I can't say. After that, he flew 'Close Action.' I really do think, did he have to go aground and fight them on dry land, he'd have done so. Admiral Duncan is a terror, sirs… a right terror."

Duncan, that giant with the full, unruly mane of snow-white hair on his head, that tall, athletic form that towered over six-feet-four, of the massive calves that made the ladies swoon when he donned silk stockings… as hardy and strong as a Scots ghillie who had coursed the Highlands like an elkhound since childhood!

" 'Twas said of him that during the recent naval mutiny at the Nore, and his own harbour of Great Yarmouth, Duncan had seized one of the ringleaders by the scruff of the neck, held him out arm horizontal, dangling a full-grown man over the side of his flagship 'til the canting bastard squealed for mercy!" Lewrie related.

A man of great anger, too, who'd prefer the ancient punishment for blasphemy of searing the malefactor's tongue with a hot iron, was he able to get away with it; a man who wore an odd double ring on his left hand encircling little finger and ring finger so he still had use of that hand. He'd broken it and turned those fingers numb by smashing the skull of a rioter in a street melee in Edinborough in 1792-the churl had insulted the King, raising Duncan 's Old Testament wrath!

"Sirs, Admiral Duncan would fight you for a rowboat!" Lewrie proudly boasted, happy to have been even for a short time a part of the man's fleet. Though how long that would last was open to question, he took time to fret. After his row with his wife in Hyde Park with both Lord Spencer and Mr. Nepean watching…

"The proper place for frigates is not in the line, sirs," Lewrie continued, striking a lighthearted air, "but out in clear air, where one repeats signals for other ships to see, or stands by to assist any disabled ships of the line. Had I not made an error, we'd have been merely awed witnesses, but… we'd gotten too far ahead and Circe was crowding us, sailing on starboard tack cross our stern, and all of the cutters and such crowded us, as well. Did the Admiral wish us to break the Dutch line and fight on their landward side, we should have broken through with him. But for the wind, that had blown all the powder smoke alee of us, towards the shore. I should have borne away… and stayed up to windward but that became impossible. I could not cut through the liners without disrupting what order they had, either, so there was nothing for it but to come about on a beam wind, and sail on a reach. By then, however, 'round half past noon, Admiral Onslow was engaged over here, cuttin' through the Dutch line, and slicing off the last three ships. So I rather, um… stumbled my way to glory. If glory it was, gentlemen," he allowed with a wry expression.

Aye, come over all modest-like! he thought; more becoming to a tale, than boasting. But, he chid himself once more, I was a damned fool! And the after-action report he'd written Admiralty had been one of his rather more creative endeavours, to disguise idiocy!

"His usual custom, since boyhood," Sir Hugo supplied, though he wore a proud grin.

Lewrie reshuffled the order of the walnuts and such, recalling the smoke and haze, the low, scudding clouds of a raw, grey day, turned in an instant to a pea-soup fog, a reeking, hammered, echoing mist, as Proteus had reached West towards Onslow, just out of effective range of the Dutch liners in the middle, before putting about to sail back East towards Duncan, who by then (at a quarter 'til one) was also firing as fast as his gunners could load and run out.

"Now, the Dutch were sailing in two columns," Lewrie explained, indicating the hickories and filberts nearer the row of biscuits. "In their lee were some eighteen-gunned brigs or sloops, at least three twenty-four-gun ships or brigs, and four frigates, of varying metal. Not all were true warships, thank God… again, converted and armed merchantmen penned up in port, thanks to our blockade, and our cruising frigates hunting prizes. But, once we broke their line, those escort ships opened fire, though they were there to serve the same duties as ours… signals and salvage, and… well, sirs, once one fires on a larger ship, one turns into fair game!"

Duncan 's Venerable had smashed her way through astern of their 74-gun 3rd Rate Staten-Generaal, opening the way for Triumph and Ardent and threatening the Dutch Admiral de Wynter's flagship, Vrijheid. It was a wide, most tempting gap, and beyond it Lewrie could see the lee line of sloops, brigs, and frigates, now and then, turning up windward.

Gun-smoke, towering and blooming like cloud-heads from a summer thunderstorm, vision reduced to mast-tips, the quick-blossoming buds of cannon-shots… the staccato stutter of guns, by decks, by broadsides, making even more smoke and confusion, 'til the whole sky was blotted to grey gloom, the sea turned dull leaden for lack of reflecting sunlight; the Dutch ships, their own ships, so wreathed with sour, sulfurous mist that they became spectres.

He caught himself frowning, in a silent, fell musing, absently massaging the dull ache of his wounded arm. Not for show, this time, nor for approbation from his "audience" as he play-acted the pensive hero for their admiration or applause.

From dour remembrance, as he recalled that hideously glorious scene afresh, the scents and sounds, the rocking of his quarterdeck as Proteus swashed her way down the line, toward that gap…

"They paid for their mistake, sirs… indeed," he told them.

A re they daft?" Lieutenant Langlie, the First Officer, commented as he lowered his telescope, after watching the nearest brace of Dutch sloops open fire on Venerable and Triumph.

"Perhaps more desperate than daft, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said as he stepped back towards the wheel and compass binnacle. "If they've waited so long for the winds to shift, so they can come out, maybe cooperate in some French intrigue based in the Channel ports… well, this fat Dutch mynheer de Wynter can't run back into harbour without being seen doing something!"

They watched as HMS Triumph yawed to show more of her starboard beam, opening the limited arcs of her guns, as she intersected the enemy's line. With a titanic roar, she opened with a full broadside, the first and the most carefully aimed and laid in any battle, at the next Dutch ship astern of the one already pummeled by Venerable. That was a deathblow of 32-pounder and upper gundeck 18-pounder iron shot that tore giant gouges and eruptions of side-timbers, that harvested upper yards and masts in an eyeblink! They could hear horrid thuds or howls of rivened wood, as scantlings and beams shattered.

"Do we sail on like this, we'll mask her guns," Lewrie decided aloud, to his quarterdeck officers. "Let's bear up to windward, three points or so, Mister Langlie, and pass upwind of her."

"Aye, sir."

"Deck, there!" a lookout, high aloft on the mainmast, shouted down to them. "Two Dutch brigs alee… four points off t'starboard bows!"

That gap was filling with a rolling wall of spent powder smoke, but even from the deck they could espy the spectral shapes of two light Dutch warships, hesitantly hovering under reduced sail, and firing at Venerable. Venerable, already busy with her larboard guns, replied to that harassing long-range fire with a starboard broadside. The Dutch brig was swatted away, much like a pesky midge; great chunks of timber were blown from her sides and bulwarks, while a sudden hurricane erupted 'round her hull and waterline, like massive breakers crashing on a rocky shoreline.