Welles sensed the crew's resentment at being shot at and not being able to respond, and he shared their frustration. He briefly considered setting up a stern-chaser. It would deal little damage, but it might bolster morale. Then again, at this point in the chase, the guns would serve
Remonstrative much better once they were no longer encumbering her. The sloop would never outfight her opponents. She might still outrun them.
“Mr. Andrews, throw the guns over the side.”
The lieutenant swallowed hard. “Aye, aye, sir.”
And still the Frenchmen gained ground. Welles was aghast at
Remonstrative; she ought to have had no problem running this close to the wind. The jury-rig alone could not account for this horrible sluggishness. It was as if God Himself was pushing the sloop back into range of the French guns.
“Deck there!” It was Sedgwick, screaming from the maintop. “Sail ho!”
“Where away?” Welles roared, glass instantly to his eye, but Sedgwick was already flying down the shrouds. His shoes slid on the slick deck, and, one hand holding his absurd little round hat to his head, he struggled to find balance.
“Sir, three points off – ”
“Step forward and salute properly, you wretched young gentleman!” Welles snapped. “This is a King's ship, not a damned Thames collier!”
“Aye, aye, sir. Begging your pardon, sir,” said the youth, eyes downcast until he found the courage to meet Welles' glare. “Sail in sight, hull-down, three points off the larboard bow, bearing southwest, if you please, sir. A frigate, sir, I’m sure of it.”
He had Andrews confirm the report. Another frigate. Please God may she be English. If, by some incredible stroke of ill fortune she was another Frenchman, there was no possible escape for
Remonstrative. She would be pinned in the middle of a triangle formed by three hungry enemies, eager to take an English vessel after so many bitter defeats at sea. This poor little sloop...
Amélie was still firing at long range, and despite the increasingly heavy sea, her shots were coming closer to
Remonstrative's stern. She would be in range in minutes, perhaps less. He peered through his glass at the new sail on the horizon. She was nearly hull-up – there she was. God be praised. She was undoubtedly English, the
Phoenix, perhaps. Thirty-six guns. Might they survive the day after all?
But really, Welles thought critically, the odds were hardly improved. There was no chance of victory for a single frigate and an unarmed sloop against two French frigates; only the barest hope that the English frigate might delay the Frenchmen long enough for
Remonstrative to escape with the despatches. The sound of gunfire would attract other ships of the Channel Fleet, he knew, but would they come in time? Would
Phoenix be close enough to prevent the Frenchmen from dismasting
Remonstrative and carrying her (and the despatches) into Brest? Single shots from a long nine might deal plenty of damage to the sloop's sails, but it would be nothing compared to the fiery death sure to come when
Amélie put her helm over and presented her full broadside.
Time passed agonizingly slowly as the sloop struggled against the wind while the Frenchmen seemed to glide along, unhurried, untroubled by the Channel weather. Welles heard Andrews, Duncan, and the master's mates muttering amongst one another, discussing their chances of escape, no doubt. He would have normally silenced them with a single look, but so lost was he in his thoughts that their words were little more than a droning in the background.
The English frigate was drawing nearer; by now she must have sighted
Remonstrative and her pursuers. Welles was certain by now that she was indeed the
Phoenix.
“Mr. Williams, signal
Phoenix,” he said. “'
Am pursued by enemy frigates. Am bearing despatches for Portsmouth.'”
“Aye, sir.” The flags went up and snapped sharply in the wind.
A pause, a terribly long pause –
Amélie was closer than ever – then finally the response.
2) The fountain outside looks pretty cool at night:
3) Detail on the monitor mixing board backstage.
