“He couldn’t be that huge a fool as t’leave ’em in place, then anchor right under ’em,” Lewrie commented.

“As I said, sir… he is French, after all,” Westcott said.

“Most-like, the rebels have only field guns… regimental guns of six-, eight-, or twelve-pound shot,” Lewrie speculated.

“Twelve-pounders firing heated shot would more than suffice, at that range from the shore to the anchored French, sir,” Lt. Westcott opined as he briefly doffed his hat to swab his forehead with a faded handkerchief; almost the last day of November in the Year of Our Lord 1803 or not, it was a bright, sunny, and almost windless day.

“Mmm-hmm,” Lewrie agreed, intent again on the ships yonder.

There appeared to be at least two large Compagnie des Indies three-masted ships, as big as East Indiamen, perhaps another brace of similarly-sized French National ships of the line that seemed to be crammed from bilges to poop decks with humanity.

En flute, or completely dis-armed, Lewrie judged them. Else, they’d be completely elbows t’arseholes if they’re still armed, and of a mind t’resist us, he told himself with a wry grin. With no place t’put the women and children if they tried.

There were a couple of frigates, one of them a very handsome and big one of at least 38 guns or better. There were some lighter, smaller two-masted brigs, even some locally-built schooners. Did the French see the sense of it and strike to Loring’s squadron, there’d be a nice pot of prize-money due… even if it had to be shared by every British warship then “in sight” at the moment of their striking their colours.

Don’t half mind the French perishin’ in flames, but… we all could use some “tin,” Lewrie thought; be a shame t’lose those ships.