"Mister Hyde, hoist a signal," Lewrie snapped. "Any one'll do, as if Nelson sent one. Dons can't read it, but… Mister Crewe, serve 'em another! Helmsmen, do you ease a spoke'r two a'weather. Let her fall off the wind a bit."

And open the range, he told himself; so we don't sail right into that mess- get too close-and get squashed like a cockroach!

"Ready, sir! On the up-roll, lads… steady… fire/"

Their slight turn away swung their broadside to point in the general direction of that monstrous four-decker. Mile-and-a-half, it was, for their 9-pounders-Range-To-Random-Shot. And this time that useless-as-dried-peas broadside struck the sea within half a cable of her waterline-flying tortoise-slow by then, Lewrie suspected-the iron round-shot cripple-skipping even closer a time or two.

She fired back!

Such a stupendous, sudden explosion from all her decks of guns that sailors whooped with delight for an ignorant second or two; that they'd somehow struck a weak spot and blown her sky-high!

"Uhm, errr…" Mr. Knolles said again, stoic but corpse-pale.

Oh, shit! was Lewrie's prime thought.

Moans and roars, sounds of tearing silk, irate witches' screams, and heavy surf crashes that went on and on, rustling overhead, beyond the bow and stern! Great pillars and feathers of spray leaped skyward, and the oceans boiled and frothed with more surf noises, as if Jester had conjured up a tropical reef at the entrance to a lagoon! Hundreds of yards to windward though… nowhere near her.

And once the shock had worn off, as chagrined gunners and gangway brace-tenders got back to their feet after flinging themselves down instinctively, Jester s crew began to jeer their hapless foes.

"Uhm, Helmsman… two more points off the wind'd suit," Lewrie shakily ordered, marvelling that he hadn't pissed his breeches.