Reefs and Shoals

reckonin’!” one hopeful older hand assured him. “Music an’ fetchin’ girls visitin’ round th’ clock, they say, ye lucky ol’ devil!”

It wasn’t the entry-port for Rahl, though. Bosun Sprague had rigged a lift for the four handles of the carrying board, The main-mast course yardarm was fitted for hoisting out, with hands standing by at braces and clews to raise him up and out-board of the starboard gangway bulwarks, then down into a waiting cutter. Rahl’s battered old sea-chest, has hammock, rolled up into a fat sausage with all of his bedding and spare clothing, and a pale grey sea-bag sat amidships to be lowered down, too… meagre as it was, that represented everything that Rahl had amassed in decades of spartan Navy life.

“I’ve his Discharge papers, and pay chits, sir,” Mainwaring told Lewrie, who had come down from the gangway to shake Rahl’s hand one last time. “I’ll see him ashore, myself, if that’s alright?”

“Perfectly fine, Mister Mainwaring,” Lewrie agreed. “Will he… make it through?” he asked the Surgeon in a softer voice.

“Touch and go, sir, touch and go,” Mainwaring said with a sigh. “He’s old, but he’s a tough old bird. Assuming he gets good care and sepsis does not set in, he stands a decent chance of surviving, but at his age, what life would be like, well…” he wondered, shrugging.

“Hoist away, handsomely,” Bosun Sprague ordered, and the course yard began to tip upwards, bearing Rahl aloft.

“Don’t let your fellow pensioners talk you into cookin’ for ’em, Mister Rahl!” Lewrie shouted to the departing burden. “Three cheers, lads. See your shipmate off with a cheer!”

Bosun’s Mate Wheeler began a long call on his pipe; the Marine boy-drummer rattled the Long Roll, and a fiddler and fifer began a gay tune, “The Bowld Soldier Boy”, the air that was played aboard Reliant when the rum keg was fetched on deck, that usually brought joy.

“Sway out, easy!” Bosun Sprague directed, and Rahl’s sling-load slowly swung out-board, above the starboard gangway bulwarks. “Aft a bit… ’vast hauling!” as Rahl hung above the open entry-port.

Just before Sprague ordered the yardarm to dip, the last that Rahl’s shipmates saw of him was his right hand feebly raised above his blankets, giving them all a goodbye wave and a “thumbs-up”.

“Bit more… a bit more,” Midshipman Entwhistle called, standing in the open entry-port, looking down into the waiting cutter. “A foot of slack, there.”

“We have him!” Midshipman Warburton, in charge of the cutter, reported. “Carrying board’s secure, and the lines are free.”

The cheers and the happy tune faded away as the Surgeon left the ship to descend to the cutter, and his patient, with only the customary honours.

“Ship’s comp’ny, on hats, and dismiss,” Lt. Westcott ordered, and the men fell silent, drifting off in threes and fours, or idling on deck despite the cold in eight-man messes, gun-crews, or mast-tender groups. Mostly looking very glum.

“Rather a lot of change, of a sudden, sir,” Westcott muttered as he and Lewrie mounted to the quarterdeck together. “Perhaps too much for them, in one morning.”

“Promotion, departure, people discharged,” Lewrie mused aloud. “Happens all the time in the Navy. At least six of the people gettin’ promoted, and more pay. I should think there’ll be some celebrations, by supper this evening.”

“Might I suggest talking to them before supper, sir,” Westcott said, leaning close. “And ‘splice the main-brace’ to give them cause to celebrate? The people brood on it, and they might take this morning as a bad omen, right before the start of a winter sailing.”

“A bad omen, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked, frowning heavily. “D’ye really think so?”

“They already know we’ve sailing orders, sir,” Westcott went on, standing close with his hands in the small of his back. “And it’s sure to be a stormy passage. That’s gloom-making enough, but now…”

“It ain’t like the ship’s rats’re leapin’ overboard,” Lewrie said back, with a disparaging laugh, but then thought better of that.

They could take it as a bad omen, he realised; and damme if I ain’t feelin’ a bit fey, myself! Now where’s a good-luck seal that I can whistle up?

“Hmmm… you may be right, Mister Westcott,” he told the First Lieutenant. “Aye, we will ‘splice the main-brace’ at the second rum issue, and see that the people get fresh roast meat, and a figgy-dowdy for supper… damned near a Christmas feast. I’ll speak to the cook, and see to the arrangements.”

“So they can congratulate the newly promoted, and see the upset as an opportunity, aye, sir!” Westcott said, baring his teeth in one of his nigh-savage characteristic grins.

“Just so long as the officers don’t mind making some minor contributions to said feast, hey, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie japed. “Can’t be expected t’foot the bill all by myself. Hmm?”

Westcott looked close to a shiver; whether it was the wintery wind that caused it, or the loss of nearly a pound from his purse in pursuit of his aim. “ Touche, sir.”

“ Touche, Hell, Mister Westcott, I barely grazed ye!” Lewrie said with a satisfied smirk.

BOOK I LETTER OF MARQUE

A commission granted by the lords of the Admiralty or by the vice-admiral on any distant province, to the commander of a merchant ship, or privateer, to cruize against, and make prize of, the enemy’s ships and vessels, either at sea, or in their harbours.

– FALCONER’S MARINE DICTIONARY 1780 E DITION

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Reliant frigate left Portsmouth on the last Monday in January, after four days at anchor in the Sutherlymost protection of St. Helen’s Patch, near the Isle of Wight, waiting for a slant of wind, and taking aboard the last necessities and luxuries for a long winter voyage. An icy shift from the Nor’east came at last, and she hoisted sail and raised her anchors, severing her last, slightest connexion to England, and pounded out into the riotous Chops of the Channel.

The first day and night, she could bowl along under reduced sail, pushed by the forceful following winds. Her top-hamper, all her t’gallants and royals-masts, sails, yards, and stays-had been brought down and stowed alongside the spare ones even before she left harbour, in expectation of storm conditions that might prevail right across the entire Atlantic.

The second day at sea, the winds blew just as strongly, shifting more Easterly, allowing a slanting course closer to the Lizard and Land’s End than the French side of the Channel, and Cape Ushant, letting them stand out further to the West with the winds fine on the starboard quarter, with the frigate booming and thudding through the heaving, churning waves.

By the third dawn, though, the fickle winds changed direction, howling an Arctic blast down upon them from the Nor’west, pushing the seas slamming against Reliant ’s starboard sides, starting a sickening, wallowing heave and roll that had even the saltiest hands gagging at the lee rails. It was the roughest sort of beam-sea, and maintaining a beam reach required hands aloft to take reefs in the courses and tops’ls, reduce the spanker, and take in upper stays’ls completely. The only good thing that could be said for that day was that Reliant could still steer roughly West, gaining even more of an offing from the dangerous lee shoal of the French Bay of Biscay coast. Lewrie could turn into his swaying bed-cot that night a bit