Reefs and Shoals

Not much choice, really.

“Well, then. I intend to idle at anchor at least a whole day, through tomorrow. Give the hands a well-earned rest after the voyage we’ve had. Allow the chandlers and bum-boats alongside?” Lewrie idly said. “After that, the wind permitting, I’d be much obliged to you, did you pilot us up through, The Narrows, and into Grassy Bay, so that I may speak with Bury.”

“You have it, Cap’m Lewrie!” Warrick quickly agreed. “Now… if you’ll be ready, and if there’s not a scramble over a new ship coming in, there’s no need to make a hoist, asking for a pilot, see?” The man actually winked at him! “I’ll come out to you, and we’ll be off!”

“That would be most agreeable, Mister Warrick,” Lewrie replied.

* * *

Once Warrick and his sons had tumbled down the battens into the boat and had set off for Town Cut, Lewrie returned to the quarterdeck.

“We’ll be entering port, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked.

“I think not, Mister Westcott, sorry,” Lewrie told him. “We’ll hoist the Easy pendant to whistle up the bum- boats, and let the Purser go ashore for fresh victuals, but Saint George’s doesn’t look that promising. Did they send out all the doxies, I doubt they’d make a corporal’s guard.”

“I see, sir,” Westcott said, sounding a tad disappointed.

“I doubt there’s more than a half-dozen decent-lookin’ girls on the whole island, and the men of Bermuda most-like guard ’em like the bloody Crown Jewels, anyway,” Lewrie told him, smiling and chuckling. “We’re ordered to visit all the major ports in America, from Cape Fear to Savannah, Mister Westcott, and Nassau, to boot, so you will have your… opportunities, hmm? Take joy o’ that!”

“Oh, very good, sir!”

“Anything needful t’see to, sir?” Lewrie asked, turning back to ship’s business.

“Over the last few days of decent weather, sir, we’ve re-rove all the frayed or snapped rigging, patched or replaced all the torn sails, and replaced the odd broken spars in the topmasts, so there’s not that much to see to, really,” Westcott reported, more crisply.

“Summon all hands, if you will, sir,” Lewrie ordered.

Bosun Sprague plied his silver call, piping the hands up from below, summoning the on-deck watch to gather in the waist or on the sail-tending gangways. Lewrie stepped to the top of the starboard ladderway to the waist to address them.

“Men, we’ve reached the first stop of our voyage, and it’s been a hellish chore t’get here, as well you all know, hey?” Lewrie began. “We’ve put the ship to rights, as the First Officer informs me… and now it’s time to put your things to rights.

“We’ll not put the ship Out of Discipline, but we will allow the bum-boats alongside for fresh fruits and victuals,” he went on. “By tonight’s mess, I hope to obtain fresh meat and shore bread for your suppers, too. Right, Mister Cadbury?”

“Right, sir,” the Purser, who was standing by to go ashore in one of the ship’s boats, heartily agreed; though how much it would cost him out of his slim profits he would not express, even by a tiny frown or wince.

“We’ll have ‘all night in’, tonight,” Lewrie continued, noting the smiles breaking out, “and the second rum issue for the day will be ‘splice the main-brace’. Tomorrow…”

Lusty cheers interrupted him for half a minute.

“And tomorrow will be ‘make-and-mend’ to dry out and repair your kits,” Lewrie concluded. “Mister Westcott? Dismiss the hands.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

And I’ll sleep the bloody clock round, myself, at long last! Lewrie promised himself.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I think I’m beginnin’ to regret this, Lewrie thought in trepidation as the pilot, Mr. Warrick, conned Reliant across Murray’s Anchorage towards Grassy Bay, two days later, after the winds had come fair. The Bermuda Islands lay too far North of the tropics to own reliable Trade Winds, and too far South of the North Atlantic Westerlies, in the belt of the Variables, to trust from which quarter the wind would blow, two days running.

Likewise the islands’ weather, the garrulous Mr. Warrick imparted in the idle moments between dashes to either beam of the deck, and many consultations of the ship’s binnacle-mounted compass. One could count on fairly mild weather, even in high summer, with temperatures rarely above the low eighties, but only a few degrees of relief after sundown. It could rain at least twice a week, and blow up a stronger quarter-gale at least every ten days to a fortnight. All that precipitation was welcome, though, for Bermuda was not blessed with all that many springs, and the rain was funnelled down into stone cisterns from the rooves, which every private house possessed, for later.

Taking pity on a new-come, Warrick piloted Reliant along the North Channel, which was deeper and more open, rather than the South Channel, which even Warrick admitted could be very tricky. Even so, Lewrie felt it quite enough un-nerving to look overside and see just how clear the waters were, and how close they were to the Three Hill Shoals, and how gin-clear and knee-deep the flats to the North were!

Near the Chimneys Shoal, Warrick directed the frigate into a turn to the Sou’west to stand well away from Devil’s Flats, then into a welcome “lake” of deep water, before threading a channel through the White Flats, a passage even narrower than The Narrows, which had been harrowing enough, just thankee! Well West of the vast expanse of Brackish Pond Flats, and with North Ireland Island off the starboard bows, Warrick reckoned that they could round up into the wind and safely anchor just about anywhere; they were in Grassy Bay.

There was only one other vessel in sight, a two-masted sloop anchored off Long Shoal to the Sou’east, with a rowing gig idling at the edge of the shoal.

“They don’t seem to be paying much attention to our arrival, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, after a long look with a telescope. Upon his face there sprang one of his brief, feral, tooth-bearing grins, in anticipation of somebody getting a strip torn off his arse. “Perhaps we should fire a gun to wake them up?”

“Bring my gig up from astern, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie decided, “and pass word for my boat crew. I think I want t’see what this Bury fellow’s like in his own element. Who knows, he might offer me a fine fish.”

* * *

Someone had been awake aboard HMS Lizard, for a small jolly boat had set out for the shoal and the gig a bit before Lewrie’s gig began to row over. There was a flurry of activity, a scramble of people into the far-off gig, and a furious row back to Lizard before Lewrie’s boat could arrive.

“Permission to come aboard?” Lewrie shouted up to the deck as his boat crew hooked on to the sloop’s main chains and began to ship oars.

“Aye aye, sir!” a flummoxed Lieutenant, a fellow in his early twenties, quickly replied, whilst hastily mustering a side-party fit enough to receive a Post-Captain. Feeling devilish, Lewrie did not stand on ceremony, but scrambled up the battens and man-ropes before the sloop’s Bosun could even begin a call.

“Captain Alan Lewrie, the Reliant frigate,” he said, doffing his hat to the flag and the young officer.

“L-lieutenant Rainey, sir. Welcome aboard the Lizard. The captain, ehm, Lieutenant Bury, is aft at the moment, sir, if you’ll pardon…” the young fellow babbled.

“We could be seen entering the bay from quite a way off,” Lewrie casually commented.

“Harbour watch, sir, and a ‘Make and Mend’ day, and some of the people off with the Captain, and… a thousand