Reefs and Shoals

about almost in her own length before calling for a few strokes of both banks together, just enough to glide her to the main channel and battens. “Toss yer oars! Hook on, forrud!” and the rowers hoisted their oars from the tholes.

Using mens’ shoulders for bracing, Lewrie went to amidships of the gig, stood teetering on the gunn’l for a second, then stepped onto the chain platform to swing to the battens and man-ropes. He tucked his hundred-guinea presentation sword behind his left leg and climbed up quickly. As the dog’s vane of his cocked hat peeked over the lip of the entry-port, the Bosuns’ silver calls began to fweep a salute. And, once in-board on the starboard sail-tending gangway, there were Marines in full kit and sailors in shoregoing rig presenting arms.

“Welcome aboard Mersey, sir,” a Lieutenant with a plummy and top-lofty Oxonian drawl said in welcome, his bicorne fore-and-aft hat doffed.

“Captain Alan Lewrie, of the Reliant frigate, sir,” he replied, introducing himself even as he doffed his own hat.

“Sir Alan, sir. Lieutenant Hubbard, your servant, sir,” the fellow said. “Second officer into Mersey. Captain Forrester is aft in his cabins. If you will come this way, sir?”

“Francis Forrester?” Lewrie gawped. “‘The Honourable’ Francis Forrester, is he?”

“He is indeed, Sir Alan,” Lt. Hubbard told him. “Do you already have the honour of his acquaintance, sir?”

Christ, that pig-faced bastard! Lewrie thought.

“Served together, long ago,” Lewrie said, leaving it at that.

He’d come down with the Yellow Jack and had been put ashore, to most-like die, from the Parrot schooner, had spent some time on staff to Rear-Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews at Antigua, then had finally won a sea-going berth aboard the HMS Desperate under that daft lunatick, Commander Tobias Treghues. Francis Forrester had been cater-cousin and “pet” to Treghues, and had made life for the rest of Desperate ’s Mids a pluperfect Hell. Forrester back during the American Revolution had been a fubsy, crusty, round young fellow, and an arrogant, sneering pig to boot. Lewrie and the other Mids had once gotten some of their own back by obtaining some royal blue lead paint and had given Forrester a goatee, a fat and curling mustachio, and blue cheekbones as he slept, snoring like a stoat. Treghues had been outraged, and, being good paint, after drying in the overnight hours, it had not come off for weeks, no matter what Forrester used to scrub at it!

I read in Steeles that he’d been made Post, Lewrie told himself as they went aft; but I never expected t’see him in the flesh… of which he had very much… the rest o’ this life!

Lt. Hubbard spoke in the Marine sentry’s ear. The Marine private jerked his head in a short nod, then stamped boots, slammed the butt of his musket on the deck and bawled “Cap’m Sir Alan Lewrie, SAH!”

Music to Lewrie’s ears, it was, for instead of the usual calm return cry of “Come!” or “Enter!” from within the great-cabins, there could be heard a startled “Wha’?”, a long pause, then an “Enter!”

Lt. Hubbard slightly raised one brow in surpise, then opened the door for Lewrie to step through. He ducked his head to avoid the overhead deck beams, then made his way aft past the dining coach, the chart space, into the spacious day-cabin.

Lives well, Francis does, Lewrie thought as he took in all the finery. Captain Forrester’s furniture was exquisitely made and shining with beeswax polish, and there was a faint tinge of lemon oil as if freshly buffed that morning. The black-and-white painted canvas deck chequer looked spanking new, where one could see it past the edges of several colourful, and expensive, Turkey or Axminster carpets. All the settee area furniture was of gleaming cherry wood, upholstered in dark brown leather; collapsible and stowable at short notice, certainly, but looked more substantial than most sea-going pieces. All the interior bulkheads above the wainscotting were painted in a soothing mint green, with mouldings added in cream and gilt. There were satiny drapes for the windows in the transom in a cream colour, pale green cushions and contrasting throw pillows for the transom settee, and a satiny coverlet for Forrester’s hanging bed-cot, and the flimsy deal and canvas collapsible partitions were done in that mint green, with white louvred shutters in the upper halves.

Forrester himself sat behind a long and wide day-cabin desk of cherry, one that rested on X-shaped folding frames, with lots of well-polished brass accents. Forrester, well…

By God, we once said he was battenin’ like a hog ready for the fall slaughter, Lewrie gleefully thought; and damned if he ain’t gone fubsier since!

Captain Francis Forrester’s uniform was elegantly tailored, of the finest broadcloth wool for the coat and waist-coat, of the finest and softest cotton denim sailcloth for the breeches, and the whitest cotton or linen for his shirt, but… he did put a strain on it!

Lewrie walked up to the desk, hat under his left arm, and gave Forrester a nod. “Francis. It’s been a long time. How d’ye keep?” Captain Forrester did not at once reply; he seemed dumbstruck, as if pole-axed like a beef cow. His face looked flush, and his cheekbones were even redder… putting Lewrie into a fond, blue-tinged, memory. Forrester’s eyes were glued to the medals, the bright blue silk sash, and the gleaming star on Lewrie’s chest. At last he looked up, with a faint scowl blossoming.

“Captain Lewrie,” he gravelled. “You are come as re-enforcement to my squadron?” Forrester asked.

“Sorry, no,” Lewrie replied with a grin. “In point of fact, I am come to borrow a few small sloops from you, so I may break out my own broad pendant.”

“The Devil you say!” Forrester snapped, turning tetchy. “Come for some of my warships?”

“Only a couple or three,” Lewrie said, trying to sound assuring. He reached into the breast pocket of his uniform coat and drew out the orders. “This is addressed to the Senior Officer Present in the Bahamas… perhaps your appointment here was only a few days after? If you give it a looking over, you’ll see what Admiralty intends. I’m to put together a small group of shoal-draught vessels able to go close inshore, poke into inlets, bays and rivers in Spanish Florida, to hunt down French and Spanish privateers.”

“The suppression of privateers is properly my duty, Lewrie!” Forrester snapped, turning a tad redder in the face, if such was possible. “Florida is not an hundred miles West of here, and the vessels of my squadron, few as they already are, have their hands full patrolling the Florida Straits, not to mention making regular rounds of the whole of the Bahamas, down to the Turks and Caicos, and the Inagua Islands… protecting the salt trade. Why… these orders are impossible to fulfill! I’ve nothing to spare! Not even that little sloop that just came in.”

“Uhm, the Lizard sloop is with me, actually,” Lewrie told him, striving for a mild tone, and chiding himself not to gloat. “I drug him off from Bermuda, where he, Lieutenant Bury, was the senior officer present at the moment.”

And damn yer bloody eyes, but are ye ever going t’offer me a seat, or a glass o’ somethin’? Lewrie inwardly fumed.

“Good God!” Forrester spat, like to shake himself to wake from a very bad dream. He looked as miserable as a hanged spaniel.

“If you’ll look over the orders, sir,” Lewrie prompted, holding them out once more. “And, might I sit down, sir?”

“How remiss of me,” Forrester said, dead-level in his tone of voice, for it was nowhere near a sociable apology. “Do, sir, sit.” He looked over at one of entourage of cabin servants and snapped his fingers. “Some hock?”

“Most welcome, sir,” Lewrie agreed. Reminding Forrester that his Post-Captaincy predated Lewrie’s, and that he was higher up the Navy List, seemed to mollify him… somewhat.

The wine arrived whilst Forrester continued to read the orders over, several times, it seemed, his piggy eyes darting and squinting as if in pain. The cabin servant was tricked out in immaculate white shirt and slop-trousers, wore a black neck-stock round his collars, and white gloves, nigh as grand as a waiter in a London chop house! The bottle stood in a shiny pewter bucket, dripping water as it was removed, and Lewrie definitely heard the sound of ice chunks as the steward did so. Aye, the wine was iced!

“Yankee Doodles,” Forrester disparagingly commented. “Come to buy salt, and sell lumber and New England winter ice. Pity, for this lot may be the last ’til next November or December.”

“Yes, I recall the ice-houses of Nassau,” Lewrie replied, “and how hard it is t’pick all the straw and sawdust off