Reefs and Shoals

“I’ll be below for a bit, before Noon Sights, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie told the First Officer.

He barely made it to the bottom of the windward ladderway when he heard a series of yips and barks, and spotted a shaggy tan-and-white dog dashing for him, its long-haired tail whipping.

“Where did that come from?” Lewrie snapped. “Mister Westcott?”

“Don’t know, sir!” Lt. Westcott answered, looking down to the ship’s waist from the quarterdeck nettings.

The dog whined and circled round Lewrie, tongue lolling, with what could be deemed a grin on its face, bounding up on its hind legs as if to encourage petting.

“Well, he wasn’t aboard when we left England, nor Bermuda,” Lewrie snapped. The dog was sniffing at his boots and knee buttons. It barked once more, then sat on its haunches for a brief moment before leaping once more. “Silly bastard,” Lewrie growled; “where the Devil did you spring from, hey?”

He was answered with a whiny “yah-yeow” and another bound. He put out a hand to pat it on its head, and the next second, the hound had both paws on his chest, as high as it could reach, grinning fit to bust, and squirming with joy to be petted.

“Oh! Ah…!”

Lewrie looked forward to the hatchway to the gun-deck and saw Midshipmen Munsell and Rossyngton, looking extremely sheepish.

“Did you bring this dog aboard, young sirs?” Lewrie snapped.

“Sir, he’s ahh… the mascot of our mess, sir,” Rossyngton answered, after a gulp or two. “Get down, Bisquit! Here, boy!”

The dog looked up adoringly at Lewrie’s face, gave him a look as if to say “see you later”, and bounded off to the Midshipmen.

“You two snuck this dog aboard?” Lewrie asked, putting on his “stern” face. “Without permission? Found it starving on the streets of Nassau, did you; and took pity?”

“Oh no, sir!” Rossyngton corrected. “He came off the Mersey, sir. It was her Midshipmen that found him first, but their captain and officers ordered him gone. They’ve a pack of hunting dogs aboard, well… half a dozen or so… and didn’t want a cur mounting their bitches when they came in heat.”

“Put him back ashore twice, sir, but Mersey ’s Mids always found a way to sneak him back aboard,” Munsell breathlessly added. “Honest to God, sir, their captain was so angry they’d done so that he ordered Bisquit drowned in a sack, sir, and… it was take him as our mascot or see him killed!”

That sounds like Forrester! Lewrie thought in sudden anger; He always was a cruel bastard!

“He and his officers hunt on shore a lot, do they?” Lewrie asked.

“It would seem so, sir,” Rossyngton told him, petting the dog which was pressing and nuzzling at his free hand for attention.

“We’ll feed him from our rations, sir; he’ll be no bother,” Midshipman Munsell assured.

“That’ll be the day!” Lewrie scoffed. “The Midshipmen’s mess’d eat hay, and kindling wood, to get their fill! Even double rations are not enough for growing lads. That’s why you purchase ‘millers’ from the Jack-In-The-Breadroom.”

Nothin’ more satisfyin’ than roast rat that’s fed on bisquit, oatmeal and flour! Lewrie recalled from his own younger days, and just how much meat there was on one, as good as squirrel any day, once the hide, dusted as white as a grist mill worker or baker, was removed.

“The Purser, nor the Cook, either, will issue you a mouthful more than your proper due,” Lewrie warned them. “You couldn’t keep body and soul together for yourselves, much less support… him.”

“Bisquit, sir,” Rossyngton reiterated.

“We were going to name him Bandit, for his mask and muzzle, sir, but…” Munsell stuck in.

Was it possible that the dog somehow knew that its fate was being decided? It came forward from the Mids to sit at Lewrie’s feet and peer up, its stand-and-fall cocked ears perked. Lewrie could see why they’d almost named it Bandit, for its muzzle was much darker fur, approaching black, and there was a dark streak across its forehead and eyes, with the eyes themselves outlined in white fur. It whined and lifted one paw to touch Lewrie’s knee.

“Male, is he? Not going to come in heat?” Lewrie asked.

“Aye, sir, a male,” Munsell replied, sounding more hopeful.

“There’s worse creatures carried aboard ships, I suppose. We had a mongoose the Marines had found aboard my old frigate, Proteus. ” Lewrie allowed. “Captain Speaks and his damned parrot. He’ll need meat. He can’t live on porridge, cheese, and wormed bisquit.”

Lewrie looked about the deck in thought, noting that his crew seemed to be hanging on his decision, as well. He was the victim of a pacific mutiny! A friendly and playful dog would be the pet of the entire ship, not just the Midshipmen’s mess, and they were all aware of its presence days before.

What’s the harm? Lewrie asked himself.

“’Til we can obtain more, I’ve jerked meat and hard sausages for my cats, aft,” Lewrie said at last. “I can contribute to feeding him, somewhat. As I’m sure the ship’s people will be willing to hand over beef and pork bones, ’stead of casting them over the side.”

“Thank you, sir!” Munsell exclaimed.

“God help ye, ye flea-ridden mutt, but I suppose you’re ours,” Lewrie decided, leaning down to pet the dog, which set off a frenzied and playful reaction. It even rolled over to have its belly rubbed!

“We’ll take good care of him, sir, and he won’t be in the way,” Rossyngton vowed.

“Just keep him off the quarterdeck, and away from my cats,” Lewrie cautioned.

“Aye aye, sir!”

Lewrie gave it one last patting, then went aft to the door to his great-cabins.

“No, Bisquit!” he heard Munsell say.

Lewrie turned back to see the dog squatting to take a shit in gratitude.

“And clean all that up!” Lewrie barked.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Days later, Reliant and her little squadron struck the coast of Cuba, and the Old Bahama Channel, near Bahia de Nuevitas, and turned West-Nor’westerly to run up the deeps of the channel, skirting close ashore of Spanish Cuba, keeping an eye out for enemy shipping or privateers.

Lewrie regretted that he didn’t have enough bottoms to maintain a close blockade of the Cuban coast, for, as Columbus had discovered long before, there were hundreds of places for privateers or warships to lurk behind the fringe cays, and in the many “pocket” harbours and bays that stretched from Nuevitas almost to Havana. There was Bahia de Jiguey, fronted and shielded from the sea by Cayo Guajaba, Cayo Cruz, and Cayo Romano. Bahia de Perros was also fronted by Cayo Coco to the West of Cayo Romano; even further West lay Bahia de Buena Vista and Cayo Santa Maria and Cayo Fragoso.

To satisfy his curiosity, and to assure that French and Spanish privateers were not using those havens, Lewrie took his squadron West up the Nicholas Channel, well South of Cay Sal Bank, along the long scattering of the Archipielago de Sabana, which consisted of umpteen hundreds of cays, with so many channels and inlets between them that a foe could dash from one end to the next and pick any he wished to make an escape. And, by the time that they had peeked into Bahia de Santa Clara, Bahia de Cardenas, and Cayo Blanco, Lewrie was even further convinced that Cuba’s North coast badly needed patrolling. He had not seen another British warship in all that time; not ’til they came level with the much larger and deeper Bahia de Matanzas, and the approaches to Havana did they come across a pair of sloops of war which stood off to form a weak blockading force!

Letters to Admiralty, soonest, Lewrie determined; My Lords may I humbly submit… and all that blather. Hmm… fire one off to Forrester, too, and if he don’t act on it, he just might end up appearin’ damned idle, and dangerously remiss!