Reefs and Shoals

He’ll need a good, long vacation t’get over this, Lewrie told himself; The long march to Saint Augustine ought to do it.

Lewrie saw him over the side, doffing his hat in salute, and Cox’n Desmond made another effort at a departure call.

“Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said, turning back in-board.

“Aye, sir?”

“Once all the Spanish are ashore, we’re going to fetch off all their boats,” Lewrie informed him. “Once that’s done, and we’ve gotten all our people back aboard, we’re going to sink the ones we can’t use, and then… I wish you to see to the destruction of the prizes.”

“Scuttle them as well, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked.

“No. Set fire to them and burn them to Hell.”

“Cleverly done, sir,” Lt. Darling dared comment. “Getting the information from the Spaniard… and gulling him.”

Clever? Me? Lewrie scoffed to himself. And all before breakfast? Mine arse on a band-box!

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The urge to host a celebratory supper aboard Reliant was strong once the four-ship squadron gained the open sea, but there was still the coast above Mayami Bay to be scouted, the uncertainties of their charts to be dealt with, and sea-room out towards the Gulf Stream to be made. Lewrie sent round bottles of champagne from his newly won case-none necessary to the crafty Lt. Darling who had his own-and a bit of bad news for Lt. Lovett. Someone had to return to Nassau with the privateers’ papers and Letters of Marque. Lewrie urged the energetic and piratical Lovett to make his stay at Nassau as brief as possible, then return to re-join Thorn and Lizard off Saint Augustine to form a scouting-blockading force; under no circumstances was he to be brow-beaten back into Captain Francis Forrester’s clutches!

To Lt. Darling in Thorn, Lewrie sent formal written orders for him to take temporary command of the squadron ’til Reliant returned from her diplomatic mission and, once Lt. Lovett and HMS Firefly were back in the fold, to scout, harass, and engage any Spanish vessels they came across. Were there no merchantmen or light warships to fight, Lt. Darling was to make a nuisance along the coast, as long as he did not take on anything too rash.

“Boats away, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked as he mounted to the quarterdeck.

“Both away, and returning, sir,” the First Officer replied, “orders, champagne, and all safely delivered. If the Mids in charge, or the oarsmen, didn’t drink them right up.”

“Something to be said for a late breakfast… or a very early dinner, combined,” Lewrie commented, still savouring one of Yeovill’s French-style omelettes with cheese, crumbled bacon, and onion, and a cup or three of strong coffee to slosh it down. He let go a discreet belch of appreciation, then turned to look aft and to larboard. The smoke from the burning ships and boats they had left in Mayami Bay still stained the horizon, even from ten miles offshore and twenty-odd miles astern. Lewrie smiled in satisfaction as he strolled to the hammock stanchions and nettings at the forward edge of the quarterdeck. “What’s with the damned dog, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked. “I saw him huddled under the ladderway as I came up. Whining. Sick, is he?”

“It doesn’t appear that the discharging of the guns agrees with him, sir,” Westcott told him. “As soon as we went to Quarters, and the guns were run in for loading, he started cowering. I had one of the powder monkeys take him by the collar and lead him below to the orlop… with your cats, sir. Your steward, Pettus, will know more of what happened then.”

“Well, cannon fire, or thunder, don’t agree with the livestock up forrud, either,” Lewrie said, “and don’t get me started on what my eats do. Perhaps a warship isn’t the right place for him. Might be, a farm’d suit him better. Then, he’d only have stormy weather t’deal with. Ye might mention that to the Mids, as to whether they think the poor thing’d suffer less ashore.”

Midshipmen Munsell and Rossyngton, the youngest of the cockpit mess, at that moment strolled aft towards the base of the main mast, and, to their whistles and invitations, Bisquit darted out from his refuge and pranced about them, tail wagging madly.

“So much for being too fearful, sir,” Westcott said with one brow up, and a quick, savage grin on his face. “Perhaps, like any ’pressed lubber, he’ll learn to cope.”

“He would… damn him,” Lewrie muttered.

“He’s good for the ship’s morale, sir, you will have to admit,” Lt. Westcott pointed out. “Everyone but your cats adores the beast.”

“ Et tu, sir? Et tu? ” Lewrie said with a wry snicker.

Lt. Westcott’s answer to that was a laugh.

“The last cast of the log, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked, turning to more practical matters.

“Eight knots and a bit, sir,” Westcott said, more formally.

“Does this wind hold, then, we’ll be off Saint Augustine about sundown tomorrow,” Lewrie speculated. “We could leave the others then, or… we could stay long enough for the Dons to catch sight of us before breaking away. A Fifth Rate frigate will make a greater impression than three smaller sloops by themselves. After that… we will stand out to enter the Gulf Stream and rush on for Wilmington.”

“Much of a place, is it, sir?” Westcott asked.

“Not as large a port as Charleston, but busy enough, so far as I remember from my times there in the Revolution,” Lewrie told him. “Not that we’ll see it, exactly, for the town proper’s thirty miles up the Cape Fear River from the mouth. We’ll have to come to anchor in the pratique ground, near old Brunswick Town… if it’s still there. It was three-quarters abandoned and fallin’ down in ’81. I’ll have to take one of the barges up-river. We’ll send a Mid with the other for supplies.”

“Firewood and water… a Purser’s run… and sausages suitable for Bisquit and your cats, sir?” Westcott teased.

“If you, the Mids, and the other officers are so concerned with the dog’s nourishment, one does hope a contribution will be gathered. Hmmm, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie japed.

“Well…” Westcott said, wincing. “So long as it’s not too much. Mean t’say…”

“Got you, again, sir!” Lewrie snickered.

* * *

For a frigate like Reliant, which drew nigh-eighteen feet right aft, even approaching Wilmington and the mouth of the Cape Fear River was a nightmare. Entering the river through New Inlet to the East was out of the question; when the hurricane of 1761 had opened it, it was half a mile wide and eighteen feet deep at high tide, which could vary as much as six feet of ebb to low tide. Below the long sabre-shaped peninsula that lay on the East bank of the river, South of New Inlet, South of Smith Island, or Bald Head, depending upon which chart one used, lay Frying Pan Shoals that stretched out to sea for another eighteen miles, with shifting swash channels between used mostly by fishermen and small coastal trading vessels… so long as they could swim in six or seven feet of water!

Much safer, though by no means completely sure, was to approach well Westward of the shoals, under reduced sail, with leadsmen in the fore chains, and anchors ready to let go to haul the ship off quickly should she take the ground. A lot of the bottom was sand and shingle, but the charts showed several coral formations and rocks. From his time before at Wilmington, Lewrie recalled how quickly one could find good, deep water on one beam, and oyster banks and gin-clear water to the other, close enough to touch with an oar, and shallow enough for someone with a rake to stand knee-deep!

When the leadsmen called out that there were five fathoms off either bow, the Sailing Master coughed into his fist and vowed that it might be time to fetch-to and call for a pilot.