THE GUN KETCH

'Aye, aye, Captain.'

The six-pounders' wooden trucks squealed as the heavy carriages were hauled up to butt against either bulwark, with the black iron muzzles now protruding through the swung-up gun port lids.

'Overhaul yer breechin' ropes, overhaul yer runout tackles!' Buckinger roared. 'No man steps in a bight, right? Lose a foot, an' ya got none t'blame but y'rself. And-answer t'me later!'

'And here's the wind, please God, sir,' Ballard said with his excitement tightly repressed. Alacrity had cleared Southwest Point, skating across the open waters of Clear Sand Road, and found the ever-present Trades, which laid her over fifteen or more degrees onto her starboard side. 'Hands to the braces, hands to the course sheets!'

She heeled harder still until the angles of her sails were set, then rose up almost level and set her shoulder to the sea, her bluff bows snuffling foam as tops'ls rustled and cracked with the new-found power. One could feel her leap forward, could exult in the way she sprang to life, hot-blooded and eager as a racehorse.

'Hoist the colours,' Lewrie said, as Cony fetched him his coat and hat, and his sword to buckle on.

The three-masted merchantman had turned south once she had seen the suspicious luggers pursuing her, to open the distance and turn the hunt into a long stern chase. But the luggers were fast off the wind, sails winged out like bat's wings and skimming the shallow-draughted boats across the bright blue waters quick as pilot boats. Two of them had gybed and were a little west of the trading ship, while the other three were boring in for her larboard side. As Alacrity plunged along, they could see tiny puffs of smoke on the merchantman's high stern from a pair of light chase guns, and white feathers of spray leap aloft near the luggers. The luggers opened fire in reply, and near-misses splashed close alongside the trader. One hit twirled lumber into the air from her poop rails. What seemed like minutes later, the flat sounds of the artillery reached them like far-off thunder.

'They still don't see us!' Lewrie exulted. 'Quartermaster, a point more aweather. Steer us just inshore of that trio to larboard of the chase. We'll trap them between our guns and hers.'

To leeward there was a clear, sharp horizon, the sea dark blue and winking in the morning sun. Ahead and to windward, the shallower waters were a palette of greens and pale blues, the white breakers of the reefs curling and spuming like artillery shots, and beyond toward morning the Caicos Bank lay still and calm, the palest aquamarine with the clouds mirrored upon it like some desert mirage.

At last, though, someone aboard the luggers looked aft in the act of reloading a boat-gun and gave a great shout of alarm, and Lewrie saw fifty heads swivel about, and fifty mouths gape open in the round iris of his telescope.

Alacrity ran down on them, commissioning pendant streaming long as a tops'l yard, the red ensigns of the Bahamas Squadron flaming huge and menacing to leeward from her taffrail and her foremast truck, her gun ports open, and a frothing white mustache of foam growling under her bows.Fast as the luggers were, Alacrity had infinitely more sail area, a longer waterline, and she drew closer to them as they bore off from the merchantman to run south. The pair to leeward gave up their chase and turned to join their comrades, thinking that there was safety in numbers.

'Mister Ballard, I make the range possible for random shot,' Lewrie said at last. 'Let's try our eye on those two yonder.'

'Aye, aye, sir!' Ballard replied eagerly, almost running to the quarter-deck nettings to look down into the ship's waist. 'Starboard guns, Mister Buckinger! Take them under fire!'

Number One starboard gun barked, its crew shying back from the recoil run as the gun captain jerked the lanyard of the flintlock igniter. The barrel was cold, so even at maximum elevation, the round-shot struck short, but within line of the target. Slowly, the other four cannon of the starboard battery exploded stinking clouds of powder that swirled downwind toward the luggers.

Number One fired again, this time with a warm barrel, and its round-shot scored a hit so close-aboard the leader of the pair that it heeled over almost on its beam ends and rolled back upright, its single mast snapped off and the large lugsail draped over its stern. The trailing lugger ducked leeward behind its injured consort, which act raised sarcastic jeers and catcalls from the British gunners as they pounded shot around the now-stationary target. Another strike lifted the injured lugger clear of the water, breaking it in two and spilling its crew into the sea. The pirate lugger behind it continued on course, weaving at speed to throw off their aim.

'I'd not like to be swimmin' in these waters,' Gatacre shivered. 'Sharks and spets a'plenty. Cowardly bastards. Leave their mates to drown or get chomped. Gahh!'

'Mister Ballard, tell the gun crews well done. Cease fire for now,' Lewrie ordered. 'Quartermaster, put your helm down two points. We'll shift our attention to the trio there. How close may we come to Molasses Reef, Mister Fellows?'

'The charts infer there's ten fathoms within a cable, cable and a half, sir,' Fellows told him, rolling his eyes and shrugging. 'I'd suggest we stand off at least two cables… about 400 yards, Captain. We'll be fetching Molasses Reef in another mile.'

The trio of luggers ahead of them were now bending their course sou'easterly, as though to run down close to Molasses Reef themselves, or make for the reputed deep-water entrance at its north end, trying to dart under Alacrity's bows to escape.

'Quartermaster, helm down another point. Mister Ballard, take the nearest lugger under fire,' Lewrie smiled. 'Discourage them.'

Hot now, the gun barrels had a harsher, more insistent sound, and the low carriages and barrels leapt as they discharged, rearing off their front wheels to crash back to the deck. Hot barrels meant slightly greater range. Five tall feathers of spray erupted as graceful as poplar trees all around the single-masted lugger which trailed the trio. Once the foam and spray had subsided, they could espy her hauling her wind to bear away out of range toward the open sea. The leading pair fitted with two masts turned more southerly to continue to run as well, denied a chance to get to windward.

Alacrity had taken the pass below Southeast Reef from them, the pass above Molasses Reef. Once more the luggers tried to turn up into the wind below Molasses Reef, but Alacrity was too close, and, hauled up onto the wind herself, had cannonaded that idea from their minds. The morning wore on as they chased them south, slowly gaining.

A low-lying spit of sand, French Cay, fell astern by noon, and once more, the luggers turned east to seek escape into the Banks, but Alacrity peppered them with round-shot so fiercely they turned south again, daunted by the rapidity and closeness of her fire.

'West Sand Spit in sight, sir,' Fellows announced. 'Fine on our larboard bows. Five miles, about. There's a long reef with breakers and exposed coral below it. Fifteen miles, it runs, sir, all the way to White Cay and Shot Cay.'

'And no more passes after this 'un?' Lewrie demanded.

'Two, perhaps, sir, either side of White Cay,' Fellows shrugged.

'Deep water east of us now, Captain Lewrie,' Gatacre told him. 'Seven fathom reported. Five fathom from that thumb o' deep water as runs south to West Sand Spit. Do they wish escape so bad, sir, this'd be their last chance. Ye'll have 'em close-aboard in two more hours.'

'Deck there!' Midshipman Parham howled from aloft in a squeaky wail. 'Chases go close-hauled on the wind, sirs!'

The four surviving luggers had caught up with each other in a loose gaggle, the two-masted ones outdistancing the single-masted. All had turned due east to beat against the Trades as close as they could bear. They were at best three-quarters of a mile ahead, with Alacrity able to run down on them to close the range rapidly before she turned up to windward and took them under fire again, this time at about four cables' distance. They were daringthe best killing zone for a long-barreled six-pounder, showing their desperation.

'Helm down, quartermaster. Mister Ballard, hands to sheets and braces! Haul taut, close-hauled to weather!' Lewrie ordered. 'Quoins out on the starboard guns and prepare to open fire!'

The angle was almost right for all but the leading lugger, which had gotten too far to windward for Alacrity's guns to bear.

Fists rose in the air as gun captains signaled their charges ready. Flintlock striker lanyards were taut as bowstrings. 'Fire!' Lewrie called out.