THE GUN KETCH

Ballard had the sometimes infuriating capacity to take a great deal of joy in having his seamanship tested to the ultimate by what a reasonable man would have thought a stomach-churning horror. Lewrie would have put it down as insanity, or sublime ignorance of the consequences had he not seen Ballard's keen intellect at work, judging to a nicety his own, and the ship's, limits. Infuriating he might be, but Alan was beginning to find Arthur Ballard a calming influence for his own 'windier' moments. As long as Arthur Ballard was composed, he could assume there wasn't much to get panicked about!

'We should be southerly 'nough now, sir,' Fellows muttered from the darkness. 'Walker's Cay should be nor'east of us, and astern.'Very well, Mister Fellows,' Lewrie allowed. 'Mister Ballard, time to alter course. Lay us abeam the wind, course due east.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' Ballard replied, sounding game for anything. 'Bosun, no pipes. Hand to the sheets and braces. Off belays and haul taut, ready to come about.'

'Two fathom!' the leadsman called out forward.

'Helm alee, Mister Neill,' Ballard commanded. 'Course due east. Nothing to weather. Ease sheets and braces, Mister Harkin!'

Alacrity came about slowly, with care, her rehoisted tops'1 yards creaking, her courses rustling and mewing as the wooden balls of the hanks that bound sails' luffs and boom throats to the lower mast shifted to a new angle. Blocks squealed aloft as the tops'1 lift lines were run to re-set the upper yards level to the sea for a more efficient use of the night-wind's power. Gaffs and booms gave out croaks as they bound for a moment as they tilted.

They'd been running before a northerly wind, sailing no faster than it could blow. Now, with wind abeam, they could feel the night's close, balmy tropic damp turn just the slightest bit chill as the wind soughed across the deck. Alacrity began to pick up a little speed as well, her bow rising and dipping.

And then it dipped, rose… and stayed there!

'One fathom, Christ!' the leadsman wailed.

Well, shit, we've run her aground! Lewrie groaned silently. He had been filled with so much tension, so much dread of ripping her hull open on coral, that a soft, almost unfelt grounding on mud and sand was a relief, and he found himself almost shivering with humor.

'B'lieve we found that shoal for you, Mister Fellows,' he said with a lazy drawl, loud enough for everyone aft to hear, and the deck exploded with nervous laughter.

'Ahem,' Fellows grunted in the dark. 'Shit!'

'Grounded gentle enough, though,' Lewrie said, going to the side to peer over to leeward. Dark as the night was, he could see, or only imagined he could see, a faint, rippling line of disturbance, lit with eery phosphorescence that ran south and east from Alacrity's bows as the northward-set current brushed the shoal and folded back under and over itself. He walked back towards his staffs shadows.

'Mister Ballard, let go course sheets, so she won't drive forrud. Flat-in the jibs. The wind will push the bows south, and this current may be strong enough to walk the stern north to ease us off.'

'Aye, aye, sir. Fo'c's'le captain, flat-in yer sheets!'

'Mister Parham, what's the chip log doing?' Lewrie asked.

'Streaming abeam to weather, sir,' the midshipman answered from the taffrail at the very stern.

'Long as we're not going anywhere for a few minutes, take a cast of the log, Mister Parham, and determine the current,' Lewrie said calmly, grinning widely.

Damme, I must be getting right good at this nautical humbug, he told himself; I haven't cursed or yelped yet!

With her fore-topmast stays'l run up and flatted-in with the inner and outer flying jibs for leverage, Alacrity began to shuffle, to slowly pivot about on her bows, with the current shoving against her side.

'Helm up hard aweather,' Lewrie ordered to assist the current.

'Knot and a quarter, near as 1 can make it, sir,' Parham told him a few minutes later.

'Thankee, Mister Parham. That'll require we steer a point, or point and a half to loo'rd to make due east, Mister Neill.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' the senior quartermaster responded stolidly.

There was a shudder, a faint groan, and a rushing noise over the side as the bows came off at last, and Alacrity began to sail to the south once more, leaving behind a swirling eddy of mud and sand.

'Due south, nothing to larboard for now. Sheet home courses for a run, Mister Ballard. Mister Fellows, do you think we should let her have her head for at least a mile before we try that again?'

'Aye, sir,' Fellows replied. 'And sou'east at first, sir, not due east. Just in case.'

'Very good, Mister Fellows. Carry on, Mister Ballard,' Lewrie replied. 'Oh, one more thing, Mister Ballard.'

'Sir?'

'Damned odd, but it's so dark tonight, I thought I could see a trail of blue or green fire in the water, where the shoal was, right along the edge. As our wake appears in tropic waters sometimes. Do you see it out there, sir?'

'Uhm… not really, sir.'

'Who among the hands has remarkable eyesight?'

'Mister Early, the quartermaster's mate, sir,' Ballard replied, shivering with a touch of awe.

'Post him amidships on the larboard gangway to windward, facing the shoal out yonder. Have him sing out should we have to bear away if it gets too near. Summon him, and I'll point it out to him.'

'Aye, aye, sir!' Ballard gulped. He'd heard tales of such feats, the uncanny lore of the truly great old seamen, had thought he had some touch of the gifts sometimes, such as in almost being able tofeel the return scend against the hull of waves rebounding from unseen land.

But he never thought to see them in such a casual captain as their idle, devil-may-care 'Ram-Cat' Lewrie!

'Damme, but we got away with one that time, did we not, sirs?' Lewrie chuckled, breezy with relief and filled with good humor still.

'Aye, sir.'

'Hellish good fun, for a time, too, damme if it wasn't!'

'Oh, aye, sir,' Mr. Fellows groaned. 'Fun!'

Chapter 8

'Hands is eat, sir. Galley fire's doused overside. An' it lacks a quarter-hour to proper sunrise at six bells, sir,' the bosun Harkin reported.

'Very well, and thank you, Mister Harkin,' Lewrie replied as he hitched his sword's slim baldric into a more comfortable position under his coat 'Mister Ballard, hands to stations to hoist anchor and get under way.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Alacrity had been anchored with her bows pointed north towards Walker's Cay, three miles south of the island, a mile short of where the southern channel narrowed. They hauled her up to her bower with muscle power on the capstan and the help of the current, letting out the stream hawser as they went Sails were hoisted and sheeted home, and as she strained to begin sailing, they buoyed the bitter-end of the stream cable, let it slip, and were under way in a twinkling.

The winds were more nor'westerly that morning, which would be a 'dead muzzier' for any ship attempting to flee out the channel that led west from the anchorage and into Walker's Cay Channel. To short-tack in such a narrow gut would be an invitation to disaster, so one escape route was effectively blocked already, and Whippet would have the winds large on her larboard quarter when she drove down the passage with her nine-pounder carriage guns run out and loaded.

'Mister Ballard, beat to Quarters,' Lewrie snapped. His men were ready, knowing what the morning would hold. They were blooded by one success, and trained by constant practice to a high level of proficiency. They were almost cheerful as they cast off the lashings of the artillery, rolled them back to loading positions inboard, and