Sea of Grey

'Into Pillsbury Sound, Mister Winwood,' Lewrie snapped. 'Maybe this 'Jonathon' captain doesn't think he'd keep enough lead on us to enter Charlotte Amalie before we caught him. If he really knows these waters, he must think he holds a high card over us.'

'But there's no way out of the Sound, sir. The wind's wrong to weather the Middle Passage, leaving that Leeward Passage past Thatch Cay!' Winwood gawped. 'Narrow as a town creek, it is, the soundings uncertain…'

'We'll follow her, Mister Winwood,' Lewrie told him. 'We will not let her get away that easily. Once past the point yonder, shape course Nor'Nor'west, and follow her… wherever she goes.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Sir, I'm bound to point out that this is risky,' Winwood said in a mortified whisper as they bent over the chart pinned to the traverse board, once Proteus had come about and was now dead-astern from the American brig, perhaps a mile-and-a-half behind. 'My duty as-'

'I know, Mister Winwood,' Lewrie said, cutting him off quickly, eyes intent on the chart, and the pair of brass dividers in his hand. 'Pillsbury Sound's deep, sir! Twelve to eighteen fathoms all the way to the islets and cays. And nice and wide for the most part 'til you are forced to choose a passage out of it. The Windward Passage is out, and does she try the Middle Passage, she'll be full-and-by, sailing at the ragged edge of this morning's wind… without her stuns'ls spread, thankee Jesus, which means we'll drive right up her transom long before she can get to it. Your Leeward Passage is narrow, but not more than a quarter of a sea-mile…'bout two cables wide, 'twixt Thatch Cay and the north shore of Saint Thomas. Bags of room!'

Mr. Winwood uttered a soft complaint that sounded mightily like a cross between a moan and a well-muffled belch.

'Does she wish t'keep her stuns'ls rigged out for speed, she'll have t'use the Leeward Passage, Mister Winwood.' Lewrie chuckled.

'The narrows, though, sir, here…'

About three-quarters of a mile due North of Cabes Point, halfway between Coki Point and the southeastern tip of Thatch Cay, there lay an indistinct indication of a shoal, stippled to show sand, which meant extremely shallow. On the scale chart they were perusing, a man could have mistaken it for a thumb smudge of ink, a tea stain from previous use. The vague extent of the shoal didn't leave much north of it, and there was another fan-like shoal round Thatch Cay's extremest tip, and that did have a sounding-one-half fathom-a scant three feet!

'He'll go south of the shoal, Mister Winwood, where there are soundings of seven to ten fathoms between the shoal and Coki Point,' Lewrie insisted, 'keeping well off the wind, under stuns'ls, hugging Thatch Cay a tad, once round your shoal, and giving little to loo'rd.'

'Does he get past the shoal, sir, but-'

'Then it's his bottom that's ripped open, not ours. And we'll do all we can to save her people… obeying the law of the sea.'

'Does he know of a wreck in there, though, sir…'

'The sun's barely up behind us, sir,' Lewrie countered quickly. 'The very best time of the day to see underwater obstacles ahead, long before we run afoul of 'em. And with the extreme clarity of the seas hereabouts… really, Mister Winwood! One could read a newspaper at six fathoms down. Does our Yankee captain yonder know of a wreck in the channel, then let him use his forefoot to dredge for it. Save us a deal o' gunpowder, it would! Wrecks shift, over time.'

'Very well, sir,' Mr. Winwood finally agreed, though not without a premonitory shiver. 'Though I have expressed my reservations…'

'The fault will be mine, sir,' Lewrie told him with a grim nod of his head before laying down the dividers and standing back up. 'I will so note it in the log. Speaking of… Mister Elwes? Cast the log, if you please. Mister Pendarves? Hands to the fore-chains with the short leads, and two hands on the bowsprit to keep watch for any shoals or obstructions!'

Lewrie walked back to the stern and raised his glass. The privateer, and their boats, were now out of sight, and there was no smoke visible, had either the French or their own people set her afire. He pursed his mouth and chewed at its lining in worry of all that could have gone wrong. Even alee of the stranded schooner, they were too far away to hear the pops of muskets and pistols; only cannon on the schooner's decks might rumble over the sound of the wind, which would be a bad sign.

No news is good news, Lewrie told himself, turning forward.

Spotting the three other midshipmen standing idle without duty, he put Grace, Larkin, and Burns to work, taking bearings on sea-marks to either hand, and employing their scant knowledge of trigonometry for a range to them.

'Eight and three-quarter knots, sir,' Midshipman Elwes reported.

'Thankee, Mister Elwes. I see you've hoisted 'Immediate' above 'Fetch-To'-very good. I doubt she'll respond any time soon, so keep at it with the knot-log, about every ten minutes or so,' Lewrie bade him. 'I do believe we've gained a touch on that brig, already.'

'Aye aye, sir!' Elwes yelped with joy, dashing aft again, full of importance over his assigned task.

From the windward rails, it looked as if they had drawn closer to the Chase; more details could be made out that were indistinct before… or maybe it was simply full daylight that made him wish it so. Proteus was surging along, her wake bone-white atop the light green sea of Pillsbury Sound, heeling a bit to larboard and leeward, masts raked forward a touch, and groaning over it. Sailing almost downwind, the pace wasn't as apparent as it would be working closer to weather. The ship was sailing just as fast as the wind could blow, so there was no exhilarating rush and bustle that plucked at hats, clothing, and flesh, no bursting showers of salt-spray booming over the fore rails, but Proteus was moving quite well, gracefully and almost effortlessly. A touch on her lee 'shoulder,' Lewrie deemed her, but…

'Mister Langlie, run out the starboard battery, and run in the larboard to the recoil ring-bolts. Let's get her flatter on her keel,' he decided of a sudden. 'There's just enough wind for that to make a difference. A quarter-knot more, perhaps?'

'At once, sir,' Langlie agreed, pacing forward to the quarter-deck railings with his brass speaking-trumpet in his hands.

On very light winds sometimes doing the opposite helped,. Lewrie had learned from better men than he; force the lee hull downward, off of upright, and a ship would angle her masts and sails more horizontal and 'ghost' on a scant breeze that would leave her luffing and boxing the compass, else. Especially along a near shore.

'Eight-and-a-half knots, sir!' Elwes shouted from the taff-rail.

'Very good, Mister Elwes!' Lewrie shouted back, allowing himself a small grin. Damme, he thought; but they beat it into you, you hang about ships long enough, you're bound t'learn a little something! Even are you a lazy toad, and half a fraud!

'I do believe we're within Range To Random Shot, sir,' Langlie said as they drew level with Cabrita Point on St. Thomas. 'Shall we pester her with the bow-chasers?' he asked, eager for action.

'No, not yet, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie finally decided. 'Do we open on her at extreme range, we'll appear desperate. Make them think they're ahead of the game, d'ye see, and we're firing before we haul our wind and let 'em escape? Now, do we hold fire 'til we're right up her stern… when she's nervous about getting round the shoal in the middle of the channel, that's something else. Keeps 'em lookin' aft and chewin' their nails. We look… implacable. That'll give 'em a pause or two. Then they're half-beaten.'

'Oh, I see, sir!' Langlie puzzled, frowning over it. 'We are Nemesis, the inescapable old Greek god. And them, mere prey!'

'More like a dangerous duellist, whose fearsome reputation precedes him, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie snickered