Reefs and Shoals (14 page)

“Perhaps a helmet of some kind, that could be strapped under the armpits to keep it in place, with soldered and tarred glass panes set into it,” Bury enthused a tad, “with a flexible canvas hose led to the surface to renew one’s air, sir? I’ve sketches, but…” Bury broke off with a sigh, and took another abstemious sip of his hock.

Must live on his Navy pay,
Lewrie thought, after a sip of his own, for the hock was really the usual thin and slightly sour purser’s issue white wine, dismissed as “Miss Taylor”.

“When you’re not … studying sea-life,” Lewrie posed, “what is
Lizard
up to?”

“We patrol about fifty or so miles offshore, sir,” Bury said, “doing circumnavigations of the islands. The brig-sloops, able to be on station longer, usually scout an hundred or more miles beyond our range. Several laps, if you will, before putting back in to victual.”

“Sounds dreadful boresome,” Lewrie commented.

“Oh, it is, sir,” Bury agreed, lighting up in agreement. “We rarely see anything but for vessels bound to or from Bermuda, and with so little trade hereabouts, there’s not much to entice French or Spanish attention. And when not patrolling, there are my secondary duties of hydrography—taking soundings, up-dating the old charts, and making new ones from scratch.
Trying
to mark the known channels, but I’ve run into a lot of opposition to that, sir.”

“The local pilots,” Lewrie said, nodding in understanding.

“At any rate, I’ve no funds for such, and my letters to Admiralty go un-answered on that head, sir,” Bury said, looking miserable, again. “I’ve tried using painted empty wine bottles, bound with tarred line to stones for the most hazardous spots, such as the narrows through the White Flats, which you just entered, sir, but … damned if they don’t disappear a day or two later … completely.”

“I knew officers in the Bahamas who tried to erect buoys and range-line pilings,” Lewrie said, chuckling. “Soon as they sailed away, the local wreckers and salvagers tore ’em down, so they could keep their livelihoods.”

“Much of the same thing, sir,” Lt. Bury sadly agreed.

He seemed completely at ease to sit there and dry out in his wet clothing, with his shins bare. Lewrie pegged Bury as one inch taller than his own five feet nine inches, very slimly and wirily built. With his straw planter’s hat set aside, Bury wore his pale blond hair as short as a fellow who feared bugs in his wig, snipped to within a quarter-inch of his scalp. He had a round head, but a long, lean horse face, a prominent upper lip that dwarfed the lower, and a receding, weakish chin. He didn’t look like the sort to serve in the Royal Navy; he was more the don or tutorial type, more suited to the library. Could he count on him, Lewrie wondered?

A fish flopped in one of the tubs, drawing their attention.

“They don’t live long, poor things,” Bury mourned, “and it is a pity, but … at least I’ve been able to dissect them once they pass, and make coloured sketches of their anatomy. I’ve amassed quite a lot of interior drawings, as well as to-the-life paintings of them as they would appear in the water. Would you like to see some of them, sir?”

Hell, no!
Lewrie thought.

“Aye, I would,” he lied, instead, steeling himself to display great interest, and cautioning himself not to yawn, or let his eyes glaze over.

“Damme, Mister Bury, they really are remarkable,” Lewrie had to admit after a few minutes, though Bury’s explanations of what the fish were named, both in local argot, dry scientific Latin classification, and general terms went right past his ears, heard and flown in an instant. “You should get together with my First Officer, Mister Westcott. He’s a dab-hand artist, and draughtsman. The two of you could produce good, up-dated charts to send to Admiralty, and copies for our use while here. Have you always been interested in marine life?”

“Since I was a wee lad, sir,” Bury shyly confessed. “We lived near Plymouth, close enough to go down to the water and the beaches to fish almost daily. There, and the fish-markets, well … I always was curious about what it was like under the sea, and how they lived before being landed.”

“You eat ’em, too? You don’t feel…?” Lewrie posed.

“A good fish is more toothsome to me than roast beef, sir,” Bury said, coming close to laughing in real amusement for the first time. “The crew think my interests, odd, sir, but they eat well as a result. Might I send you over something for your table tonight, sir? Grassy Bay’s shallows abound in pompano.”

“My cook and I will be delighted, thankee!” Lewrie enthused. He had not had more than two fresh suppers of anything since leaving Portsmouth, and those only in the last two days. Fresh fish had not been among them, and the idea made him salivate.

“So, we shall be off soon, sir?” Bury enquired.

“As soon as dammit,” Lewrie told him, “and bound for Nassau in the Bahamas, to beg, borrow, or scrounge up a few more shoal-draught vessels. I’d suppose you must victual, and take on firewood and water at Saint George’s, before we can do so?”

“Aye, sir, a few last-minute items,” Bury said, almost by rote, gazing off at the middle distance—or his foul-weather tarpaulins on a peg—to muse upon their departure. He then turned to face Lewrie with a quirky expression on his face, and said, “‘And he saith unto them, ‘Follow me, and I shall make you fishers of men’. And they straightaway left their nets and followed him’. Matthew four, nineteen and twenty.”

“Ah … something a
bit
like that, Mister Bury, aye,” Lewrie managed to say, wondering what to make of the Biblical quotation, and if it might be blasphemous to be compared to Jesus.

An odd, odd bird, indeed!
he thought.

BOOK II

PRIVATEER a ve
ƒƒ
el of war, armed and equipped by particular merchants, and furni
ƒ
hed with a military commi
ƒƒ
ion by the admiralty, or the officers who superintend the marine department of a country, to cruize again
ƒ
t the enemy, and take,
ƒ
ink, or burn their
ƒ
hipping, or otherwi
ƒ
e annoy them as opportunity offers. The
ƒ
e ve
ƒƒ
els are generally governed on the
ƒ
ame plan with his maje
ƒ
ty’s
ƒ
hips, although they are guilty of many
ƒ
candalous depredations, which are very rarely practi
ƒ
ed by the latter.

—
F
ALCONER’S
M
ARINE
D
ICTIONARY
1780 E
DITION

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Reliant
’s First Officer peered upwards at the mast tops to study the winds as the frigate ghosted into West Bay of Nassau Harbour on New Providence, in the Bahamas. Satisfied, he turned to look at his captain and cocked a brow as he said, “You will not hoist your broad pendant, sir?”

“Bugger the broad pendant,” Lewrie growled back, though in good humour. “One sloop don’t make a squadron,” he added, jerking one arm out in the direction of
Lizard,
which preceded them by a full cable.

“It would seem a suitable number to justify
that
fellow’s broad pendant, though, sir,” Lt. Westcott pointed out, indicating the bit of red bunting which lazily curled to the light winds atop the main mast of an older 64-gun two-decker anchored between Hog Island and the town’s main piers. They were close enough for Lewrie to make out, as a faint gust spread the pendant, that the officer allowed to fly it was much like him; it displayed a large white ball, indicating that whomsoever the officer was, he was still a Post-Captain without a Flag-Captain or staff approaching admiral-hood. Further East in East Bay, Lewrie could espy at least two more Royal Navy vessels no bigger than
Lizard.

“Hmm, seems at least two will suffice, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie japed. “Give the man another pair, and he might style himself a Rear-Admiral. If he has twice that number out patrolling the down islands, he might sign his letters as Lord Nelson!”

“Do your orders name him, sir?” Westcott asked.

“No,” Lewrie replied, “just ‘senior officer present in the Bahamas’. Don’t think Admiralty knew just who that was back in January.” He shrugged, as if it really didn’t matter. “The old’un t’be called home, the new’un not yet appointed? No matter. You may begin to fire the salute to Captain Thing-gummy now, sir, and be ready to round up into the wind and let go the bower, once done.”

“Aye aye, sir! Mister Acres … begin the salute!”

The new Master Gunner who had replaced old Rahl jutted an arm at the forrud-most 18-pounder’s gun-captain, who jerked the lanyard of the flintlock striker, and the first shot of the gun salute boomed out, creating a thick jet of yellow-grey smoke. Mr. Acres paced aft, to all outward appearance mumbling to himself before halting and jutting an arm at the second 18-pounder of the starboard battery for their second saluting shot. Acres was reciting the ancient ritual for timing under his breath; “… If I weren’t a gunner, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve left my wife, and all that’s dear … number-two gun, fire! If I weren’t a gunner…” and on aft, repeating himself ’til thirteen guns for a Post-Captain with broad pendant had been delivered.

“Lee helm, and flat her a’back, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered. “Four-to-one scope on the cable should suit.”

*   *   *

Right in the middle of coasting to a stop, letting go the anchor, and the lowering of jibs and stays’ls, the clewing and brailing up of the squares’ls, Mr. Eldridge, their newest Midshipman, announced the appearance of a signal hoist which had soared aloft on the two-decker. It was “Captain Repair on Board”.

“Impatient sort, ain’t he, Mister Eldridge?” Lewrie said as he settled the fit of his waist-coat and shirt cuffs. “Cox’n Desmond? My gig, d’ye please.”

“Aye aye, sor!”

The gig was led round from towing astern and his long-time Cox’n, Liam Desmond, “stroke oar” Patrick Furfy, and the other hands of his boat crew quickly went down the battens to take their places with oars held vertically aloft. Lewrie made his own, slower way down to step from the main-mast channel to the gunn’l of the gig, then quickly staggered in-board and took a seat aft. “Make for the flag, Desmond.”

“Aye, sor. Ship oars, starb’d … shove off, forrud. Make way, starboard. Ship oars, larboard … and, stroke t’gither!”

“Natty-lookin’ t’day, sor,” Furfy dared comment. For this occasion, Lewrie had donned his best-dress uniform, and had included the sash and star of the Order of the Bath, as well as his medals for the battles of Cape St. Vincent and Camperdown, for a rare once. He had yet to accept the fact that he had been knighted by the King the past year. Lewrie knew he’d
earned
the medals, but still suspected that he had been knighted and made Baronet in sympathy for his wife’s murder by the French in 1802, and the outrage and increased patriotism which her death had engendered, and not for his part in the brief but conclusive squadron-to-squadron action off the Chandeleur Islands of Louisiana in late 1803. To be called “Sir Alan” or “My Lord” made him squirm in embarassment!

“Stuff and nonsense, Furfy,” Lewrie told the fellow, bestowing a brief grin and shrug.

Damme, that diplomatic shit in my orders.
Lewrie thought;
All up and down the American coast, I’ll
have
t’wear all this flummery! Show the flag
 …
show
me
! Gawd!

He turned to look aft over Desmond’s shoulder to see if
Reliant
was safely anchored, and if her sails were finally brailed up and put in harbour gaskets, that the yards were tidily level and not “a ’cock-bill” and dis-orderly. When he turned back to look forward, his gig was passing under the high jib-boom and bow-sprit of the two-decker, bound for her starboard entry-port, and almost close enough to touch. The 64-gunner’s figurehead was a ubiquitous crowned lion, giving not a clue to her name; at least it was brightly gilded, revealing a bit about her captain’s attention to detail, and his relative wealth. Gilt work came from a captain’s pocket; the Admiralty wouldn’t pay for such!

“Stroke, larboard … backwater, starboard,” Desmond snapped as he put the tiller hard over to swing the gig about almost in her own length before calling for a few strokes of both banks together, just enough to glide her to the main channel and battens. “Toss yer oars! Hook on, forrud!” and the rowers hoisted their oars from the tholes.

Using mens’ shoulders for bracing, Lewrie went to amidships of the gig, stood teetering on the gunn’l for a second, then stepped onto the chain platform to swing to the battens and man-ropes. He tucked his hundred-guinea presentation sword behind his left leg and climbed up quickly. As the dog’s vane of his cocked hat peeked over the lip of the entry-port, the Bosuns’ silver calls began to
fweep
a salute. And, once in-board on the starboard sail-tending gangway, there were Marines in full kit and sailors in shoregoing rig presenting arms.

“Welcome aboard
Mersey,
sir,” a Lieutenant with a plummy and top-lofty Oxonian drawl said in welcome, his bicorne fore-and-aft hat doffed.

“Captain Alan Lewrie, of the
Reliant
frigate, sir,” he replied, introducing himself even as he doffed his own hat.

“Sir Alan, sir. Lieutenant Hubbard, your servant, sir,” the fellow said. “Second officer into
Mersey.
Captain Forrester is aft in his cabins. If you will come this way, sir?”