THE GUN KETCH l-5

by Dewey Lambdin

  "The local garrison commander knows nought of 'em," Lewrie said with a shrug. "Fort George depends on a monthly packet, long way about."

  "Bloody soldiers, what'd they know?" Gatacre sneered. "I've my doubts they'd know how to bait a hook were they starvin', an' that from the beach!"

  "And in wartime, Fort George, and any number of outposts would be cut off from Turks Island or South Caicos, and would fall without a way to resupply," Lewrie added. "And it's not just protecting the salt trade. Look wider afield. Mouchoir Passage, Turks Passage, the Silver Bank Passage, Caicos… even Mayaguana and Crooked Island Passages up north of here. Any ship leaving the Caribbean through the Windward Passage has to thread one of these to get to the open sea. A British base in the Caicos could guard them all. Or deny them all."

  "Salt's important, too, sir," Ballard stated.

  Since the late 1600s, Bermudian ships had been coming to the Turks to evaporate sea-salt in shallow salinas, then rake "white gold" in the summers. There were few settled islands so far, but displaced Loyalists and other opportunists were beginning to flood in, so a Crown presence was now necessary.

  "What about this pass here between Water Cay and Blue Hills' eastern tip, sir?" Lewrie asked. "This quaintly named Leeward-Going-Through?"

  "Narrow an' shallow f r deep-draught merchantmen, or men o' war, sir," Gatacre frowned. "An' coral reefs which block access west toward Discovery, Proggin, or Sapodilla Bays. Our best hopes are o' findin' a pass outa Caicos Creek'r Malcolm Road on the western coast, maybe from Clear Sand Road south o' West Caicos. What lies beyond 'em is a myst'ry so far, though. South o' West Caicos, there's reefs an' shoals aplenty. Passes, even so, but where they lead? Been a graveyard o' ships down there. Ye have deep water, God, fathomless deeps t'leeward. Then, in less'n three cables, half a nautical mile, it shoals so fast, and the breakers're so rough, that you're smashed like an egg on rock an' coral 'fore ya could put yer helm over! There's said t'be millions in pound sterlin' o' gold an' silver litterin' the ocean floor. Might ya dredge along the inner reefs, past the breakers, I 'spect there's untold fortune, an' that but a fraction o' what these shoals have claimed, since the days o' Cortez!"

  "My word," Lewrie started. "And in shallow water, d'ya say!"

  "Shall we haul up a bucket of doubloons before or after breakfast, Captain?" Ballard japed.

  "Now you've done it, Mister Gatacre," Lewrie sighed. "Talk from the wardroom always gets forrud quick as lightning. We'll be lucky to get a decent hour's work from the hands tomorrow!"

  "Ah, don't ya think such talk'll make 'em pay real close attention t'the bottom, though, sir?" Gatacre snickered.

  Chapter 2

  Malcolm Road led nowhere but to high bluffs and jagged coral heads. Caicos Creek had been promising; twenty-four feet of water at the narrow entrance, and led east to South Bluff on Blue Hills, thence to Proggin Bay and Sapodilla Bay, then Discovery Bay, which was a good anchorage. But a reef with exposed coral heads blocked progress to the east, and the Caicos Bank shallowed to six feet not very far offshore to the south, and continued like a clear-water lake all the way to the horizon and the tempting sight of other islands.

  And there was not twelve feet of water from South Bluff across the direct course to West Caicos inside the Banks to Clear Sand Road, so they had to thread their way back out Caicos Creek to reach the sea, then proceed south along the leeward coast of West Caicos, which was the situation for which they sought a solution in a nutshell.

  "At least we know there's 100 fathoms depth within a mile of shore," Lewrie announced as they loafed along under reduced sail in West Caicos's lee. Hands in the forechains were swinging the deep-sea lead, while the luggers prowled much closer inshore of Alacrity. "A touch rocky for good holding-ground, but one could come to anchor quite close up to the beach yonder."

  "Aye, sir, though if the winds veer westerly, I'd not trust it for a storm… good Christ!" Gatacre snapped suddenly.

  William Pitt had dined on iguana the night before, too, but had salvaged himself a few choice morsels of offal before it had been cooked, and had appeared on deck towing a taloned paw in his mouth nearly the size of his head. He brought it to Lewrie's feet and dropped it, sat back on his haunches and looked up, evidently quite proud of himself, expecting a pet or two.

  "Stole it from the cook, did you, Pitt?" Lewrie chuckled as hebent down to rub the ram-cat between the ears. "I suppose that qualifies as 'hunting.' Good cat. Good lad, you are."

  "Gawd, what a stench!" Gatacre complained softly.

  "One should not complain about stench until one has discovered a breadroom rat half his size in one's shoes o' the morning, sir," Lewrie told him.

  "At least he is useful in that regard, Captain."

  "Profitable, too, Mister Gatacre," Lewrie joshed with a droll expression as he rose. "The midshipmen's mess pays dear for 'miller' fattened on ship's biscuit."

  "Dear God, ye…" Gatacre winced, looking a touch queasy.

  "I suspect the purser Mr. Keyhoe breeds 'em, as a sideline to tobacco and slop-goods. Fresh meat's always been…"

  "No bottom!" The larboard leadsman sang out. "No bottom to this line!"

  "Quartermaster, ease your helm alee. Pinch us up shoreward a point," Lewrie ordered. "We'll rediscover the 100-fathom line."

  "Sail ho!" the masthead lookout called as well. "One point forrud o' the starboard beam! Three-master, runnin' sou'east!"

  "Busy morning," Gatacre mused. "Must be on passage for South Caicos or Turks Island, if she'd dare run down these breakers heading sou'east, sir. Anyone else'd give 'em a wide berth."

  "May she have joy of it," Lewrie nodded. "Cony, do you discard this little 'offering' of Pitt's for me, would you."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  And for another hour, they loafed south, with the merchantman looming hull-up over the horizon, coming within a league to seaward, then passing ahead as she cleared Southwest Point on West Caicos Island, and gradually began to subside below the horizon.

  "Deck, there!" the lookout called again, urgently. "There be luggers clearin' the point, fine on the larboard bows!"

  "Mister Ballard, recall the ship's boats at once," Lewrie said. "Do not use the signal gun. Make a hoist, instead. I'll thankee for the loan of your glass, sir,"

  "Aye, aye, sir," Ballard nodded, taken unawares.

  Lewrie slung the telescope over his shoulder by its rope strap and trotted forward to the taller foremast. He stepped up onto the bulwarks and swung outboard onto the ratlines of the shrouds and began to scale the mast as high as the fighting top.

  From there he could see four, possibly five shallow-draft local-built luggers, some with one mast, some with two, all bunched together like a sailing race. They had low freeboards, appeared scrofulous as badly maintained fishing craft, but would be fast. But there were, to his eyes, far too many men aboard the nearest ones to be fishermen.

  "Pirates, by God!" he exclaimed, turning to the lookout. "We're going to see some action, damme if we ain't!"

  Without pausing to gather the breath he'd lost in climbing the mast, he took hold of a tarred backstay and let himself down hand over hand, half-sliding with his legs wrapped around it, to the deck.

  "Mister Ballard, the boats!" he panted.

  "Coming now, sir."

  "Coming? So is bloody Christmas! Stir 'em up!" Lewrie paced, eager to get sail on his little ship and clear for action. "Tell off a midshipman, and two hands per boat to tend them. None of the gunners, mind. Mister Harkin, prepare to crack on sail! Mister Fowles, ready your guns now with what hands you may gather! It's pirates after yon merchantman, Mister Ballard, standing out under the point, and so far, they won't know we're here until we clear it. Mister Gatacre, Mister Fellows, what do your charts tell you about shoal-water south of here? I wish to press up to windward, inshore of them, so they cannot escape back over the Banks."

  "Uhm…" John Fellows spoke up quickly, more attuned to haste than the civilian Gatacre. "There's reputed to be ten fath
oms close-to along the reefs, Captain. Once 'round the point, it runs east-sou'east across the mouth of Clear Sand Road. There's passes through the reefs after Southeast Reef, one after Molasses Reef… ah, here… and maybe a pass below French Cay, here… another here before West Sand Spit?"

  "Do we keep the wind gauge, we deny them those passes, and keep them seaward," Lewrie nodded with a grim smile. "Good, Mister Fellows. Thankee. Damn my eyes, where're those bloody boat crews?"

  "Alongside now, sir," Ballard replied, sounding a touch eager himself now.

  "Leave Mr. Shipley with 'em," Lewrie decided, relegating the more useful of the Royal Naval Academy midshipmen to their command. "He's to put into Clear Sand Road and anchor to await our return."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "Mister Harkin, pipe 'All Hands!' Get sail on her!"

  * * *

  Alacrity began to fly as the tops'ls were freed by men aloft on the footropes. Clews were drawn down to spread them to the wind and they bellied light-air full, rustling and drumming. Outer-flying jib and foretopmast stays'1 soared up the stays up forward, filled with air, and were manhandled over to the starboard side by the fo'c's'le crew. Though still in West Caicos' lee and robbed of the full power of the Trades, there was a rivulet of wind close inshore that swept almost due south along the coast, a wind she took full advantage of.

  "Mister Ballard, beat to quarters," Lewrie snapped. "Before we meet the stronger winds below Southwest Point."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  The gun lashings came off, the tackle and blocks were laid out on deck clear of recoil, and the guns were run in to the full extent of the breeching ropes. Ship's boys came up from below with the first leather or wooden cylinders which contained premeasured bags of powder from the magazines. Gun captains under the direction of the quarter-gunner Buckinger fetched rammers, worm-ers and slow match, while the train-tackle men appeared with handspikes and crow-levers to be used to shift aim right or left quickly with brute force. Gun captains went to the arm-thick shot garlands made of salvaged towing cable to select the roundest, truest iron round-shot stored within, rolling them and turning them over and over to look for imperfections or dents which could send them off-aim.

  "Charge yer guns!" Buckinger snarled. "Uncover yer vents!" Alacrity trembled to the slamming noises of flimsy partitions and furniture being slung below on the orlop stores deck, out of the way so her crew would not be decimated by clouds of flying splinters.

  "Shot yer guns! Tamp 'em down snug, now, lads. Wads!"

  "Open the gun ports and run out, Mister Ballard."

  "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."