Reefs and Shoals

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Aye sir, it would,” Westcott said through taut lips.

  “I think you’re best for that, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie told him. “You’ll take one of the gunboats. I assume that’s what you’re drivin’ at?”

  “It is, sir, and thank you!” Westcott exclaimed in relief that he would not remain aboard the frigate and miss out on the action.

  “Merriman’s junior. He’ll command Reliant,” Lewrie decided. “Spendlove can take the other gunboat, and we’ll put our oldest Mids in charge or our boats, leaving Munsell and Rossyngton behind, to aid Merriman. Thorn can spare Lieutenant Child and one of her Mids, and Bury can place Rainey and a Mid in her boats. We’ll speak with Simcock as to how many Marines he can spare for it.”

  “Ehm … Merriman will command our ship, sir?” Westcott asked. “Where will you be?”

  “I think I’ll go in aboard one of the gunboats,” Lewrie said, “either yours, or Spendlove’s.”

  “You will, sir?” Westcott gawped.

  “Spendlove’s,” Lewrie announced. “I’d not wish t’crimp your style, Mister Westcott.”

  “Ehm, well … thank you, sir,” Westcott said, grinning.

  “I’ve been bored shitless, I’ve been insulted, demeaned, and I’ve been rebuffed and dismissed at every port we’ve called at,” Lewrie went on. “Not to mention discumbobulated and mystified, and, now that there is a good chance the privateers, their prizes, and this blood-thirsty Treadwell bastard might be there with some of his damned barges, damme if I’ll miss a shot at settlin’ their business for good and all!”

  He paused a moment to look up at the commissioning pendant and the top-masts, rocking on the balls of his booted feet.

  “Besides, Mister Westcott, even if they ain’t there, and we hit an empty bag, at least we’ll be doin’ something!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “Anchored by best bower and kedge, sir, with springs on the cables, and the guns will be manned and loaded once all our boats are clear,” Lt. Merriman reported. The night was so dark without a moon, and the usual lights at forecastle belfry, binnacle cabinet, and the taffrail lanthorns extinguished, that Lewrie could not see that officer’s glum expression, though he could hear the disappointment in his voice.

  “Very well, Mister Merriman, you have charge of the ship until our return,” Lewrie told him. “Mister Spendlove, Mister Westcott, are the gunboats alongside?”

  “One to either beam, sir,” Spendlove reported, “and the barges and cutters waiting astern of them for boarding.”

  “Let’s get on with it, then,” Lewrie ordered, resisting an urge to pull out his pocket watch. It was so dark that that would be bootless, for the night’s gloom did not allow even the faintest hint of starlight by which to read it; there had been a warm and steady rain offshore that afternoon, and the skies were solidly overcast after its ending.

  Sailors and gunners descended the man-ropes and battens to the gunboats, followed by files of Marines with muskets. Lewrie waited ’til the last had left the ship before clumsily descending, himself, burdened with both his double-barrelled pistols and a cartridge pouch and brass priming flask, his rifled breech-loading Ferguson musket and a second cartridge pouch and priming flask for that, as well, along with his hanger on his left hip.

  “There is a hooded lanthorn under a scrap of canvas aft, sir,” Spendlove offered, “do you wish to determine the time.”

  “Good. You have your copy of the river chart?” Lewrie asked.

  “Right here, sir,” Spendlove assured him, patting his chest coat pocket, “though it may be some time before we may refer to it,”

  Before Thorn had returned from Nassau to rejoin the squadron, Lt. Westcott with his draughting skills, and Bury with his artistic talents, and Lewrie’s clerk, Faulkes, had made free-hand copies of the chart for all officers and Mids in charge of the boats, distributed to all captains at a planning conference aboard Reliant the day before they departed the Northwest Providence Channel for the Georgia coast. Once the slightly brighter pre-dawn greyness came, they might prove useful.

  “Shove off, there, bow man,” Spendlove ordered in a theatrical loud whisper. “Ship oars … and give way.”

  The converted fishing boat moved off only a long musket shot before the hands rested on their oars, and let her lie rocking on the tide and current, making room at the entry-ports for the cutters and barges to be manned and rowed off to join her.

  As Lewrie waited, he peered out to either beam, searching for Lizard and Firefly to see how they were coping with disembarkation. Clear of the ship, he could barely make out the faintest ruffles of slightly whiter water breaking along their waterlines, and further off, the hint of lazy lake-like waves breaking on the shores of Cumberland Island and Amelia Island. Ahead of his gunboat, the river was as black as his boots!

  He sat himself down on a damp thwart near the tiller, fighting the urge to duck under the canvas to check his watch by the light of that hooded lanthorn. The less of that, the better, but … this sort of complicated operation could not be done in complete darkness.

  The final plan that they had threshed out at the conference in Reliant’s great-cabins made allowance for some signal lights during the darkest part of the night and the wee hours of the morning. Once all the various boats were manned and on the water, bobbing about like so many sleeping ducks, Lewrie would order two flashes from that lanthorn to the rowing boats to head up the entrance channel. A second series of three flashes to Lt. Westcott’s gunboat and he would begin to row after the boats in his division. Four flashes would be directed to Lizard, Firefly, and Thorn to begin to make way in their rear, with the two smaller sloops employing their rarely used sweep oars, and Thorn doing her best against the current and ebbing tide under sail.

  What sort of shambles, what sort of pot-mess that several hours could produce almost could not be contemplated! If Thorn could not breast the current, she and her heavy guns might end up too far back when dawn broke, and might end up using her original ship’s boats and more of her reduced crew to towing her into action!

  The longer that Lewrie sat and pondered, fretting and squirming, the dafter his plan became, and he began to feel sure that when dawn did come, he began to feel torn as to which would make him look even more foolish—how badly it had fallen apart, or that they had stumbled in to find no sign of privateer, prize, or criminals!

  “I’ll take a peek at the time,” he whispered to Spendlove, at last, ducking under the canvas, opening the shutter of the lanthorn, and discovering that it was almost 4 A.M.

  If Caldwell’s right about the tides, he thought, dredging up one lean scrap of hope, slack-water’s over, and it’s beginning to make.

  “I think that I can make out two of our boats astern, sir,” Spendlove said, his whisper muffled by the canvas, “and there are two more off the starboard beam. Lizard’s, I think.”

  “Are they sparking?” Lewrie asked, emerging from the cover of the suffocating canvas, glad for the sudden rush of cool night air.

  “They are, sir!” Spendlove said, sounding not only relieved, but amazed that the boats from Lizard assigned to his division would be able to find them in the dark and link up. He drew out an un-loaded Sea Pattern pistol—a heavy and clumsy weapon of such poor accuracy that it was best when fired against a foe’s chest or belly—blew on the pan just to make sure that there was no priming powder, and drew it to full cock. Holding it aloft he pulled the trigger, and the flint created a brief but bright shower of sparks as it scraped down the raspy face of the frisson. That was another necessary violation of complete black-out, but a useful one suggested by Lt. Lovett. “All our boats answer, sir!”

  Lewrie stood, resting a steadying hand on Spendlove’s shoulder, and peered far out into the North, looking for a matching set of sparks between Lt. Westcott’s gunboat and his assigned rowing boats.

  “Yes, I think I see them!” Lewrie eagerly hissed. “Three … four. They’re all assembled, too. Show two flashes from the
lanthorn, Mister Spendlove, and let’s get this procession under way.”

  The plan laid out was for assorted rowing boats to lead, with a gunboat close astern of each group. Once past the entrance channel Westcott’s group would take the centre of the river, whilst the boats under Spendlove would press towards the shore of Amelia Island, and the mouth of that river, in case any privateers or prizes were moored there, closest to a quick exit from Cumberland Sound.

  Astern of the two boat groups, Lizard and Firefly would try to row in abreast using their longer, greater sweep-oars, with Lovett’s Firefly stationed near the North Bank, and Bury’s Lizard, with more 6-pounders, would provide support for Spendlove’s group should they run into awake and well-armed resistance.

  At least it looked good on paper, Lewrie miserably thought as he recalled the last briefing to his officers, his over-sized sketch of the entrance channel, the rivers, and their bends, with pecan shells to represent the major vessels, all moving along in parallel columns abreast, with Thorn trailing closely. What it looked like now in the dark, what it would look like when false dawn greyed the sky, would be a sloppy other matter.

  Silence was essential, yet the oars still creaked as they were hauled despite the rags over the thole-pins to muffle the skreak! of wood-on-wood. Oarsmen had to breathe hard, and sometimes cough. The Marines had to fidget and rattle their weapons and accoutrements, and the gun crew of the 6-pounder carronade now and then created wee rumbling noises as they swivelled the slide platform about. The rush of the river seemed a loud rush-gurgle as the boat ploughed through it, the bow lifting at each rhythmic stroke of the oars.

  “I think I can make out our boats, sir,” Lt. Spendlove whispered close to Lewrie’s ear, almost making him jump out of his skin.

  It was true. Ahead, Lewrie could barely see the white-painted transoms of the two boats from Reliant, and the four others off the sloops! He looked astern and thought he made out the foresails and fore gaff sail of Lizard, too. A quick duck under the canvas, again, and a furtive slit opening of the hooded, lanthorn showed him that it was almost five in the morning; false dawn would come a quarter-hour later. He closed the lanthorn and came back to the cooler air, looking North to see if he could spot Westcott’s division, but they were still invisible; he didn’t even try to hunt for Thorn. To the South, there was nothing to be seen in the mouth of the Amelia River. There were no ship’s riding lights one might expect to see aboard a ship at safe anchorage.

  “We’ll have to steer larboard, Mister Spendlove, just to make sure there’s no one in there,” Lewrie said.

  “Ehm … how do we tell the other boats to do that, sir?” Lt, Spendlove asked.

  It was still thankfully dark enough to hide the stupefied look on Lewrie’s face. He had planned for them to be off the river mouth with just enough light to see up it, and had made no contingency plan for supplemental signals!

  “Let the other boats proceed,” Lewrie snapped. “We’ll go a few hundred yards or so up the Amelia on our own, and catch up later.”

  “Aye, sir,” Spendlove said with nary a dubious note, and whispered to the helmsman to put the tiller over. The boats ahead rapidly melted back into the gloom, and they were alone, steering South into the river mouth. Lewrie stumbled forward to the boat’s single mast to cling to it and peer ahead.

  “Easy all,” Lewrie ordered. “Rest on yer oars for a bit.”

  He got the sense that they were further West than the middle channel. There was a strong hint of the bulk of Amelia Island to his left, and a smell of marsh to his right, as if they were nearer to the West bank. What he could see was a faint mist beginning to rise and cling to the surface of the water. There were no ships in sight.

  “Let’s put about, Mister Spendlove, and catch up our boats,” he ordered after making his way back to the stern.

  The larboard oarsmen backed water, the starboard oarsmen pulled, and the gunboat slowly swung about to row Nor’west. As they did so, a spark loomed up off the starboard bows. A moment later there came a second shower of sparks.

  “Best answer that, Mister Spendlove,” Lewrie said.

  “Hoy, there!” a voice called. “Who are you?”

  “Spendlove!” Lewrie replied as loud as he dared.

  “Lizard, here!” Lt. Bury called back. “For a minute, we almost fired into you! Did you get lost, Spendlove?”

  Sure enough, the sloop loomed up in the dark, her sails rustling and her sweep oars groaning.

  “We detatched, to look into the river,” Lewrie told him. “My idea. If you swear not t’run us over, we’ll be catching up our boats.”

  “I will veer off Nor’west, sir, to avoid that!” Bury promised.

  “Let’s get a goodly way on,” Lewrie told Spendlove.

  He pulled out his pocket watch once more to duck under the canvas, but found that he could almost make out its white face, and barely identify the hour marks! Turning about, he saw Spendlove referring to his boat-compass without the use of the lanthorn! It was false dawn at last! Without straining he could spot the gaggle of rowing boats that had gone on without him, far off, see the splashes of each oar as they bit the water, and the low, swirling mist they passed through. To the North, he could finally see Lt. Westcott’s division, and Firefly astern of them! They looked to be in good order, for a wonder!

  The gunboats stroke-oar set a hot pace, and the oarsmen gasped and grunted as they rowed, but they began to close the distance to the other boats, which had swung Nor’-Nor’west for the mouth of the Saint Mary’s River. The Midshipmen in charge of the largest boats from the frigate spotted them, and slowed their stroke to allow them to rejoin.

  But, when the gunboat was slightly less than a cable off, there came spark signals from Entwhistle and Grainger, and all of the boats laid on their oars, slowly coasting to a stop.

  Mr. Entwhistle was standing and waving his arms over his head to get their attention, then pointing towards the river’s mouth. Two minutes longer on, and the gunboat was within hailing distance.

  “Lights, sir!” Entwhistle called out with his hands cupped by his mouth. “Riding lights in the river!”

  “By God, they are there!” Lewrie crowed, immensely relieved to know that they had not punched an empty bag, that this new moon was a rendezvous for a privateer and his supplier. “We’re about to catch somebody, Mister Spendlove. Lay on yer oars for a bit, lads. Sorry about the long row. Load your weapons. Load and prime the carronade!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Once all weapons were loaded, and the oarsmen took up the stroke again, a slower and more cautious one this time, the confluence of the Jolly and the St. Mary’s Rivers spread wide before them, revealing not just one or two ships, but half a dozen anchored up the St. Mary’s. A schooner lay closest to the South bank, stem-on to them as it streamed to the river current. A French Tricolour lazily flew over her transom!

  “That’s Mollien’s schooner, by God!” Lewrie said with a laugh. “That snail-eatin’ bastard we saw at Charleston!”

  Beyond her lay a larger brig with no flag flying. Up-river on the American side lay yet another brig, with several masted barges at her larboard side. Even further up-river yet another vessel could be seen, this one a full-rigged ship with a few more barges alongside her. And beyond Mollien’s schooner lay a brig that flew a French flag, and another brig with a French flag strung above a British merchant ensign in sign that she was a prize!

  “It’s as crowded as the Pool of London!” Lt, Spendlove rejoiced. “Which do we take on, first, sir?”

  “The Otarie … the schooner!” Lewrie quickly decided. “She’s the strongest opposition.” He looked round his gaggle of boats, sorting out the best for the task. He would need the Marines, and most of them were in his gunboat and Reliant’s two boats. “Mister Rainey?” he called to Lizard’s Lieutenant. “We’re taking that’un yonder! Once we do, I wish you and your men to guard any prisoners and take charge of her. Work her out to the middle of the Cumberland if you c
an. Once that’s done, I’ll take the gunboat and my two boats from Reliant and press on to the prize anchored above her. Sergeant Trickett, you and your Marines fix bayonets and be ready to board!”

  Please stay sleepin’, just a bit longer! Lewrie prayed as the boats crept into the St. Mary’s. The men aboard the privateer would be sleeping, snugly anchored. They weren’t Navy men, so they might not keep a strict watch if they weren’t at sea. They might have been carousing the night before, contemplating the value of their prize and might already have money in their pockets from previous captures, and lashings of celebratory drink. If only…!

  No lights glowed behind the sash-windows in the schooner’s transom, so her captain might still be abed. Lewrie could not see any men walking her decks. They were only one hundred yards off from her when a hesitant and reedy voice called out “Qui vive?” A sailor, no more than a ship’s boy, stood by the schooner’s taffrails in a wool stocking cap over thick blond hair, peering at them wide-eyed with a gaping mouth. The next instant, the lad ran forward with a wordless, shrill or of alarm. The next instant, the schooner’s watch-bell was being rung! “Garde à vous! Aux armes! Les Anglais, mon Dieu!”

  “Well, shit!” Lewrie spat. So much for stealth. “Gun-captain, d’ye have a clear shot? Then put one right through her transom! Wake her captain up! Go, go, go!” Lewrie shouted to the rest of the boats.

  The carronade was swivelled to the proper angle and the round platform was pegged in place. The gun-captain drew the trigger line taut, bent to assure his aim one last time, then leaned away and gave the line a hard jerk, and the carronade squealed back on its slide carriage as it went off with a very loud bang. Sleeping shore birds, sea birds, and a flock of white egrets and blue herons cried in alarm and rose from the marshes and woods in swirling clouds.