Reefs and Shoals l-18

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Certainly, sir,” Bury replied.

  “Did any of them, get away?” Lewrie asked, in a mutter.

  “Two boats did manage to escape us, sir, into the channel between the mainland and the long, narrow barrier island,” Bury admitted, “They scampered off into the bushes, but we did fetch the abandoned boats off. We did plan to obtain bigger, better ship’s boats, sir.”

  “Very good, Mister Bury, excellent work,” Lewrie said with a grin. “I swear you read my mind. Now, I want you to take Lieutenant Simcock and a file of his Marines with you, for security, t’keep the Dons honest. After all the prisoners are ashore, though, fetch off all the boats… leave them nothing that will swim. We’ll keep the useful ones, and scuttle the rest.”

  “Ehm… would we not be… marooning them, sir?” Bury asked as if he was being talked into a mortal sin.

  “Not marooning, exactly, ” Lewrie pooh-poohed, slyy grinning. “The last I heard, that requires a barren, desert island, and they’ll be on a mainland just teemin’ with game and wild hogs, fish, birds, and oceans o’ fresh water. Spaniards, ashore in a Spanish possession? What could be more humane?”

  “Well…” Bury pondered.

  “ Senor Calderon and the rest can have a nice stroll to get to Saint Augustine, and there’s sure t’be little Spanish settlements and farms along the way,” Lewrie schemed on, “and all sorts of fruit and edible berries t’pluck. We leave ’em even one boat, Mister Bury, and sure as Fate, some of the damned fools’d try to sail for Havana, to arrange a rescue, and, what with waterspouts, sharks, currents, and the usual sea conditions in the Florida Straits, it just wouldn’t be Christian. They’d be over-set, swamped, and drowned… or eaten… ’fore they got halfway.”

  “Well, in that case, sir,” Lt. Bury said, with the faintest hint of a smile on his face. “I, and Lieutenant Lovett, shall see to it, directly!”

  “Capital!” Lewrie encouraged him, then went to the entry-port to inform Surgeon Mainwaring of the change in plans, then aft again to Calderon, who had been busy lowering the level of champagne in the bottle in his absence.

  “J’ou land us ashore, senor?” Calderon asked, owl-eyed by then.

  “All of you, sir,” Lewrie told him, hoping that Calderon would take the gesture as magnanimous… ’til the last moment. “I cannot find it in my heart to imprison such an affable fellow as yourself, or leave you on parole in such an expensive place as Nassau. Go with my very best wishes, sir! Here, take another bottle or two with you. Perhaps you can toast Captain Narvaez’s brilliance with them, what?”

  “That idiota!” Calderon gravelled. “Hees family was hidalgo een Spain, conquistador een Cuba. Family old and reech, weeth the many connexions, so the sindicato who back our voyage, they put heem in command. But, he ees the marinero de agua dulce! The… ah…”

  “Complete and total ‘lubber’?” Lewrie supplied.

  “ Si si, the… how j’ou say!” Calderon eagerly agreed.

  They shook hands; Calderon even went so far as to embrace him and bestow a grateful kiss on Lewrie’s cheek, to the amusement of the others on the quarterdeck, before stepping away.

  “Uh, senor, j’ou geef back my papers? My Letters of Marque?”

  “Sorry, Senor Calderon, but I must present them to the Prize Court at Nassau, as evidence that we took your ships, and lay claim to the Head and Gun Money for each man aboard at the time of capture, and for each cannon taken,” Lewrie explained. “Like the Red Indians take scalps, hmm?”

  “Ah. I see,” Calderon said with a deep sigh, crestfallen. He would be un-employable as a privateering captain whenever he got back to Cuba, and was probably out a goodly sum of his own money as an investment in the venture, to boot.

  He’ll need a good, long vacation t’get over this, Lewrie told himself; The long march to Saint Augustine ought to do it.

  Lewrie saw him over the side, doffing his hat in salute, and Cox’n Desmond made another effort at a departure call.

  “Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said, turning back in-board.

  “Aye, sir?”

  “Once all the Spanish are ashore, we’re going to fetch off all their boats,” Lewrie informed him. “Once that’s done, and we’ve gotten all our people back aboard, we’re going to sink the ones we can’t use, and then… I wish you to see to the destruction of the prizes.”

  “Scuttle them as well, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked.

  “No. Set fire to them and burn them to Hell.”

  “Cleverly done, sir,” Lt. Darling dared comment. “Getting the information from the Spaniard… and gulling him.”

  Clever? Me? Lewrie scoffed to himself. And all before breakfast? Mine arse on a band-box!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The urge to host a celebratory supper aboard Reliant was strong once the four-ship squadron gained the open sea, but there was still the coast above Mayami Bay to be scouted, the uncertainties of their charts to be dealt with, and sea-room out towards the Gulf Stream to be made. Lewrie sent round bottles of champagne from his newly won case-none necessary to the crafty Lt. Darling who had his own-and a bit of bad news for Lt. Lovett. Someone had to return to Nassau with the privateers’ papers and Letters of Marque. Lewrie urged the energetic and piratical Lovett to make his stay at Nassau as brief as possible, then return to re-join Thorn and Lizard off Saint Augustine to form a scouting-blockading force; under no circumstances was he to be brow-beaten back into Captain Francis Forrester’s clutches!

  To Lt. Darling in Thorn, Lewrie sent formal written orders for him to take temporary command of the squadron ’til Reliant returned from her diplomatic mission and, once Lt. Lovett and HMS Firefly were back in the fold, to scout, harass, and engage any Spanish vessels they came across. Were there no merchantmen or light warships to fight, Lt. Darling was to make a nuisance along the coast, as long as he did not take on anything too rash.

  “Boats away, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked as he mounted to the quarterdeck.

  “Both away, and returning, sir,” the First Officer replied, “orders, champagne, and all safely delivered. If the Mids in charge, or the oarsmen, didn’t drink them right up.”

  “Something to be said for a late breakfast… or a very early dinner, combined,” Lewrie commented, still savouring one of Yeovill’s French-style omelettes with cheese, crumbled bacon, and onion, and a cup or three of strong coffee to slosh it down. He let go a discreet belch of appreciation, then turned to look aft and to larboard. The smoke from the burning ships and boats they had left in Mayami Bay still stained the horizon, even from ten miles offshore and twenty-odd miles astern. Lewrie smiled in satisfaction as he strolled to the hammock stanchions and nettings at the forward edge of the quarterdeck. “What’s with the damned dog, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked. “I saw him huddled under the ladderway as I came up. Whining. Sick, is he?”

  “It doesn’t appear that the discharging of the guns agrees with him, sir,” Westcott told him. “As soon as we went to Quarters, and the guns were run in for loading, he started cowering. I had one of the powder monkeys take him by the collar and lead him below to the orlop… with your cats, sir. Your steward, Pettus, will know more of what happened then.”

  “Well, cannon fire, or thunder, don’t agree with the livestock up forrud, either,” Lewrie said, “and don’t get me started on what my eats do. Perhaps a warship isn’t the right place for him. Might be, a farm’d suit him better. Then, he’d only have stormy weather t’deal with. Ye might mention that to the Mids, as to whether they think the poor thing’d suffer less ashore.”

  Midshipmen Munsell and Rossyngton, the youngest of the cockpit mess, at that moment strolled aft towards the base of the main mast, and, to their whistles and invitations, Bisquit darted out from his refuge and pranced about them, tail wagging madly.

  “So much for being too fearful, sir,” Westcott said with one brow up, and a quick, savage grin on his face. “Perhaps, like any ’pressed lubber, he’ll learn to cope.”

  “He
would… damn him,” Lewrie muttered.

  “He’s good for the ship’s morale, sir, you will have to admit,” Lt. Westcott pointed out. “Everyone but your cats adores the beast.”

  “ Et tu, sir? Et tu? ” Lewrie said with a wry snicker.

  Lt. Westcott’s answer to that was a laugh.

  “The last cast of the log, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked, turning to more practical matters.

  “Eight knots and a bit, sir,” Westcott said, more formally.

  “Does this wind hold, then, we’ll be off Saint Augustine about sundown tomorrow,” Lewrie speculated. “We could leave the others then, or… we could stay long enough for the Dons to catch sight of us before breaking away. A Fifth Rate frigate will make a greater impression than three smaller sloops by themselves. After that… we will stand out to enter the Gulf Stream and rush on for Wilmington.”

  “Much of a place, is it, sir?” Westcott asked.

  “Not as large a port as Charleston, but busy enough, so far as I remember from my times there in the Revolution,” Lewrie told him. “Not that we’ll see it, exactly, for the town proper’s thirty miles up the Cape Fear River from the mouth. We’ll have to come to anchor in the pratique ground, near old Brunswick Town… if it’s still there. It was three-quarters abandoned and fallin’ down in ’81. I’ll have to take one of the barges up-river. We’ll send a Mid with the other for supplies.”

  “Firewood and water… a Purser’s run… and sausages suitable for Bisquit and your cats, sir?” Westcott teased.

  “If you, the Mids, and the other officers are so concerned with the dog’s nourishment, one does hope a contribution will be gathered. Hmmm, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie japed.

  “Well…” Westcott said, wincing. “So long as it’s not too much. Mean t’say…”

  “Got you, again, sir!” Lewrie snickered.

  * * *

  For a frigate like Reliant, which drew nigh-eighteen feet right aft, even approaching Wilmington and the mouth of the Cape Fear River was a nightmare. Entering the river through New Inlet to the East was out of the question; when the hurricane of 1761 had opened it, it was half a mile wide and eighteen feet deep at high tide, which could vary as much as six feet of ebb to low tide. Below the long sabre-shaped peninsula that lay on the East bank of the river, South of New Inlet, South of Smith Island, or Bald Head, depending upon which chart one used, lay Frying Pan Shoals that stretched out to sea for another eighteen miles, with shifting swash channels between used mostly by fishermen and small coastal trading vessels… so long as they could swim in six or seven feet of water!

  Much safer, though by no means completely sure, was to approach well Westward of the shoals, under reduced sail, with leadsmen in the fore chains, and anchors ready to let go to haul the ship off quickly should she take the ground. A lot of the bottom was sand and shingle, but the charts showed several coral formations and rocks. From his time before at Wilmington, Lewrie recalled how quickly one could find good, deep water on one beam, and oyster banks and gin-clear water to the other, close enough to touch with an oar, and shallow enough for someone with a rake to stand knee-deep!

  When the leadsmen called out that there were five fathoms off either bow, the Sailing Master coughed into his fist and vowed that it might be time to fetch-to and call for a pilot.

  “Damned right, Mister Caldwell,” Lewrie told him, letting out a whoosh of air. “We’re temptin’ Fate as it is. Mister Westcott? Fetch to. Hoist the ‘Request Pilot’ signal, and fire off a gun to wake ’em up.”

  It took some time before there was a cannon fired in reply, and a small two-masted vessel appeared near the Eastern tip of Oak Island bound out to them.

  * * *

  “Arnold Dubden, your servant, sir,” the stout older pilot said once he’d gained the decks, doffing a wide-brimmed, nigh-shapeless hat. “You’d not be meaning to enter the river, now, would you?” he asked, looking incredulous.

  “As I recall, Mister Dubden, that’d be asking too much,” Lewrie replied, doffing his own cocked hat. “Captain Alan Lewrie, the Reliant frigate, and I am your servant, sir, in need of safe anchorage.”

  “That I can manage, Captain Lewrie,” Dubden said with a laugh. “My word, but the biggest ship to even try to enter the river was the old Hector, back before the Revolution, and she was only two hundred thirty tons, and didn’t draw twelve feet.”

  “Once anchored, I suppose I can find passage up-river to Wilmington at Brunswick Town?” Lewrie asked.

  “Lord, sir… there aren’t four buildings left o’ Brunswick Town, and one o’ them’s the tavern,” Dubden further related in amusement. “Smithville’s the main settlement, now, mostly for the pilots, cross the sound from Oak Island, and there isn’t what you’d call regular ferry service up-river. Catch as catch can, really.”

  “Purser’s stores?” Lewrie asked. “Firewood and water?”

  “You’ll find some at Smithville, Captain, but the main chandlers are up-river. You could send for some, I suppose,” Dubden told him.

  “And the British Consul would also be up-river at Wilmington?” Lewrie pressed.

  “’Fraid so, Captain, though he isn’t British,” Dubden related. “It’s a parcel o’ city lawyers who fill those posts. Well, there is a Frenchman who does for their consul duties, but the rest are local.”

  “Hmmm… sounds as if I should take one of my barges, then,” Lewrie mused aloud. “Perhaps another for my Purser.”

  “No need to do all your carrying yourself, Captain,” Dubden said. “Just send your needs up-river, and there’s lighters aplenty that can fetch your purchases down. I see you fly a broad pendant, Captain… There’s not a squadron offshore, is there? Mean to say… we’re not at war with you British again, are we?”

  “Still completely at peace, and in total amity, sir!” Lewrie assured him. “My squadron at present is off Spanish Florida, looking for French and Spanish privateers.”

  “Well, then!” Dubden brightened, sounding somewhat relieved by that news. “If you will get your ship under way, there’s deep water and good holding ground about half a mile further on, just off yonder.”

  When Reliant was safely anchored fore and aft, all the sails handed and gasketed, Dubden took his leave, announcing his fee for his services. “There’s also one dollar due for the gunpowder, sir.”

  “Hey?” Lewrie asked.

  “For the gunpowder we used to answer your shot, Captain,” the fellow explained. “State regulations for pilotage.”

  “The rate of exchange would be, ah…” the Purser, Mr. Cadbury, reckoned, “about five shillings, sir.”

  Five shillings, for about ten pence of powder? Lewrie wondered; These Yankee Doodles are nothing but a pack of skin-flints and “Captain Sharps”! When I get up-river, I’d better go with a satchel, or a keg o’ coin!

  After consulting Dubden about the local tides and winds, Lewrie decided to sail up the river early the next morning in one of the thirty foot barges, taking the Purser along to negotiate for the goods that Mr. Cadbury could not purchase from the Smithville traders that afternoon. Mr. Cooke, the ship’s Black cook, was eager for Cadbury to buy Cape Fear Low Country rice, and corn meal, along with as many pecks of berry fruits as possible. Lewrie’s own cook, Yeovill, popped up with a list of his own wants.

  “Desmond?” Lewrie called down to the waist. “Come to the quarterdeck, if ye please.”

  “Aye, sor?” his Cox’n asked, once there.

  “We’ll take one of the barges up-river. Rig the best’un with two lugs’ls and a jib. I’ll want you and Furfy, and only two more of my gig’s crew… men you’re sure won’t take ‘leg-bail’ once we’re at Wilmington,” Lewrie directed. “It’ll be me, the Purser, for passengers.”

  “Ye’ll not be wishin’ yer steward t’see to ye, sor?” Desmond asked, thinking it odd to not “show the flag” in proper style due the captain of a British frigate.

  “We’ll be among staunch republicans, almost as bad as the sans
-culottes French, Desmond,” Lewrie explained with a grin, “and the memories of the Revolution are still sharp. The less pomp and show, the better. Besides, there’s an old friend of mine in Wilmington, one we may find welcoming. If the wind fails us, I’ll take the tiller, and we’ll have four oars t’make steerageway. Best turn-out, mind, and we will shove off round dawn.”

  “Aye, sor, the barge’ll be ready,” Desmond assured him, “even do I haveta bribe the Bosun for fresh paint!”

  And let’s hope Christopher Cashman’s not turned into an American Jacobin, himself! Lewrie thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It was a very pleasant day to be boating, even did it begin at “first sparrow fart” of a mid-April morning. Brown spotted gulls and white-headed gulls swirled round the mast-tops, and the black-headed laughing gulls flirted and mewed in taunting darts near the gunn’ls of the freshly-painted barge. Further off, dark cormorants hovered and gyred before twisting over to make their fish-killing dives, and clutches of pelicans winged along crank-necked further off. Flocks of white egrets and great blue herons could be seen, stalking on long legs on the nearest shoreline. Before the day warmed, the air was fresh and cool, redolent of marshes and fresh water, even as the barge breasted the surge of the making tide, leaving salt water for sweet. The boat heeled only slightly to a steady beam wind, churning a faint foamy-white bow wave and leaving only the faintest disturbance in the brown river in its wake. Looking up-river, or to either hand as it widened, the Cape Bear appeared a dark blue-green, but closer to, it was rich with leaf mould and the colour of aged tobacco leaves. All under the bluest morning sky, the whitest and least-threatening clouds, and the banks of the river lined with pine and oak brilliant with the fresh green leaves of Spring.

  They passed a few landmarks that Lewrie remembered, like Orton Pond and the magnificent house at Orton Plantation to larboard, the New Inlet and Federal Point to starboard, the other riverfront manses further up-river whose names he had never learned, or forgotten, and Desmond, Furfy, and the other hands marvelled and jested as they had a snack of fresh-baked and buttered corn dodgers and small beer.