Reefs and Shoals

by Dewey Lambdin

  “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?”

  “Francis Forrester?” Lewrie gawped. “‘The Honourable’ Francis Forrester, is he?”

  “He is indeed, Sir Alan,” Lt. Hubbard told him. “Do you already have the honour of his acquaintance, sir?”

  Christ, that pig-faced bastard! Lewrie thought.

  “Served together, long ago,” Lewrie said, leaving it at that.

  He’d come down with the Yellow Jack and had been put ashore, to most-like die, from the Parrot schooner, had spent some time on staff to Rear-Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews at Antigua, then had finally won a sea-going berth aboard the HMS Desperate under that daft lunatick, Commander Tobias Treghues. Francis Forrester had been cater-cousin and “pet” to Treghues, and had made life for the rest of Desperate’s Mids a pluperfect Hell. Forrester back during the American Revolution had been a fubsy, crusty, round young fellow, and an arrogant, sneering pig to boot. Lewrie and the other Mids had once gotten some of their own back by obtaining some royal blue lead paint and had given Forrester a goatee, a fat and curling mustachio, and blue cheekbones as he slept, snoring like a stoat. Treghues had been outraged, and, being good paint, after drying in the overnight hours, it had not come off for weeks, no matter what Forrester used to scrub at it!

  I read in Steeles that he’d been made Post, Lewrie told himself as they went aft; but I never expected t’see him in the flesh … of which he had very much … the rest o’ this life!

  Lt. Hubbard spoke in the Marine sentry’s ear. The Marine private jerked his head in a short nod, then stamped boots, slammed the butt of his musket on the deck and bawled “Cap’m Sir Alan Lewrie, SAH!”

  Music to Lewrie’s ears, it was, for instead of the usual calm return cry of “Come!” or “Enter!” from within the great-cabins, there could be heard a startled “Wha’?”, a long pause, then an “Enter!”

  Lt. Hubbard slightly raised one brow in surpise, then opened the door for Lewrie to step through. He ducked his head to avoid the overhead deck beams, then made his way aft past the dining coach, the chart space, into the spacious day-cabin.

  Lives well, Francis does, Lewrie thought as he took in all the finery. Captain Forrester’s furniture was exquisitely made and shining with beeswax polish, and there was a faint tinge of lemon oil as if freshly buffed that morning. The black-and-white painted canvas deck chequer looked spanking new, where one could see it past the edges of several colourful, and expensive, Turkey or Axminster carpets. All the settee area furniture was of gleaming cherry wood, upholstered in dark brown leather; collapsible and stowable at short notice, certainly, but looked more substantial than most sea-going pieces. All the interior bulkheads above the wainscotting were painted in a soothing mint green, with mouldings added in cream and gilt. There were satiny drapes for the windows in the transom in a cream colour, pale green cushions and contrasting throw pillows for the transom settee, and a satiny coverlet for Forrester’s hanging bed-cot, and the flimsy deal and canvas collapsible partitions were done in that mint green, with white louvred shutters in the upper halves.

  Forrester himself sat behind a long and wide day-cabin desk of cherry, one that rested on X-shaped folding frames, with lots of well-polished brass accents. Forrester, well …

  By God, we once said he was battenin’ like a hog ready for the fall slaughter, Lewrie gleefully thought; and damned if he ain’t gone fubsier since!

  Captain Francis Forrester’s uniform was elegantly tailored, of the finest broadcloth wool for the coat and waist-coat, of the finest and softest cotton denim sailcloth for the breeches, and the whitest cotton or linen for his shirt, but … he did put a strain on it!

  Lewrie walked up to the desk, hat under his left arm, and gave Forrester a nod. “Francis. It’s been a long time. How d’ye keep?” Captain Forrester did not at once reply; he seemed dumbstruck, as if pole-axed like a beef cow. His face looked flush, and his cheekbones were even redder … putting Lewrie into a fond, blue-tinged, memory. Forrester’s eyes were glued to the medals, the bright blue silk sash, and the gleaming star on Lewrie’s chest. At last he looked up, with a faint scowl blossoming.

  “Captain Lewrie,” he gravelled. “You are come as re-enforcement to my squadron?” Forrester asked.

  “Sorry, no,” Lewrie replied with a grin. “In point of fact, I am come to borrow a few small sloops from you, so I may break out my own broad pendant.”

  “The Devil you say!” Forrester snapped, turning tetchy. “Come for some of my warships?”

  “Only a couple or three,” Lewrie said, trying to sound ass
uring. He reached into the breast pocket of his uniform coat and drew out the orders. “This is addressed to the Senior Officer Present in the Bahamas … perhaps your appointment here was only a few days after? If you give it a looking over, you’ll see what Admiralty intends. I’m to put together a small group of shoal-draught vessels able to go close inshore, poke into inlets, bays and rivers in Spanish Florida, to hunt down French and Spanish privateers.”

  “The suppression of privateers is properly my duty, Lewrie!” Forrester snapped, turning a tad redder in the face, if such was possible. “Florida is not an hundred miles West of here, and the vessels of my squadron, few as they already are, have their hands full patrolling the Florida Straits, not to mention making regular rounds of the whole of the Bahamas, down to the Turks and Caicos, and the Inagua Islands … protecting the salt trade. Why … these orders are impossible to fulfill! I’ve nothing to spare! Not even that little sloop that just came in.”

  “Uhm, the Lizard sloop is with me, actually,” Lewrie told him, striving for a mild tone, and chiding himself not to gloat. “I drug him off from Bermuda, where he, Lieutenant Bury, was the senior officer present at the moment.”

  And damn yer bloody eyes, but are ye ever going t’offer me a seat, or a glass o’ somethin’? Lewrie inwardly fumed.

  “Good God!” Forrester spat, like to shake himself to wake from a very bad dream. He looked as miserable as a hanged spaniel.

  “If you’ll look over the orders, sir,” Lewrie prompted, holding them out once more. “And, might I sit down, sir?”

  “How remiss of me,” Forrester said, dead-level in his tone of voice, for it was nowhere near a sociable apology. “Do, sir, sit.” He looked over at one of entourage of cabin servants and snapped his fingers. “Some hock?”

  “Most welcome, sir,” Lewrie agreed. Reminding Forrester that his Post-Captaincy predated Lewrie’s, and that he was higher up the Navy List, seemed to mollify him … somewhat.

  The wine arrived whilst Forrester continued to read the orders over, several times, it seemed, his piggy eyes darting and squinting as if in pain. The cabin servant was tricked out in immaculate white shirt and slop-trousers, wore a black neck-stock round his collars, and white gloves, nigh as grand as a waiter in a London chop house! The bottle stood in a shiny pewter bucket, dripping water as it was removed, and Lewrie definitely heard the sound of ice chunks as the steward did so. Aye, the wine was iced!

  “Yankee Doodles,” Forrester disparagingly commented. “Come to buy salt, and sell lumber and New England winter ice. Pity, for this lot may be the last ’til next November or December.”

  “Yes, I recall the ice-houses of Nassau,” Lewrie replied, “and how hard it is t’pick all the straw and sawdust off before you could use it in a cold punch. Had the Alacrity sloop in the Bahamas, from ’86 to ’89. Ketch-rigged sloop, once a bomb vessel, really, but it was fine duty in those days.”

  “The Bahamas?” Forrester scoffed, looking up with the orders in one hand and a wine glass in the other. “Well, perhaps you would appreciate it, but I find the islands a dreary, boresome place, lacking the basic rudiments of proper civilisation. Barely a cut above a Cornish fishing village. Or a smuggler’s inlet,” he added.

  “Best place t’shop for the rudiments of civilised life, the smugglers’ dens,” Lewrie japed. “Like ‘Calico’ Jack Finney’s emporium that used t’be on Bay Street.”

  “Yes, I heard of him,” Forrester said.

  “I’m the one who chased him to Charleston, South Carolina, and killed him,” Lewrie told Forrester with a tight little grin.

  And what’ve you done since we were Mids t’gether? Lewrie asked himself; All ’claret, cruisin’, and bum-kissin’?

  “Ahem! As I said, Lewrie, this request from Admiralty is just impossible for me to fulfill,” Forrester, fussily announced, re-directing the conversation. “I’ve but two brig-sloops on station, and eight small sloops. Given the fact that Spain has been an enemy since the first of the year, I cannot spare a one. Their colonies in Florida and Cuba, just South of here on Hispaniola, on Puerto Rico? The risk of invasion is too high to despatch even the smallest to you.

  “Hmmm…” Forrester pondered, a sly smile blossoming on his face. “Given that threat, it might make more sense did you and your frigate come under my command. Then, when I may spare you, you may prowl round Florida to your heart’s content. The presence of a two-decker sixty-four, and a Fifth Rate frigate would surely give ambitious Dons pause, hey?”

  “Hmm,” Lewrie replied in kind, taking his own sweet time with his wine glass, as if really considering the proposal. “Actually, I fancy that our ships at Antigua, Barbados, Trinidad, and Jamaica are keeping the Dons awake at night, so the risk of invasion from Spain is negligible, sir. The Spanish are at more risk.

  “Secondly,” Lewrie drolly went on, quite enjoying himself, “Admiralty did not request, but ordered you to supply me with a few shoal-draught sloops or cutters. Thirdly…,” Lewrie said, pausing to let that sink in, “a refusal on your part would hamper the fulfillment of my original orders. And, lastly…”

  Stick it up his bum-hole, yes! Lewrie thought, feeling like he could barely keep from chortling out loud, and delighting in the puce colour of Forrester’s full face; Here it comes, ye gotch-gut!

  “Lastly, am I shackled to the Bahamas under your command, I’d not be able to execute the rest of my duties of surveying Bermudan waters, or calling upon our consuls in neutral American ports to see if enemy privateers may be operating from them covertly.”

  “As I recall, you were made ‘Post’ in the spring of ninety-seven, whilst I…” Forrester shot back, eyes as lidded as a cobra.

  “That don’t signify,” Lewrie quickly dismissed with a wave of one hand. “I’ve ‘independent orders’ to form a punitive squadron and root out privateers … from Admiralty, sir.”

  “I will consider your requ — the matter, Captain Lewrie,” Forrester sputtered, as “sulled up” as a bullfrog, “and will send you my decision by letter … when I’ve completed my deliberations upon it.”

  “Oh, when you do,” Lewrie quickly rejoined, “ye might add Baronet t’the heading.” Well … I shall take my leave,” he added, finishing his wine, and rising.

  He knew that would gall the man even worse! Francis Forrester was an “Honourable”, but so were all his brothers and sisters as sons or daughters of a baron or viscount, and he was not the eldest son due to inherit … else he’d not have gone to sea in the first place, and made a career of the Navy!

  “Good day to you, Captain Lewrie,” Forrester was forced to say, not rising from his seat behind his grand desk, and not offering his hand, most un-graciously and sulkily.

  “Good day to you, yer servant, sir,” Lewrie replied, making a sketchy, polite bow from the waist before departing.

  Damn my eyes, but maybe bein’ a Knight and Baronet comes in handy, now and again! Lewrie told himself as he gained the deck and the open air.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Lewrie was back aboard Reliant just long enough to remove the sash and star, warn his cook, Yeovill, that he’d take his dinner on shore, and ordered the Purser, Mr. Cadbury, to take a ship’s boat to seek out fresh victuals. Then, he was off in a whistled-up bum-boat for the docks of Nassau.

  Captain Francis Forrester might not care for New Providence Island, or the Bahamas, but Lewrie still liked it … somewhat. Nassau was a raw and rowdy place, sleepier than grander ports he’d visited, and might lack the refinements of the symphonies, opera houses, or theatrical halls of London, and yes, its miniscule attempts at Cultured Society might be provincial and “chaw-bacon”, but Nassau had a bustle to it. The shoreside streets teemed with push-carts and waggons and vendors. The piers were lined with merchant ships, and thronged with stevedores landing and carting off cargoes, or lading exports. Lewrie found a Free Black with a push-cart from which he sold ginger beer by the pint and half-pint, right off, and savoured the sweetness and the sprightliness, along with t
he sharp bite of the ginger.

  And there was the chop-house where he and Caroline had dined so many years ago, where he’d first met his friend and fellow officer, Benjamin Rodgers. Where they had politely declined the clumsy invitations of “Calico” Jack Finney, the rag-seller turned privateer, then local hero, then rich entrepeneur, and secretly, pirate. He popped into its coolness and dined on jerked pork and crisp-fried, breaded grouper, with white wine and a fresh salad, finished with the very same key-lime pudding he’d relished in his early days.

  On a tour of remembrance, he later idly strolled Bay Street, noting the new houses and stores that had sprung up over the years. Where he’d first “bearded” Finney, in his massive, sprawling emporium, nigh a whole corner block once, with all the various shops opened to each other and to the streets through grand doorways, Lewrie found it changed, the interior pass-throughs now walled back up and divided into at least a dozen new concerns.

  He made a courtesy call on the island governor at Government House, spent about twenty minutes there, then made his way back East towards the piers, beyond Fort Fincastle that loomed above them, and, on a sudden whim, hitched a ride on a passing empty waggon further to the East out towards Fort Montagu, on East Bay Street.

  He alit by the gate house to the old Boudreau plantation that had been his and Caroline’s shore residence once. And, from the first moment, he was sorry that he’d come. It had had a tight cedar shingle roof once, but that had gone to seed, and was littered with reddish-tan detritus blown off the many pines and palmettos. Their little cottage had been an ambitious stab at grandeur, an un-needed stables or overseer’s cottage, all of stone or coral “tabby”. There had been the main section with two bedrooms, a parlour, and space for dining to one side, then a breezeway—Caroline had called it a “dog run”, he sorrowfully recalled—separating the main house from the smaller kitchen, pantries, and storerooms, the bathing facility, and “jakes”. His late wife had had the exterior painted a startling but cool mint green whilst he had been away on his first patrol down the island chain to the Turks and Caicos; his teasing about the colour had lit their first real argument!