CHAPTER NINETEEN

A great many of the islets in the Keys were little more than hammocks of dry land a few feet above the sea, some as small as tennis courts, and covered so thickly with mangroves that it was hard to tell where the sand ended and the sea began, and birds were the only inhabitants. They were easy for the little squadron to pass by on their slow jog up the archipelago. The larger isles, though… despite the urge to rush on, Lewrie felt it necessary to land shore parties to inspect them if anything that resembled a settlement appeared; a clearing, the sight of farm crops, or the presence of domestic animals near the beaches. The landings pleased Reliant ’s Marine Officer, Lt. Simcock, right down to his toes, since they gave him a splendid excuse to exercise his men away from the ship, and relieve the boredom of the daily routine. Frankly, the frigate’s sailors, and the hands aboard the smaller ships, relished it, too, for it was a change of pace, with the prospect of discovering something useful, or edible, married with the hint of danger and action.

Strange fruits came back aboard the ships, now and then a small deer or wild hog, or some domestic chickens abandoned at a tumbledown collection of shacks.

And they did find settlements, of a sort. From the few who did not flee in fear, they found ragged remnants of the once-feared Calusa Indians, some Spaniards, Frenchmen, and Englishmen “gone native”, along with runaway Black slaves, even some few Muskogee Indians with “itchy feet”, driven from Georgia and Alabama by hordes of American settlers. The Muskogee had a name for those who would not stay in one place for long; they called them Seminoli-“wanderers”.

They lived on fish, on squash and beans and maize corn, and had chickens and pigs. They had some muskets, but were always short of lead and powder, and depended on the bow and arrow. Their homes were little more than lean-tos or raised, roofed, sleeping platforms in the native style, and their boats were hollowed-out mahogany logs A few who could actually speak a little English said that they feared the Spaniards who came up from Cuba to fish, for they were not above slave-catching. Privateers? Big boats? None of them could say. Further up to the East, perhaps, there might be, closer to what was left of the old Mayami tribe? They might know.


* * *

“Any luck ashore, Mister Merriman?” Lewrie asked as the Third Officer stepped through the entry-port after a scramble up the boarding battens.

“Same song, a different verse, sir, sorry to say,” Merriman reported, knuckling the brim of his hat in casual salute. “The few we saw are poor as church-mice. Their settlement’s on the bay side, so it took a while to row round to it. Hello, Bisquit! Happy to see me back? Here, boy! I brought you a pig bone!”

The dog seemingly adored every Man Jack in the crew, whining in longing whenever the Marine parties and boat crews, some of the Mids or one of the officers, manned the boats and rowed off, then went into paroxyms of joy at their return.

“The settlement?” Lewrie prompted.

“A bit fancier than most, sir,” Merriman replied, beaming at the sight of the dog trotting round the ship’s waist to show his bone off to everybody. “About a dozen huts, but made from sawn planks for floors and walls… roofed with palmetto, though. The flats were so shallow that we had some trouble finding a way to the bay side, so by the time we arrived, they’d all scampered into the bush, but for a few of the oldest, and not one of them knew a word of English or French or my poor Spanish, sir. And the bay, as far as we could see, was empty.”

“Good morning, sir!” Marine Lieutenant Simcock happily said as his boat came alongside, and he made the climb to the deck. Simcock was turned out in Sunday Divisions best, as if ready for inspection, right down to the highly polished silver gorget hung on a chain high on his chest; though his boots looked muddy and caked with sand.

“Good morning, sir,” Lewrie said, answering his salute with a slight doff of his own hat. “Anything that caught your eye ashore?”

“Not all that much, sir,” Simcock said with a cocky grimace of dismissal. “Unless you wished a new iron cook pot, or a painted clay one. Whoever the poor people are who live there, I pity them. Seems a shame, really… the natural beauty of these isles puts one in mind of the Greek tales about the land of the Lotus Eaters, yet… there’s nothing there to live on.”

“There’s those little gardens,” Merriman pointed out.

“Little bigger than Irish ‘lazy beds’, though, and the soil is too thin and sandy,” Lt. Simcock countered. “Oh! One thing that I did notice, sir, is the lack of water wells. I can’t recall seeing a one on any of the islands we’ve scouted.”

“Aye, come to think on it, I can’t say that I saw any wells at all, either,” Lt. Merriman quickly agreed, brightening. “Sir,” he said to Lewrie, “we’ve found barrels and large clay pots round the houses, with hollowed-out half-round sluices… to catch rainwater! Run-off from the planked rooves! There are no freshwater springs or wells!”

“Haven’t seen any, yet, sir,” Lt. Simcock added. “That’s not to say that there aren’t some on the larger isles closer to the mainland, but…,” he said, heaving off a large shrug. “Yes, hello, Bisquit! I’m back safely! Good fellow! Want a pig bone?”

Bisquit leaped, wagged his tail and his hindquarters in rapture, and pranced round the weather deck to show off his new one.

“No wells, no springs… no privateerin’ lairs, then,” Lewrie speculated. “A decent-sized ship could lurk round here for a time, with full water casks, but they’d have to go somewhere else to replenish. The only thing they could find here would be firewood and a hog or two.”

“So searching the Keys would be a waste of time, sir?” Merriman asked, sounding a tad disappointed. Lt. Simcock looked downcast, too, as if the both of them had been having fun ashore and would hate to see their excursions end.

“From what I saw during the Revolution,” Lewrie told them, “and what I’ve read of Florida, the mainland is rich with lakes, rivers, and streams. Privateers could base themselves on the far side of Florida Bay, but that’s too far from the Straits for quick springs upon merchant ships.”

And, did French or Spanish privateers base themselves on the mainland side of Florida Bay, they would have a long passage out round Key West and the Marquesas Keys to get to their cruising grounds, and a long passage back with prizes, Lewrie realised.

Damme, I might’ve been right the first time, he congratulated himself; Florida Bay’s a sack, a place where a privateer’d be trapped, if a force like ours came along! They’re a greedy lot, but no one ever said privateers are stupid.

“No, we’ll be thorough,” Lewrie said at last to his officers. “A few days more, and we’ll reach the end of the Keys and strike the mainland. Damme, no springs or wells? Then, what does the wildlife do for water… the wild hogs, deer, birds, and such? Even sea -birds need to drink, now and again.”

“Wait for a downpour, sir?” Lt. Merriman posed. “So far, we’ve seen goodly showers each afternoon, and there would be shallow puddles left behind them, for a while. As for the wild people who dwell here, I suppose they can dance for rain, like the Indians, and catch them a barrel or two of run-off. There are clouds gathering on the horizon even as we speak, sir.”

“Seems a horrid waste, really,” Lt. Simcock commented. “These wee isles appear idyllic, but one would have to be pretty desperate to live here for long. Alluring and all, but not worth a tuppenny shit for white men.”

“Who knows, though, Arnold,” Merriman said. “Did one dig a deep well and strike fresh water, one could go as native as a Tahitian in the Great South Seas!”

“Though it don’t look promising for bare-breasted dancing girls in grass skirts,” Simcock quipped, fanning himself with his hat.

“Invite Mister Westcott to go native with you,” Merriman chirped, “and he’ll turn them up in a Dog Watch. It comes to women, he’s your boy!”

“Carry on, sirs,” Lewrie said, hiding a smirk, and returning to the quarterdeck to fetch his telescope. He peered at Lizard, Firefly, and Thorn which lay to anchor close by. Their boats were also coming offshore, empty-handed it appeared. Well, Lt. Bury was studying something that might have been a horseshoe crab with a large magnifying glass. No, he’d call it a trilobite, Lewrie thought.

Lewrie lowered his telescope and turned to gaze out to sea. A bank of darker clouds was gathering as the heat of the day grew, threatening yet another afternoon shower or two. Four or five miles out from their anchorage, a slim glass-white waterspout was slowly snaking down to thrash the bright green waters to a froth; yet another nigh-daily occurrence since they had entered the Florida Straits and had begun their slow inspection of the Keys.

“Mister Grainger?” Lewrie called, after turning to note which lad was the Midshipman of the Watch on the quarterdeck. “Hoist ‘Captains Repair On Board’.”

Grand places t’lurk, but not to base, Lewrie thought; unless ye fetch along all that’s needful. Might as well be at sea!

He went to the compass binnacle cabinet afore the helm to roll open one of the Sailing Master’s dubious charts of the area, to look closely at the great bay at the North end of the Keys. Yes, it was as he remembered it from a first perusal… there were rios feeding into the bay, and rivers meant fresh water in abundance.

Time for a conference, Lewrie determined; and time for a change of plans. Some midnight boat-work, to scout the bay out before we go barging’ in.

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