Reefs and Shoals

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

“I’ve the fair copies of your reports ready, sir, if you would care to glance them over,” Lewrie’s clerk, Faulkes said.

“Aye, thankee, Faulkes,” Lewrie agreed, seated on the settee to starboard of his great-cabins. Reliant and her small squadron were quietly anchored in West Bay below Fort Charlotte in Nassau Harbour, at long last, and he could lounge at ease in his shirtsleeves and a comfortable old pair of white canvas trousers, with a tall glass of cool tea sweetened and lemoned the way he liked it.

The most important of his correspondence was to Admiralty, far off in London, which described all his actions over the last few weeks, the capture of three French privateers, the Insolent, Otarie, and the Furieux, the amphibious landings his squadron had made, and the raid up the St, Mary’s River. Included was his evidence against the late, un-lamented Edward Treadwell and his Tybee Roads Trading Company, and details of the nefarious plan to aid enemy privateers for profit, in violation of American neutrality.

A second set of evidence had to be sent to the British Ambassador at Washington City, with a briefer report that covered his raid, and its results, which proved the existence of Treadwell’s plot, and justified his “kind of, sort of” skirting of American neutrality in the narrows of the river, so the ambassador could present the matter to the American government. That would be tit-for-tat and “so there” for American complaints that British forces still garrisoned the upper reaches of the Michigan Territory, ages after the peace treaty that had ended the Revolution in 1783!

Despite his distaste for the necessity, Lewrie would have to send a copy of the evidence, the ledgers, account books, and all, to their Consul at Savannah, that “top-lofty” idler, Mr. Hereford, with a cover letter that most carefully disguised Lewrie’s loathing of the man and referred to him as a colleague. Hopefully, Hereford would stir up his lazy arse and present the matter to the city officials in Savannah, perhaps to their state government, too, who might lodge accusations and prosecutions against the Tybee Roads Company and all of its subsidiaries. Did they seize the properties and assets, there was a good chance that their seizure and sale, or fines, would make someone in state government a tad richer when it was dissolved!

Thud! went his Marine sentry’s musket-butt on the deck beyond the door to his cabins. “Midshipman Munsell, SAH!”

“Enter,” Lewrie idly said without looking up from his reading.

“My duty, sir, and I am to tell you that a Navy brig-sloop is entering harbour, sir,” Munsell reported, hat under his arm. “She’s made her number… the ah, Delight, sir. I believe she is listed as being assigned to the Bahamas Squadron.”

“One of Captain Forrester’s?” Lewrie asked with his head over to one side in curiosity. “I thought he took both of his brig-sloops South. Hmm. How far off is she, Mister Munsell?”

“She’s hull-up at the moment, sir,” Munsell informed him, “an hour or more from anchoring, or firing a salute.”

“That’ll give me time enough t’read all this over before whoever it is comes callin’, then,” Lewrie decided, yawning. “Thankee, Mister Munsell. Come report to me when I should have t’be up and dressed.”

“Aye, sir.”

Lewrie quirked his mouth in faint frustration once Munsell had departed. He had planned to finish reading the reports and see them, along with his personal letters, to the packets bound for Savannah, the Chesapeake, and England, then put his head down for a long, lazy nap, but Delight ’s arrival put paid to that idleness.

Damn! he thought; I wonder if her captain is important enough for me to put on my bloody star and sash?

Thankfully, it was a whole two hours before Delight came into port, fired her salute… a cautious one of twelve guns befitting a Post-Captain of a Fifth Rate frigate… and came to anchor. She made a hoist of “Have Despatches”, then another of “Permission to Board”, which Reliant answered with “Captain To Repair Aboard”, and a boat made its way to the frigate’s starboard entry-port.

Lewrie awaited the newcomer on deck in the warm early-August sun, shoved into his everyday uniform, with the lesser concession of the star of the Order of the Bath pinned to his coat breast.

Bosun Sprague and his Mate, Wheeler, did the ship proud with their welcoming calls, the fully-uniformed Marines and sailors of the side-party saluted smartly, and the on-watch hands doffed hats as the officer, a Commander with a lone gilt and fringed epaulet perched on his left shoulder, doffed his hat in reply.

Midshipman Rossyngton saw him from the entry-port to the quarterdeck where Lewrie stood, whispering to the new arrival.

“Captain, sir,” Rossyngton glibly said, making the introduction, “allow me to name to you Commander Isaac Gilpin of the Delight sloop. Commander Gilpin, allow me to name to you Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, of the Reliant frigate.”

“Your servant, Sir Alan,” Gilpin said with a slight bow as he doffed his hat once more.

“Good t’make your acquaintance, Commander Gilpin,” Lewrie said in turn. “At long last, that is, since your ship was out on patrol whenever I came in to Nassau, and our paths never crossed ’til now.”

“It is my honour to make yours, Sir Alan,” Gilpin declared.

“Join me in my cabins, sir,” Lewrie invited, “for a glass of something cool.”

“Sounds grand, sir,” Gilpin agreed.

“Rhenish, Commander Gilpin, or cool tea?” Lewrie offered once they were seated on the starboard side. “Mind the cats, they’re just curious,” he cautioned as Toulon and Chalky came slinking.

“Tea, sir, if you please,” Gilpin decided, wary of the cats, who found any new visitor worthy of sniffs and inspection. Gilpin had on his best-dress uniform, and the blue coat (so far) was pristine.

“You were down South with Captain Forrester, I take it? Just before he departed, he sent me a letter about it,” Lewrie said. “He wished me t’join him, but I had other orders. They’re finished now, at last. Did you manage t’catch up with Villeneuve and his fleet?”

“We never did, sorry to say, sir,” Gilpin told him as he was presented with lemon juice and turbinado sugar to stir into his tea. “We got as far as Antigua and English Harbour, put in to speak with the officer commanding, and found that the first arrival, that French Admiral Missiessy, had already hared back to France, and there was no clear information as to Villeneuve’s whereabouts, so that was as far as we went.”

“Then it was best that I kept Reliant here, or off Saint Augustine and Spanish Florida,” Lewrie said.

Commander Gilpin was a pleasant-looking fellow in his middle thirties, trim and fit, and well-uniformed, with a blunt and honest face. He took a sip of tea, smiled in pleasant appreciation, and gave out a sigh. “Quite refreshing, sir, thank you. Sir Alan, I-”

Lewrie waved the formality off.

“Ehm… I noted quite a few prizes in port, sir,” Gilpin said. “Are they your doing?”

“Three French privateers, and a ship and two brigs awaiting return to their owners,” Lewrie happily told him, laying a brief sketch of their recent doings.

“And you command a squadron of your own, sir?” Gilpin further enquired. “I note that you fly a ‘white-balled’ broad pendant.”

“A wee one,” Lewrie replied. “I brought a sloop with me from Bermuda, and borrowed Lieutenants Lovett and Darling from your Captain Forrester when I arrived. Damned fine men, full of daring. I shall be sorry to lose them.”

Gilpin cocked a brow at that.

“We’ve fulfilled my orders,” Lewrie explained. “The criminal enterprise is broken up, the French and Spanish are on warning that the Georgia coast can’t be used for privateering any longer, so I’ve nothing left to fulfill, but for the minor task of making new charts of the reefs of Bermuda, so, Lizard and I, and her captain, Lieutenant Bury, will soon depart. Before hurricane season, hopefully, and the climes at Bermuda aren’t as sickly as the West Indies, or the Bahamas.

“In point of fact, my First Lieutenant and Lieutenant Bury wish to do a survey of North Ireland Island, and Grassy Bay, with an eye towards its possible use as a naval dockyard. Ever been up to Bermuda, Commander? The one harbour, Saint George’s, is close to the sea, but it’s bad holding-ground in a blow, and a tight fit did one of our fleets put in there. Whereas Grassy Bay and the Great Sound are hard to get to, for us and any foe, but huge and deep, with what looks t’be a completely impassible set of reefs all round. Only a rowboat could get through, assumin’ they didn’t get lost in the dead-end channels and the maze of coral heads. Soon as Forrester brings Mersey back to Nassau, I’m off.”

“Captain Forrester will not be coming back, sir,” Gilpin said with a quirky look of surpise. Or was it well-hidden glee?

“Oh?” Lewrie rejoined, hoping for the worst. “Why is that?”

“Well sir, once we put into English Harbour, he went ashore to confer with the Admiral commanding, and while I do not know what was said, he returned in some… discomforture,” Gilpin related.

“Chalky!” Lewrie snapped. “Leave his boot tassels alone! Go on, sir, pray do. Here, puss. Pester me, instead!”

“Soon after, Captain Forrester summoned us aboard the flagship and told us we’d be returning to Nassau, that our services had been deemed un-necessary, and we weighed the next morning,” Gilpin went on, “even though there wasn’t a breath of wind, and we had to put down our boats to tow us from one warping post to the next out to the channel.”

“Well I remember leavin’ English Harbour,” Lewrie said with a rueful grin. Chalky had come to Lewrie’s lap to sniff at the star on his chest whilst Toulon was still on the settee by Gilpin, seated with his tail curled over his paws and staring in curiosity. “Toulon there is safe t’pet, d’ye care for it.”

“Ehm… thank you, sir,” Gilpin said, though making no move to do so. Lewrie gestured him to go on; with his story, he meant, but his guest took it for an order to pet Toulon, so he gave him a tentative pat on the head.

“You were sayin’…” Lewrie pleasantly urged, sure that that fubsy toad, Forrester, had come some sort of cropper.

“Aye, sir,” Gilpin began again. “The other brig-sloop led out, and found a faint breeze, with a harbour pilot aboard, and I followed in her wake. When Mersey got past the last warping post and took her boats back aboard, though, the tide began to carry her astern, and a fluke of wind laid her aback. Before they could cast an anchor free she was driven on the coral and rocks, despite the best efforts of the other harbour pilot and her officers.”

Come a real cropper, has he? Lewrie thought, feeling like he could laugh out loud like a lunatick; How bloody wonderful!

“How awful for him,” he said, though, pretending sorrow quite well, if he did say so, himself! “Badly damaged, was she?”

“They finally got her off and fothered the holes in the hull, well enough to tow her back into harbour, sir,” Gilpin continued his tale, “but it took half the crew on the pumps and the other half at getting her lightened. They took her down to a gant-line and landed all her guns and carriages ashore, along with all her stores, before getting her into the docks. Whether she is repaired and taken on as a receiving or store ship, or condemned and burned for her fittings, had not been decided when Fulmar and Delight were ordered to return to Nassau, sir. They were, however, assembling the sufficient number of Post-Captains for a Court-Martial for her loss, and the charge of Captain Forrester abandoning his area of responsibility, sir.”

Yes, there is a God, and He’s just, t’boot! Lewrie gleefully told himself; They’ll “Yellow Squadron” the fool, at long last!

“Well, hmm,” was Lewrie’s comment. “Hah! Damn my eyes.”

“The Admiral at Antigua sent you a letter, sir,” Gilpin went on, reaching into a side-pocket of his coat. “Sorry for being remiss. Evidently, Captain Forrester must have made mention that you and your frigate were on station, or somewhere nearby, under Admiralty orders.”

“And a complaint that I refused t’join him,” Lewrie freely admitted, recalling the wording of Forrester’s last attempt to order him under his flag.

“So… both I and Commander Richie of Fulmar were ordered to seek you out at once and relay the Admiral’s request,” Gilpin said as he handed the letter over. “For so long as the strength and the whereabouts of the French fleet under Villeneuve is discovered, and their objective is determined, his verbal orders to me were to tell you that he cannot spare any ships of his squadron to take Mersey ’s place, but… as soon as he may safely do so, he will send a ship, or several, to defend the Bahamas. Until then, though, sir, you are in command of the largest ship on-station. Which makes you the temporary Senior Naval Officer Commanding the Bahamas.”

“Mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie gawped, a reaction that Commander Gilpin did not expect from a Post-Captain, especially one of Lewrie’s repute in the Navy; wasn’t he the aggressive “Ram-Cat”, the bane of the French?

“Well, hmm,” Lewrie said after a long moment. “I suppose that Bermuda’s out for a good while. I’m glad that I’ll have you with me, Commander Gilpin… and Commander Richie, is it, of Fulmar? I don’t know what else we’ll have, beyond the two ships of the squadron that I borrowed when I arrived. If Villeneuve comes this way, there’s not much we can do to face him, but… we can give it a good try.”

I s’pose this’ll make Bury, Darling, and Lovett happy, Lewrie whimsically thought. They had all dined ashore together a few nights before, and his junior captains had all expressed glum regrets that he would be turning them over to Forrester’s control, or for Lt. Bury to sail back to the boring patrols round Bermuda. At least still in his squadron, they could look forward to exciting doings they had assured him!

“Where’s Fulmar?” Lewrie asked.

“Richie thought to seek you off Spanish Florida, sir,” Gilpin said.

“We need t’keep a partial blockade of Saint Augustine. Once you’ve re-victualled, I’ll send a sloop to find him and let him do that for a while,” Lewrie decided. “Establish a patrol line down near the Turks and Caicos on the lookout for the French, too.”

“I quite look forward to serving under you, sir,” Gilpin said with an eager grin.

Once Gilpin had returned to his own ship, Lewrie laid aside his finery and changed back to comfortable clothes once more, ready for a mid-day meal. Yeovill and Cooke had run across a Free Black woman in the Bay Street markets who had been brought as a cook to the islands by a refugee Tory family at the end of the American Revolution. She had been freed years later, and swore that she possessed the best receipt for both pecan pie and peach pie, ones that had been her mother’s back in Colonial Georgia, and this time (perhaps!) they would bake one as good as those he’d tasted in Charleston and Savannah!

Lewrie propped his feet up on the brass tray-table with a fresh glass of tea handy, and mused over, his new duties… and over what a well-deserved disaster had befallen Francis Forrester. If he knew the current locations of those few former Midshipmen of old Desperate ’s cockpit with whom he had served, he would have written them that very instant, sure that all would gloat and shout Hosannahs at the news!

He could “caulk” for half an hour or so; though the windows in the transom were open, and the smaller ones in the coach-top overhead were open, too, it was a warmish day with little breeze reaching him.

Play a little horn-pipe of commiseration? he thought, fingering the holes of his penny-whistle, and putting it to his mouth. He got started on one, but there came a howl and singing wail from above.

“Deck, there!” he bellowed to the Midshipmen who stood harbour watch in lieu of the Commission Officers. “Is Bisquit on the quarterdeck?”

“Ehm… aye, sir,” Rossyngton called down, kneeling down by the coach-top to show his face in one of the windows. The dog’s head appeared in another. “Sorry, sir. I’ll shoo him off, directly.”

“Oh… never mind,” Lewrie said with a sigh, laying his musical instrument aside. “Just make sure he doesn’t shit on the deck.”

“ Really, sir?” Rossyngton yelped in surprise. “I mean, aye aye, sir. We’ll keep an eye on him. Come on, boy!”

For a moment, Bisquit gazed down at Lewrie, matching eyes with him, panting and grinning with what looked like glee, and his triumph of the forbidden territory, at last. Then, he answered to Midshipman Rossyngton’s summoning whistles and scampered off.

It’s official, and unanimous, Lewrie thought with a shake of his head; there’s nobody who cares for my music!