Dewey Lambdin - Reefs and Shoals

“You eat ’em, too? You don’t feel…?” Lewrie posed.

“A good fish is more toothsome to me than roast beef, sir,” Bury said, coming close to laughing in real amusement for the first time. “The crew think my interests, odd, sir, but they eat well as a result. Might I send you over something for your table tonight, sir? Grassy Bay’s shallows abound in pompano.”

“My cook and I will be delighted, thankee!” Lewrie enthused. He had not had more than two fresh suppers of anything since leaving Portsmouth, and those only in the last two days. Fresh fish had not been among them, and the idea made him salivate.

“So, we shall be off soon, sir?” Bury enquired.

“As soon as dammit,” Lewrie told him, “and bound for Nassau in the Bahamas, to beg, borrow, or scrounge up a few more shoal-draught vessels. I’d suppose you must victual, and take on firewood and water at Saint George’s, before we can do so?”

“Aye, sir, a few last-minute items,” Bury said, almost by rote, gazing off at the middle distance-or his foul-weather tarpaulins on a peg-to muse upon their departure. He then turned to face Lewrie with a quirky expression on his face, and said, “‘And he saith unto them, ‘Follow me, and I shall make you fishers of men’. And they straightaway left their nets and followed him’. Matthew four, nineteen and twenty.”

“Ah… something a bit like that, Mister Bury, aye,” Lewrie managed to say, wondering what to make of the Biblical quotation, and if it might be blasphemous to be compared to Jesus.

An odd, odd bird, indeed! he thought.

PRIVATEER a vessel of war, armed and equipped by particular merchants, and furnished with a military commission by the admiralty, or the officers who superintend the marine department of a country, to cruize against the enemy, and take, sink, or burn their shipping, or otherwise annoy them as opportunity offers. The sea vessels are generally governed on the same plan with his majesty’s ships, although they are guilty of many scandalous depredations, which are very rarely practised by the latter.

– FALCONER’S M ARINE DICTIONARY 1780 EDITION

Reliant ’s First Officer peered upwards at the mast tops to study the winds as the frigate ghosted into West Bay of Nassau Harbour on New Providence, in the Bahamas. Satisfied, he turned to look at his captain and cocked a brow as he said, “You will not hoist your broad pendant, sir?”

“Bugger the broad pendant,” Lewrie growled back, though in good humour. “One sloop don’t make a squadron,” he added, jerking one arm out in the direction of Lizard, which preceded them by a full cable.

“It would seem a suitable number to justify that fellow’s broad pendant, though, sir,” Lt. Westcott pointed out, indicating the bit of red bunting which lazily curled to the light winds atop the main mast of an older 64-gun two-decker anchored between Hog Island and the town’s main piers. They were close enough for Lewrie to make out, as a faint gust spread the pendant, that the officer allowed to fly it was much like him; it displayed a large white ball, indicating that whomsoever the officer was, he was still a Post-Captain without a Flag-Captain or staff approaching admiral-hood. Further East in East Bay, Lewrie could espy at least two more Royal Navy vessels no bigger than Lizard.

“Hmm, seems at least two will suffice, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie japed. “Give the man another pair, and he might style himself a Rear-Admiral. If he has twice that number out patrolling the down islands, he might sign his letters as Lord Nelson!”

“Do your orders name him, sir?” Westcott asked.

“No,” Lewrie replied, “just ‘senior officer present in the Bahamas’. Don’t think Admiralty knew just who that was back in January.” He shrugged, as if it really didn’t matter. “The old’un t’be called home, the new’un not yet appointed? No matter. You may begin to fire the salute to Captain Thing-gummy now, sir, and be ready to round up into the wind and let go the bower, once done.”

“Aye aye, sir! Mister Acres… begin the salute!”

The new Master Gunner who had replaced old Rahl jutted an arm at the forrud-most 18-pounder’s gun-captain, who jerked the lanyard of the flintlock striker, and the first shot of the gun salute boomed out, creating a thick jet of yellow-grey smoke. Mr. Acres paced aft, to all outward appearance mumbling to himself before halting and jutting an arm at the second 18-pounder of the starboard battery for their second saluting shot. Acres was reciting the ancient ritual for timing under his breath; “… If I weren’t a gunner, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve left my wife, and all that’s dear… number-two gun, fire! If I weren’t a gunner…” and on aft, repeating himself ’til thirteen guns for a Post-Captain with broad pendant had been delivered.

“Lee helm, and flat her a’back, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered. “Four-to-one scope on the cable should suit.”

Right in the middle of coasting to a stop, letting go the anchor, and the lowering of jibs and stays’ls, the clewing and brailing up of the squares’ls, Mr. Eldridge, their newest Midshipman, announced the appearance of a signal hoist which had soared aloft on the two-decker. It was “Captain Repair on Board”.

“Impatient sort, ain’t he, Mister Eldridge?” Lewrie said as he settled the fit of his waist-coat and shirt cuffs. “Cox’n Desmond? My gig, d’ye please.”

“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!