Dewey Lambdin - Reefs and Shoals

It was true. Ahead, Lewrie could barely see the white-painted transoms of the two boats from Reliant, and the four others off the sloops! He looked astern and thought he made out the foresails and fore gaff sail of Lizard, too. A quick duck under the canvas, again, and a furtive slit opening of the hooded, lanthorn showed him that it was almost five in the morning; false dawn would come a quarter-hour later. He closed the lanthorn and came back to the cooler air, looking North to see if he could spot Westcott’s division, but they were still invisible; he didn’t even try to hunt for Thorn. To the South, there was nothing to be seen in the mouth of the Amelia River. There were no ship’s riding lights one might expect to see aboard a ship at safe anchorage.

“We’ll have to steer larboard, Mister Spendlove, just to make sure there’s no one in there,” Lewrie said.

“Ehm… how do we tell the other boats to do that, sir?” Lt, Spendlove asked.

It was still thankfully dark enough to hide the stupefied look on Lewrie’s face. He had planned for them to be off the river mouth with just enough light to see up it, and had made no contingency plan for supplemental signals!

“Let the other boats proceed,” Lewrie snapped. “We’ll go a few hundred yards or so up the Amelia on our own, and catch up later.”

“Aye, sir,” Spendlove said with nary a dubious note, and whispered to the helmsman to put the tiller over. The boats ahead rapidly melted back into the gloom, and they were alone, steering South into the river mouth. Lewrie stumbled forward to the boat’s single mast to cling to it and peer ahead.

“Easy all,” Lewrie ordered. “Rest on yer oars for a bit.”

He got the sense that they were further West than the middle channel. There was a strong hint of the bulk of Amelia Island to his left, and a smell of marsh to his right, as if they were nearer to the West bank. What he could see was a faint mist beginning to rise and cling to the surface of the water. There were no ships in sight.

“Let’s put about, Mister Spendlove, and catch up our boats,” he ordered after making his way back to the stern.

The larboard oarsmen backed water, the starboard oarsmen pulled, and the gunboat slowly swung about to row Nor’west. As they did so, a spark loomed up off the starboard bows. A moment later there came a second shower of sparks.

“Best answer that, Mister Spendlove,” Lewrie said.

“Hoy, there!” a voice called. “Who are you?”

“Spendlove!” Lewrie replied as loud as he dared.

“ Lizard , here!” Lt. Bury called back. “For a minute, we almost fired into you! Did you get lost, Spendlove?”

Sure enough, the sloop loomed up in the dark, her sails rustling and her sweep oars groaning.

“We detatched, to look into the river,” Lewrie told him. “My idea. If you swear not t’run us over, we’ll be catching up our boats.”

“I will veer off Nor’west, sir, to avoid that!” Bury promised.

“Let’s get a goodly way on,” Lewrie told Spendlove.

He pulled out his pocket watch once more to duck under the canvas, but found that he could almost make out its white face, and barely identify the hour marks! Turning about, he saw Spendlove referring to his boat-compass without the use of the lanthorn! It was false dawn at last! Without straining he could spot the gaggle of rowing boats that had gone on without him, far off, see the splashes of each oar as they bit the water, and the low, swirling mist they passed through. To the North, he could finally see Lt. Westcott’s division, and Firefly astern of them! They looked to be in good order, for a wonder!

The gunboats stroke-oar set a hot pace, and the oarsmen gasped and grunted as they rowed, but they began to close the distance to the other boats, which had swung Nor’-Nor’west for the mouth of the Saint Mary’s River. The Midshipmen in charge of the largest boats from the frigate spotted them, and slowed their stroke to allow them to rejoin.

But, when the gunboat was slightly less than a cable off, there came spark signals from Entwhistle and Grainger, and all of the boats laid on their oars, slowly coasting to a stop.

Mr. Entwhistle was standing and waving his arms over his head to get their attention, then pointing towards the river’s mouth. Two minutes longer on, and the gunboat was within hailing distance.

“Lights, sir!” Entwhistle called out with his hands cupped by his mouth. “Riding lights in the river!”

“By God, they are there!” Lewrie crowed, immensely relieved to know that they had not punched an empty bag, that this new moon was a rendezvous for a privateer and his supplier. “We’re about to catch somebody, Mister Spendlove. Lay on yer oars for a bit, lads. Sorry about the long row. Load your weapons. Load and prime the carronade!”

Once all weapons were loaded, and the oarsmen took up the stroke again, a slower and more cautious one this time, the confluence of the Jolly and the St. Mary’s Rivers spread wide before them, revealing not just one or two ships, but half a dozen anchored up the St. Mary’s. A schooner lay closest to the South bank, stem-on to them as it streamed to the river current. A French Tricolour lazily flew over her transom!

“That’s Mollien’s schooner, by God!” Lewrie said with a laugh. “That snail-eatin’ bastard we saw at Charleston!”

Beyond her lay a larger brig with no flag flying. Up-river on the American side lay yet another brig, with several masted barges at her larboard side. Even further up-river yet another vessel could be seen, this one a full-rigged ship with a few more barges alongside her. And beyond Mollien’s schooner lay a brig that flew a French flag, and another brig with a French flag strung above a British merchant ensign in sign that she was a prize!

“It’s as crowded as the Pool of London!” Lt, Spendlove rejoiced. “Which do we take on, first, sir?”

“The Otarie … the schooner!” Lewrie quickly decided. “She’s the strongest opposition.” He looked round his gaggle of boats, sorting out the best for the task. He would need the Marines, and most of them were in his gunboat and Reliant ’s two boats. “Mister Rainey?” he called to Lizard ’s Lieutenant. “We’re taking that’un yonder! Once we do, I wish you and your men to guard any prisoners and take charge of her. Work her out to the middle of the Cumberland if you can. Once that’s done, I’ll take the gunboat and my two boats from Reliant and press on to the prize anchored above her. Sergeant Trickett, you and your Marines fix bayonets and be ready to board!”

Please stay sleepin’, just a bit longer! Lewrie prayed as the boats crept into the St. Mary’s. The men aboard the privateer would be sleeping, snugly anchored. They weren’t Navy men, so they might not keep a strict watch if they weren’t at sea. They might have been carousing the night before, contemplating the value of their prize and might already have money in their pockets from previous captures, and lashings of celebratory drink. If only…!

No lights glowed behind the sash-windows in the schooner’s transom, so her captain might still be abed. Lewrie could not see any men walking her decks. They were only one hundred yards off from her when a hesitant and reedy voice called out “Qui vive?” A sailor, no more than a ship’s boy, stood by the schooner’s taffrails in a wool stocking cap over thick blond hair, peering at them wide-eyed with a gaping mouth. The next instant, the lad ran forward with a wordless, shrill or of alarm. The next instant, the schooner’s watch-bell was being rung! “ Garde a vous! Aux armes! Les Anglais, mon Dieu !”