Dewey Lambdin - THE GUN KETCH

James Gatacre and his assistant came aft from the bows, trailing the four midshipmen. He ascended to the quarter-deck and peeked into the compass bowl. He laid a thick-fingered hand on the traverse board, which made John Fellows the naval sailing master, sniff suspiciously. Gatacre turned his heavy, craggy head aloft and eyed the set of the sun. He peered down at the issue chart and paced off progress along their course from the Fleeming Channel entrance.

"Ahum," he said, folding up his dividers and shoving them into a pocket. "Captain Lewrie, my compliments to you this morning, sir."

"Mister Gatacre," Lewrie nodded pleasantly.

"Might I humbly suggest to you, sir, that we get the way off her and come to anchor in the next ten minutes or so?" Gatacre said. "There are rumors of a sandshoal, and sand bores… ahum, just about here, to be plumbed, sir."

Lewrie peered at the chart himself. Where the dead reckoning of their course ended, assuming the chip log was right and they were doing six knots and a bit, where Gatacre's thick thumb rested, given four miles to the inch, they were…

"God's teeth!" Lewrie spat. "Mister Ballard, all hands! Take in tops'ls, pay out a cable to the best bower, hand the forecourse and the inner jibs."

"Nought to dread, Captain Lewrie," Gatacre smiled confidently. "We've a good two miles before we fetch it. Assuming the position of the wreck was taken correctly, o'course. Nought to dread."

"The wreck!" Lewrie goggled. "Christ on a bloody cross! Quartermaster, put yer helm down. Two points to weather. Mister Ballard? Loose sheets and let her luff!"

"Did I not mention it last night in your cabins, sir?" Gatacre frowned.

"You mentioned shoals, sir. But said nothing about a wreck."

"Bless my soul, I was sure I had, sir," Gatacre chuckled at his failure, bemused by a faulty memory. He stuck a forefinger into his ear and waggled it about vigorously, as though that action restored thoughts.

"A shipwreck." Lewrie muttered to himself. "Mine arse on a bandbox!"

It was just as well that "Dread-Nought" Gatacre was armed with a host of assorted charts from France, England, Holland and Spain that spanned centuries of sailing in the Bahamas. He also possessed tomes of Sailing Directions from ancient to modern, gathered by the Admiralty over the years and pored over closely for the slightest variations in cartography, or acceptable agreement over soundings, bearings, and channels among the coral reefs, the sand shoals and sand bores.

Else we'd be at this 'til the Last Trumpet, Lewrie thought.

Had they been forced to dismiss all preceding data, he doubted if they would have finished mapping the chain of cays that led from New Providence to Eleuthera in Alacrity's three-year commission, and would still have been hard at their task when the last ship's boy had become a doddering white-haired pensioner.

Fortunately, many of the foreign charts proved truthful, so it was mainly a list of unsurveyed waters they had to explore, or those areas where no consensus could be agreed to, shortening their task considerably.

Mid-spring became high summer as Alacrity felt her way south, three months' labor that passed in fits and starts. There were fast, exhilarating passages in brisk winds and balmy weathers, followed by long days at anchor, with the boats and luggers dragging and sounding with short lead lines, oars dipping across glassy-calm bays.

They scouted all down the length of Exuma Sound's western side, past all the shoals and cays. They plumbed the waters around Conception Island and Rum Cay, peeked into Crooked Island Passage, along the windward shores of Acklins, then beat to windward for Samana Cay, the Plana Cays, then sou'east once again to explore the jagged reefs of Mayaguana Island.

As settlers flocked into the Bahamas, as plantations and towns grew on the islands south from New Providence onto virgin territory, the need for safe Sailing Directions for the lower Bahamas became a crucial matter. As civilization invaded those cays that had before only been watering anchorages (or pirates' lairs), the Fleet had a vital need for potential bases from which to protect trade.

It was vital, yes, and a sober responsibility; but it was fun! Hot as it became as they proceeded southerly, the winds were bracing and cool. And when a blow came up, a safe anchorage could always be found in which to ride it out.

With four boats to be worked, most of the hands had to be away from the ship during the days, free of onerous, repetitive labor, and the hands enjoyed that. The midshipmen were each assigned a boat of their own, separated from their officers' exasperations, and they enjoyed that, too. And when the hydrographic work became boring, there was always a passage to somewhere new to break the monotony, and then arms drills, fire drills, gun drills and such were a welcome break in routine, to which all hands fell with a will.

They took midday meals away from the ship for the most part, and the cays and islets provided good sport for hunting or fishing, with wild pigs or goats fetched back to supplant salt rations in the messes. And those islands which were populated provided welcome entertainment. After a good day's labor, a signal gun would summon the boats back alongside for a later-scheduled rum issue, supper, and "easy discipline" period of music and song before Lights Out and sleep.

And it was lovely, for the Bahamas were a sailor's paradise for startlingly beautiful waters and islands, for high-piled banks of cloud scudded along by bright, clean winds. Instead of being far out to sea, deprived for months of the sight of anything green, of anything fresh to eat, they partook of fruits and vegetables daily like so many Lotus-Eaters, and feasted their eyes on trees and grass, walked beaches unmarked by human feet, and sometimes rested in the shade of Madeira mahoganies, sea grapes or pines and palmettos, amid lush and fragrant flowering shrubs, listening to the ocean's breeze stir fronds above their heads, or the sea raling gently on the sands.

"Some do say there's routes 'cross the Caicos Banks," Gatacre told them at supper one evening. As usual, he had a folded-up chart near his plate at which he jabbed now and then with an inky ringer, or a mustard-smeared knife. "And rumored entrances on the loo'rd so a ship o' moderate draught might pass through the breakers."

"We could spend the rest of summer 'til hurricane season seeking them," Lewrie commented between bites of their supper.

"A real boon to settlement of the Turks and Caicos, were they to exist, though, sir," Lieutenant Ballard suggested, neatly delivering some iguana to his mouth. They were anchored off Fort George Cay, by the isles on the nor'west side of the Caicos, where a palmetto-log, sand and "tabby" coral-block fort guarded the approaches to the Salt Isles. Will Cony had gone ashore with Lewrie's light-caliber fusil, and had nailed a brace of the fearsome-looking lizards with neat head shots, and the ship's cook had skinned and roasted them, pronouncing them good as chicken, any day.

"Aye, Mister Ballard, lookee here," James Gatacre went on. "A bigger sort o' islands here in the Caicos. Blue Hills just a little way below us t'the sou'west. Some name it Providenciales. Fourteen mile long, fairly wide. North Caicos a few miles nor'east, then ya have Middle Caicos, East Caicos t'east an' south. All of 'em huge, by Bahamian standards, well-watered inland, and fertile f r any sorta agriculture. Like an atoll, they are, strung 'round this shallow bank, though. To find good anchorages, ya have t'sail all the way 'round, outside the Caicos Banks. But, with navigable passes, commerce could flow with little dread o' piracy or enemy ships in time o' war."