Dewey Lambdin - THE GUN KETCH

"Uhm…" John Fellows spoke up quickly, more attuned to haste than the civilian Gatacre. "There's reputed to be ten fathoms close-to along the reefs, Captain. Once 'round the point, it runs east-sou'east across the mouth of Clear Sand Road. There's passes through the reefs after Southeast Reef, one after Molasses Reef… ah, here… and maybe a pass below French Cay, here… another here before West Sand Spit?"

"Do we keep the wind gauge, we deny them those passes, and keep them seaward," Lewrie nodded with a grim smile. "Good, Mister Fellows. Thankee. Damn my eyes, where're those bloody boat crews?"

"Alongside now, sir," Ballard replied, sounding a touch eager himself now.

"Leave Mr. Shipley with 'em," Lewrie decided, relegating the more useful of the Royal Naval Academy midshipmen to their command. "He's to put into Clear Sand Road and anchor to await our return."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Mister Harkin, pipe 'All Hands!' Get sail on her!"

Alacrity began to fly as the tops'ls were freed by men aloft on the footropes. Clews were drawn down to spread them to the wind and they bellied light-air full, rustling and drumming. Outer-flying jib and foretopmast stays'1 soared up the stays up forward, filled with air, and were manhandled over to the starboard side by the fo'c's'le crew. Though still in West Caicos' lee and robbed of the full power of the Trades, there was a rivulet of wind close inshore that swept almost due south along the coast, a wind she took full advantage of.

"Mister Ballard, beat to quarters," Lewrie snapped. "Before we meet the stronger winds below Southwest Point."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The gun lashings came off, the tackle and blocks were laid out on deck clear of recoil, and the guns were run in to the full extent of the breeching ropes. Ship's boys came up from below with the first leather or wooden cylinders which contained premeasured bags of powder from the magazines. Gun captains under the direction of the quarter-gunner Buckinger fetched rammers, worm-ers and slow match, while the train-tackle men appeared with handspikes and crow-levers to be used to shift aim right or left quickly with brute force. Gun captains went to the arm-thick shot garlands made of salvaged towing cable to select the roundest, truest iron round-shot stored within, rolling them and turning them over and over to look for imperfections or dents which could send them off-aim.

"Charge yer guns!" Buckinger snarled. "Uncover yer vents!" Alacrity trembled to the slamming noises of flimsy partitions and furniture being slung below on the orlop stores deck, out of the way so her crew would not be decimated by clouds of flying splinters.

"Shot yer guns! Tamp 'em down snug, now, lads. Wads!"

"Open the gun ports and run out, Mister Ballard."

"Aye, aye, Captain."

The six-pounders' wooden trucks squealed as the heavy carriages were hauled up to butt against either bulwark, with the black iron muzzles now protruding through the swung-up gun port lids.

"Overhaul yer breechin' ropes, overhaul yer runout tackles!" Buckinger roared. "No man steps in a bight, right? Lose a foot, an' ya got none t'blame but y'rself. And-answer t'me later!"

"And here's the wind, please God, sir," Ballard said with his excitement tightly repressed. Alacrity had cleared Southwest Point, skating across the open waters of Clear Sand Road, and found the ever-present Trades, which laid her over fifteen or more degrees onto her starboard side. "Hands to the braces, hands to the course sheets!"

She heeled harder still until the angles of her sails were set, then rose up almost level and set her shoulder to the sea, her bluff bows snuffling foam as tops'ls rustled and cracked with the new-found power. One could feel her leap forward, could exult in the way she sprang to life, hot-blooded and eager as a racehorse.

"Hoist the colours," Lewrie said, as Cony fetched him his coat and hat, and his sword to buckle on.

The three-masted merchantman had turned south once she had seen the suspicious luggers pursuing her, to open the distance and turn the hunt into a long stern chase. But the luggers were fast off the wind, sails winged out like bat's wings and skimming the shallow-draughted boats across the bright blue waters quick as pilot boats. Two of them had gybed and were a little west of the trading ship, while the other three were boring in for her larboard side. As Alacrity plunged along, they could see tiny puffs of smoke on the merchantman's high stern from a pair of light chase guns, and white feathers of spray leap aloft near the luggers. The luggers opened fire in reply, and near-misses splashed close alongside the trader. One hit twirled lumber into the air from her poop rails. What seemed like minutes later, the flat sounds of the artillery reached them like far-off thunder.

"They still don't see us!" Lewrie exulted. "Quartermaster, a point more aweather. Steer us just inshore of that trio to larboard of the chase. We'll trap them between our guns and hers."

To leeward there was a clear, sharp horizon, the sea dark blue and winking in the morning sun. Ahead and to windward, the shallower waters were a palette of greens and pale blues, the white breakers of the reefs curling and spuming like artillery shots, and beyond toward morning the Caicos Bank lay still and calm, the palest aquamarine with the clouds mirrored upon it like some desert mirage.

At last, though, someone aboard the luggers looked aft in the act of reloading a boat-gun and gave a great shout of alarm, and Lewrie saw fifty heads swivel about, and fifty mouths gape open in the round iris of his telescope.

Alacrity ran down on them, commissioning pendant streaming long as a tops'l yard, the red ensigns of the Bahamas Squadron flaming huge and menacing to leeward from her taffrail and her foremast truck, her gun ports open, and a frothing white mustache of foam growling under her bows.Fast as the luggers were, Alacrity had infinitely more sail area, a longer waterline, and she drew closer to them as they bore off from the merchantman to run south. The pair to leeward gave up their chase and turned to join their comrades, thinking that there was safety in numbers.

"Mister Ballard, I make the range possible for random shot," Lewrie said at last. "Let's try our eye on those two yonder."

"Aye, aye, sir!" Ballard replied eagerly, almost running to the quarter-deck nettings to look down into the ship's waist. "Starboard guns, Mister Buckinger! Take them under fire!"

Number One starboard gun barked, its crew shying back from the recoil run as the gun captain jerked the lanyard of the flintlock igniter. The barrel was cold, so even at maximum elevation, the round-shot struck short, but within line of the target. Slowly, the other four cannon of the starboard battery exploded stinking clouds of powder that swirled downwind toward the luggers.

Number One fired again, this time with a warm barrel, and its round-shot scored a hit so close-aboard the leader of the pair that it heeled over almost on its beam ends and rolled back upright, its single mast snapped off and the large lugsail draped over its stern. The trailing lugger ducked leeward behind its injured consort, which act raised sarcastic jeers and catcalls from the British gunners as they pounded shot around the now-stationary target. Another strike lifted the injured lugger clear of the water, breaking it in two and spilling its crew into the sea. The pirate lugger behind it continued on course, weaving at speed to throw off their aim.

"I'd not like to be swimmin' in these waters," Gatacre shivered. "Sharks and spets a'plenty. Cowardly bastards. Leave their mates to drown or get chomped. Gahh!"

"Mister Ballard, tell the gun crews well done. Cease fire for now," Lewrie ordered. "Quartermaster, put your helm down two points. We'll shift our attention to the trio there. How close may we come to Molasses Reef, Mister Fellows?"