Dewey Lambdin - THE GUN KETCH

"The charts infer there's ten fathoms within a cable, cable and a half, sir," Fellows told him, rolling his eyes and shrugging. "I'd suggest we stand off at least two cables… about 400 yards, Captain. We'll be fetching Molasses Reef in another mile."

The trio of luggers ahead of them were now bending their course sou'easterly, as though to run down close to Molasses Reef themselves, or make for the reputed deep-water entrance at its north end, trying to dart under Alacrity's bows to escape.

"Quartermaster, helm down another point. Mister Ballard, take the nearest lugger under fire," Lewrie smiled. "Discourage them."

Hot now, the gun barrels had a harsher, more insistent sound, and the low carriages and barrels leapt as they discharged, rearing off their front wheels to crash back to the deck. Hot barrels meant slightly greater range. Five tall feathers of spray erupted as graceful as poplar trees all around the single-masted lugger which trailed the trio. Once the foam and spray had subsided, they could espy her hauling her wind to bear away out of range toward the open sea. The leading pair fitted with two masts turned more southerly to continue to run as well, denied a chance to get to windward.

Alacrity had taken the pass below Southeast Reef from them, the pass above Molasses Reef. Once more the luggers tried to turn up into the wind below Molasses Reef, but Alacrity was too close, and, hauled up onto the wind herself, had cannonaded that idea from their minds. The morning wore on as they chased them south, slowly gaining.

A low-lying spit of sand, French Cay, fell astern by noon, and once more, the luggers turned east to seek escape into the Banks, but Alacrity peppered them with round-shot so fiercely they turned south again, daunted by the rapidity and closeness of her fire.

"West Sand Spit in sight, sir," Fellows announced. "Fine on our larboard bows. Five miles, about. There's a long reef with breakers and exposed coral below it. Fifteen miles, it runs, sir, all the way to White Cay and Shot Cay."

"And no more passes after this 'un?" Lewrie demanded.

"Two, perhaps, sir, either side of White Cay," Fellows shrugged.

"Deep water east of us now, Captain Lewrie," Gatacre told him. "Seven fathom reported. Five fathom from that thumb o' deep water as runs south to West Sand Spit. Do they wish escape so bad, sir, this'd be their last chance. Ye'll have 'em close-aboard in two more hours."

"Deck there!" Midshipman Parham howled from aloft in a squeaky wail. "Chases go close-hauled on the wind, sirs!"

The four surviving luggers had caught up with each other in a loose gaggle, the two-masted ones outdistancing the single-masted. All had turned due east to beat against the Trades as close as they could bear. They were at best three-quarters of a mile ahead, with Alacrity able to run down on them to close the range rapidly before she turned up to windward and took them under fire again, this time at about four cables' distance. They were daringthe best killing zone for a long-barreled six-pounder, showing their desperation.

"Helm down, quartermaster. Mister Ballard, hands to sheets and braces! Haul taut, close-hauled to weather!" Lewrie ordered. "Quoins out on the starboard guns and prepare to open fire!"

The angle was almost right for all but the leading lugger, which had gotten too far to windward for Alacrity's guns to bear.

Fists rose in the air as gun captains signaled their charges ready. Flintlock striker lanyards were taut as bowstrings. "Fire!" Lewrie called out.

Alacrity roared out her defiance, thrashing along with wind singing in her rigging, foam flying about her hull, spray leaping high as the clews of her jibs. The guns crashed and bellowed, and a wall of smoke gushed from her to be ragged away astern. "Fire!" And another broadside howled from her artillery. A single-masted lugger was torn to splinters, leaping stern-high and pitch-poling, tumbling as if she'd tripped over her own bows! She crashed upside down into the sea in a welter of white water and began to sink at once. "Reefs ahead to larboard!" a lookout shrilled. "Helm up, quartermaster! Bear away starboard!" Lewrie shouted.

"Deep water to starboard, sir!" Gatacre counseled from a perch on the starboard bulwark where he could see ahead and below.

"Ten fathom t'this line!" a leadsman shouted back from the foredeck, pointing to his right to indicate blue water and safety.

"The clever bastard!" Lewrie sighed with relief. "He knew what he was about, turning to windward so early."

"To wipe us off him in passing, so to speak, sir," Lieutenant Ballard commented. "The guns cannot bear, sir, unless we turn up to windward again."

"Eight fathom t'larboard! Eight fathom t'this line, sir!" the other leadsman sang out. "Clear water ahead."

"Mister Fellows, Mister Gatacre, do you think there is depth enough for us to continue the chase, sirs?" Lewrie inquired. "For a space, sir," Fellows allowed.

"Another mile or two, sir, if we're quick about it," Gatacre recommended.

"Quartermaster, put your helm down. Lay us close-hauled"

"Aye, aye, sir! Close-hauled t'weather!" Neill parroted. The luggers had gained at least half a mile on Alacrity after she was forced off course, and now lay more ahead than abeam of her after she began to beat to windward once more. The gun crews had to pry the guns about to angle them within the ports to point at the foe, grunting and sweating as they put their backs and arms against the metal crow-levers and handspikes.

"Quartermaster, pinch us up and let her luff," Lewrie snapped. "Gun captains, as you bear… fire!"

One at a time the guns belched and leapt, rolling back from the gun ports and snubbing on the breeching ropes, slewing a bit due to the acute angle and making the tackle men, swabbers and loaders jump back.

"Tacking!" the foremast lookout wailed.

Lewrie stepped to the left side of his small quarter-deck for a view. The luggers had tacked across the eye of the Trades and were now heading west-nor'west, back the way they had come all during the long morning chase. But this time, they were inside the Caicos Bank, sheltered from pursuit beyond the reefs and breakers, skimming along over pale aquamarine waters far too shallow for Alacrity.

" 'Vast, there!" Lewrie roared. "Mister Buckinger, ready the larboard battery. Quartermaster, ease your helm two points aweather. Mister Ballard?"

"Aye, sir?"

"We'll not have much time, I'm thinking, so be ready to haul our wind and come about to loo'rd."

"Six fathom!" the leadsman warned.

"Guns ready, sir!" Buckinger called out.

"Open fire, Mister Buckinger."

Alacrity rocked with recoil, and spent powder smoke rolled over the decks like a thick fog, only slowly wafting away. Shot moaned in the air, across the shoaling waters, across the sand and coral reefs which separated them from the foe. A second broadside; a third, and one of the two-masted luggers was at last hit. Two shots slammed home, rocking her at the extreme limit of Alacrity's range. Powder charges or a cask of powder aboard the lugger must have taken light, for there was a sudden ruddy mushroom cap of flame, followed by a squat, bulging hump of gray-black smoke shot through with whirling wreckage, then a hailstorm of splashing debris and she was gone! The sound of her ruin came to them as a twofold Crump-Fhwumph as the smoke-cloud turned to a sooty mist chased low across the shallow sea, and the white-roiled waters became a series of ripples.

"Out of range, sir," Buckinger informed them from the foot of the ladder to the waist."Three fathom!" a leadsman called mournfully. "Three fathom to this line, and shoal-waters ahead! Two cable, no more, sir!"