Dewey Lambdin - THE GUN KETCH

"I see, sir."

"No, you don't, you're only making noises like you do," Lewrie cajoled him. "Wish to God you did. Damme, but you take life serious, Arthur! God knows sailors don't mean much by their sins, when they do get the opportunity. Precarious as we get Life, we're a pack o' hymn-singin' castrati compared to landsmen. Try putting a foot wrong, now and again, Arthur. Go on a tear, why don't you?"

"Takes all kinds, as you say, sir," Ballard replied, grinning shyly in spite of himself. "I'll not meddle again, sir. Sorry."

"The devil you won't," Alan chortled. "And I may bark to pin your ears back, but remember I mean nothing by it And if you care enough about me to warn me when I'm about to do something lunatic, then that's what friends are for. As oddly matched as they sometimes are."

"Aye, aye, sir," Ballard nodded. "Now, pray God we've good news at last!"

The letter was from Col. Andrew Deveaux, one of the major planters on Cat Island, informing them that he held mail for them at his mansion near Port Howe on the southern coast, mail sent directly to him from Nassau by his old friend from South Carolina, Mr. Peyton Boudreau.

Upon that elating news, Alacrity was up-anchor and out of the harbour at Clarence Town by dawn the next morning, beating into the nor'east Trades for Port Howe.

There was one narrow break in the coral reefs surrounding Port Howe, with breakers lazily spuming on either hand, and behind the reef was a shallow port ill-suited for anything much larger than Alacrity. "They ought to drop the 'E'," Lewrie commented once they were come to anchor, with the courses handed and being lashed secure.

"Sir?" Ballard smiled.

"Call Port Howe H-O-W," Alan grimaced. "How the devil a ship may enter without wrecking herself is beyond me. And where are the day-marks, and the warning beacon we erected in May, I ask you?"

"I have no idea, sir."

"Carry on, Mister Ballard. I'm going ashore!"

He was rowed to the town's one long pier, debarked onto a lower landing stage atop a catamaran work platform, and almost ran down the pier for the tiny village. A man on horseback waited for him at the shore end, with another mount held by a groom near at hand.

"Lieutenant Alan Lewrie?" the man asked. "That is the Alacrity yonder, sir?"

"She is, and I am, sir. And you are?"

"Andrew Deveaux, sir. Delighted to make your acquaintance," he said, springing down from his saddle as lithe as a cavalryman. Deveaux was a rather small and lean fellow, shorter than Alan. His face was fox-lean, with a pointy patrician nose, almost a woman's soft mouth, large, liquid brown eyes, and a smallish, tapering ball of a chin. He wore two-tone black and tan top boots, white sailcloth breeches, and a loosely flowing silk shirt, his face shaded by a very wide-brimmed woven straw hat. They shook hands, muttering the expected "your servant, sir," and that's when Alan discovered the steel in the man, for his grip was stronger than a fencing master's.

"Didn't think you'd come to Port Howe," Deveaux commented. "I was prepared to ride to The Bight on the western coast, if necessary."

"Alacrity is shallow-draught enough to enter, sir, so I thought this would save time. You've been watching for me?"

"For nigh a month, sir. Here, sir, do you ride? My groom has a mount for you, and my coach can be fetched if you do not."

"I ride, sir. Thankee."

A black servant brought a fine gelding forward and held reins while Alan got aboard. They set off down a sandy track between thick clusters of sea-grape trees for his plantation house to the west. Alan was struck by how young Deveaux was, how unremarkable.

"This is quite an honour, Colonel Deveaux," Alan said. "To meet you, a hero of the Revolution, and the man who recaptured Nassau from the Dons." Another of those frail but game scrappers? he wondered.

"Neck-or-nothing," Deveaux shrugged. "But bloodless. People do make much more of it than it really was. I am quite honoured to meet you, sir. I heard in the Nassau paper of your feats at Conch Bar, and Walker's Cay."

"Well, Walker's Cay, sir…" Alan grumbled sadly, then sat up and looked back towards the harbour. "Sir, we put up day-marks and some warning beacons earlier. They're gone now. Do you have any…?"

"Oh, those!" Deveaux hooted, throwing his head back in delight. "Damme, sir, do you not know that before the war, a third of Bahamian revenues came from shipwrecking and salvage? Blackbeard, Henry Morgan… Port Howe was one of their old haunts, so the locals tore down your marks the minute you were out of sight and moved 'em ashore for lures, to make the town look bigger at night. Needed the timber for buildings, too. They light the place up like a major city, put lights in the harbour so it appears deep-draught ships are anchored in Port Howe, in hopes of luring the foolhardy onto the reefs, so they may strip the wreck. You got off easy, sir. I'm told a Navy officer formerly in these islands was almost lynched for even suggesting he'd erect a lighthouse on Great Exuma!"

"Worse than Cornishmen, I do declare," Lewrie smiled, surprised all over again in spite of his supposed worldliness.

"Indeed. We get so little news here on Cat Island. What about Walker's Cay, sir? Peyton writes that all talk of suits and such have been dropped long ago. Did you…?"

"Dropped?" Alan cried. "I had no idea, sir. I've not had even a single word from Nassau in six months!"

"Not even from your wife?" Deveaux frowned. "Pardon me, but he also wrote that she was most greatly upset that she had not heard from you, Lieutenant Lewrie."

"She is well, Colonel Deveaux?" Alan demanded with alarm. "Did he say more? She's with child, and I've been beside myself with fear!"

"He did state she was expecting, and that he and his wife were perturbed that her worries about your silence would affect her health. But she is well, Lieutenant Lewrie, he did assure me of that. She had begged him to discover what had happened to you, and why you hadn't responded to her letters."Damme, sir, I got no letters! Nothing!" Alan shouted. "No one aboard Alacrity's had a single thing, except for our purser, and only inventories of supplies sent out to sustain us, which do not require an answer. I've sent request after request to my squadron commander, and dozens of letters to Caroline, and it's like dropping a stone down a wellshaft and never hearing even a splash. I feared… you cannot imagine what I have feared, sir!"

"Well, rest easy," Deveaux assured him. "There's a small bag of correspondence for you and your ship, sir. And a thick packet of letters from your wife. Peyton could not believe you would ignore her so callously. He stated in his note to me that he suspects your superiors are withholding your mail to and fro."

"I know Commodore Garvey was wroth with me over Walker's Cay and John Finney's trial. He sent us down here out of anger. But I never thought he'd be that vindictive to me!"

"You've written him often, then?" Deveaux demanded.

"Weekly, sir. We're running out of all manner of stores except for food and drink. Sir, if this goes on, my ship'll be crippled for lack of new spars, rope and sailcloth. Yet, without specific orders, I am barred from returning to the Navy dockyard at Nassau."

"And I trust you've saved a fair copy of your every plea, sir?" Deveaux hinted slyly. "As a precaution for the future?"

"Aye, sir, that's customary. And in black ink, too," Alan had to grin as he said it. "But why would he interrupt my mail? How can a man be so spiteful?"

"We'll discuss that later," Colonel Deveaux told him. "Once we get to my house, you read your letters. And fill yourself in on what has been happening in Nassau in your absence. Then we'll talk more."