The Gun Ketch (20 page)

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

"Ite nunc, fortes, perorate pontum fonte timendo."

"Go now, ye brave, plough up the sea, whose streams you ought to dread."

Medea

—Seneca

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."

"The local garrison commander knows nought of 'em," Lewrie said with a shrug. "Fort George depends on a monthly packet, long way about."

"Bloody soldiers, what'd they know?" Gatacre sneered. "I've my doubts they'd know how to bait a hook were they starvin', an' that from the beach!"

"And in wartime, Fort George, and any number of outposts would be cut off from Turks Island or South Caicos, and would fall without a way to resupply," Lewrie added. "And it's not just protecting the salt trade. Look wider afield. Mouchoir Passage, Turks Passage, the Silver Bank Passage, Caicos ... even Mayaguana and Crooked Island Passages up north of here. Any ship leaving the Caribbean through the Windward Passage
has
to thread one of these to get to the open sea. A British base in the Caicos could guard them all. Or deny them all."

"Salt's important, too, sir," Ballard stated.

Since the late 1600s, Bermudian ships had been coming to the Turks to evaporate sea-salt in shallow salinas, then rake "white gold" in the summers. There were few settled islands so far, but displaced Loyalists and other opportunists were beginning to flood in, so a Crown presence was now necessary.

"What about this pass here between Water Cay and Blue Hills' eastern tip, sir?" Lewrie asked. "This quaintly named Leeward-Going-Through?"

"Narrow an' shallow f r deep-draught merchantmen, or men o' war, sir," Gatacre frowned. "An' coral reefs which block access west toward Discovery, Proggin, or Sapodilla Bays. Our best hopes are o' findin' a pass outa Caicos Creek'r Malcolm Road on the western coast, maybe from Clear Sand Road south o' West Caicos. What lies beyond 'em is a myst'ry so far, though. South o' West Caicos, there's reefs an' shoals aplenty. Passes, even so, but where they lead? Been a graveyard o' ships down there. Ye have deep water, God, fathomless deeps t'leeward. Then, in less'n three cables, half a nautical mile, it shoals so fast, and the breakers're so rough, that you're smashed like an egg on rock an' coral 'fore ya could put yer helm over! There's said t'be millions in pound sterlin' o' gold an' silver litterin' the ocean floor. Might ya dredge along the inner reefs, past the breakers, I 'spect there's untold fortune, an' that but a fraction o' what these shoals have claimed, since the days o' Cortez!"

"My word," Lewrie started. "And in shallow water, d'ya say!"

"Shall we haul up a bucket of doubloons before or after breakfast, Captain?" Ballard japed.

"Now you've done it, Mister Gatacre," Lewrie sighed. "Talk from the wardroom always gets forrud quick as lightning. We'll be lucky to get a decent hour's work from the hands tomorrow!"

"Ah, don't ya think such talk'll make 'em pay
real
close attention t'the bottom, though, sir?" Gatacre snickered.

Malcolm Road led nowhere but to high bluffs and jagged coral heads. Caicos Creek had been promising; twenty-four feet of water at the narrow entrance, and led east to South Bluff on Blue Hills, thence to Proggin Bay and Sapodilla Bay, then Discovery Bay, which was a good anchorage. But a reef with exposed coral heads blocked progress to the east, and the Caicos Bank shallowed to six feet not very far offshore to the south, and continued like a clear-water lake all the way to the horizon and the tempting sight of other islands.

And there was not twelve feet of water from South Bluff across the direct course to West Caicos inside the Banks to Clear Sand Road, so they had to thread their way back out Caicos Creek to reach the sea, then proceed south along the leeward coast of West Caicos, which was the situation for which they sought a solution in a nutshell.

"At least we know there's 100 fathoms depth within a mile of shore," Lewrie announced as they loafed along under reduced sail in West Caicos's lee. Hands in the forechains were swinging the deep-sea lead, while the luggers prowled much closer inshore of
Alacrity.
"A touch rocky for good holding-ground, but one could come to anchor quite close up to the beach yonder."

"Aye, sir, though if the winds veer westerly, I'd not trust it for a storm ... good Christ!" Gatacre snapped suddenly.

William Pitt had dined on iguana the night before, too, but had salvaged himself a few choice morsels of offal before it had been cooked, and had appeared on deck towing a taloned paw in his mouth nearly the size of his head. He brought it to Lewrie's feet and dropped it, sat back on his haunches and looked up, evidently quite proud of himself, expecting a pet or two.

"Stole it from the cook, did you, Pitt?" Lewrie chuckled as hebent down to rub the ram-cat between the ears. "I suppose that qualifies as 'hunting.' Good cat. Good lad, you are."

"Gawd, what a stench!" Gatacre complained softly.

"One should not complain about stench until one has discovered a breadroom rat half his size in one's shoes o' the morning, sir," Lewrie told him.

"At least he is useful in that regard, Captain."

"Profitable, too, Mister Gatacre," Lewrie joshed with a droll expression as he rose. "The midshipmen's mess pays dear for 'miller' fattened on ship's biscuit."

"Dear God, ye ..." Gatacre winced, looking a touch queasy.

"I suspect the purser Mr. Keyhoe breeds 'em, as a sideline to tobacco and slop-goods. Fresh meat's always been..."

"No bottom!" The larboard leadsman sang out. "No bottom to this line!"

"Quartermaster, ease your helm alee. Pinch us up shoreward a point," Lewrie ordered. "We'll rediscover the 100-fathom line."

"Sail ho!" the masthead lookout called as well. "One point forrud o' the starboard beam! Three-master, runnin' sou'east!"

"Busy morning," Gatacre mused. "Must be on passage for South Caicos or Turks Island, if she'd dare run down these breakers heading sou'east, sir. Anyone else'd give 'em a wide berth."

"May she have joy of it," Lewrie nodded. "Cony, do you discard this little 'offering' of Pitt's for me, would you."

"Aye, aye, sir."

And for another hour, they loafed south, with the merchantman looming hull-up over the horizon, coming within a league to seaward, then passing ahead as she cleared Southwest Point on West Caicos Island, and gradually began to subside below the horizon.

"Deck, there!" the lookout called again, urgently. "There be luggers clearin' the point, fine on the larboard bows!"

"Mister Ballard, recall the ship's boats at once," Lewrie said. "Do not use the signal gun. Make a hoist, instead. I'll thankee for the loan of your glass, sir,"

"Aye, aye, sir," Ballard nodded, taken unawares.

Lewrie slung the telescope over his shoulder by its rope strap and trotted forward to the taller foremast. He stepped up onto the bulwarks and swung outboard onto the ratlines of the shrouds and began to scale the mast as high as the fighting top.

From there he could see four, possibly five shallow-draft local-built luggers, some with one mast, some with two, all bunched together like a sailing race. They had low freeboards, appeared scrofulous as badly maintained fishing craft, but would be fast. But there were, to his eyes, far too many men aboard the nearest ones to be fishermen.

"Pirates, by God!" he exclaimed, turning to the lookout. "We're going to see some action, damme if we ain't!"

Without pausing to gather the breath he'd lost in climbing the mast, he took hold of a tarred backstay and let himself down hand over hand, half-sliding with his legs wrapped around it, to the deck.

"Mister Ballard, the boats!" he panted.

"Coming now, sir."