Dewey Lambdin - Sea of Grey

"Aye, I do, Mister Langlie," Lewrie decided after a long moment to think it over, weighing risk to his sailors against the need for a confirming document as a privateer. "Send two boats with Mister Catterall, and a larger boarding party. He's to capture her captain or a mate, if possible, with her Letter of Marque and Reprisal. Does the rest of the crew get ashore, so be it, and let 'em be the Danes' problem. Do they not fire her as they abandon, have our people do it. Instruct him to menace them, but not get into a melee. Do you think he may manage that, Mister Langlie?"

"He's an energetic, simple-minded brute, sir, so I expect that he may," Langlie chirped back with a wry grin on his features.

"Very well," Lewrie announced. "Let's fetch-to and despatch our boarding party, quick as we can. Mister Elwes, what answer did we get from the brig?"

"Can't really make it out, sir, it's all higgledy-piggledy," the boy replied, dashing from aft to a skidding stop at his summons.

"He's a liar and a conspirator, as I suspected, then. Thankee, Mister Elwes. Keep 'Fetch-To' aloft, and think of a way to make that 'Insistent.' Carry on, sir."

Proteus didn't wish to drown any of her boarders by proceeding at full tilt when they scrambled down into the boats, surfing along at the end of short painters, barely held in check by straining coxswains and bow-men with boat-hooks. She would have to slow down and take in sail, steering more for Ram Head with the wind abeam to "make a lee" so the sailors and Marines could disembark down her larboard side.

"Let's make it fast, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said. "Scandalise her and clew up sail in 'Spanish reefs.' Brace in yards, abeam."

"Aye aye, sir!"

Lewrie swung his telescope up and extended the tubes. The brig was almost to the tip of Ram Head, standing off not a cable's distance from the shoals.

"How much water would she have, that close inshore?" Lewrie asked his Sailing Master.

"I make it about fifteen fathom, sir, near the point," Winwood answered as Proteus swung her bows Nor'Nor'west, and the yard parrels cried as they were swung about to point the weather arms directly into the wind, the sails now flogging helplessly as they were clewed up at the centres, leaving untidy, thrashing bags suspended like ancient teats at the outer ends, with only jibs, stays'ls and the spanker still keeping way on her.

"Damn!" Lewrie griped. "She'll get a lead on us." "Ah… sunrise, sir," Win wood pointed out, pulling his watch from a waistcoat pocket, as if to confirm dawn's predicted timeliness and heaving a smug, satisfied sigh of approval.

"Very good, sir," Lewrie said with a grateful smile, thinking, though; Such an easy man to please. Just give him exactitude!

Scant minutes later, Proteus was once more under full sail and under way, thrashing back toward her previous speed in pursuit of the American brig, which was now flying stuns'ls in addition to her royals and t'gallants. Lewrie and Winwood stood close together by the double wheel and binnacle cabinet, ticking off landmarks on a chart as the seamarks almost raced past to starboard as the Chase spun out westward for the shelter of Charlotte Amafie.

Cabrithorn Point, Lameshur Bay, and White Point, then the wide, shallow expanse of Reef Bay. Dittlif Point rose up along the southern shore of St. John, then Rendezvous Bay beyond that long, arrowing peninsula, and Bovocoap Point looming up, with the brig dashing along as close as she could inshore, with Proteus standing further out to seaward, just a tantalising bit out of gun-range from her 6-pounder bow-chasers; almost, but not quite yet…

"She is steering dead-on for passage below the Dog Rocks, and Little Saint James Island, it seems, sir," Winwood cautiously opined, toying with his waistcoat buttons. "There is a long shoal, parallel to the shore, below Dog Rocks, with a narrow pass of thirteen fathom between, however. Her captain knows these waters well, we must infer."

"Wants t'brush us off," Lewrie sourly grunted.

"Aye, sir. Once beyond Dog Rocks, though, does she intend the direct route inside of Buck Island before taking a slant into harbour, there are even more shoals."

"Which would force us out alee of yonder Buck Island, and out of any hope of overtaking, if we continue on this course?"

"Aye, sir," Winwood gloomily reiterated, "though I cannot find any indications that the shoals are particularly shallow. The charts show some soundings of six or seven fathom. Deep-laden ships would go well clear of the shoals, but that may be sign of too much caution on their captains' parts. With our maximum laden draught of three fathom aft by the keel and rudder skeg… it makes no sense for him to think that we'd be completely daunted. Perhaps he knows more than our chart may tell us, the location of an old wreck…"

"Perhaps he learned his lore of the local waters in very large, deep-draught ships, Mister Winwood," Lewrie said, trying to put a good face on it despite his qualms of running aground, "under one of those cautious captains of yours. She's down to her draught waterline, same as us, and she can't draw more than twelve or fourteen feet. Show me your rocks and shoals, let's-"

"Deck, there!" a lookout screeched. "Chase is changin' course! Tur-nin' away Nor'west!"

"She's only a bit beyond Bovocoap Point," Mr. Winwood protested in a splutter. "That'd take her…"

"Into Pillsbury Sound, Mister Winwood," Lewrie snapped. "Maybe this 'Jonathon' captain doesn't think he'd keep enough lead on us to enter Charlotte Amalie before we caught him. If he really knows these waters, he must think he holds a high card over us."

"But there's no way out of the Sound, sir. The wind's wrong to weather the Middle Passage, leaving that Leeward Passage past Thatch Cay!" Winwood gawped. "Narrow as a town creek, it is, the soundings uncertain…"

"We'll follow her, Mister Winwood," Lewrie told him. "We will not let her get away that easily. Once past the point yonder, shape course Nor'Nor'west, and follow her… wherever she goes."

S ir, I'm bound to point out that this is risky," Winwood said in a mortified whisper as they bent over the chart pinned to the traverse board, once Proteus had come about and was now dead-astern from the American brig, perhaps a mile-and-a-half behind. "My duty as-"

"I know, Mister Winwood," Lewrie said, cutting him off quickly, eyes intent on the chart, and the pair of brass dividers in his hand. "Pillsbury Sound's deep, sir! Twelve to eighteen fathoms all the way to the islets and cays. And nice and wide for the most part 'til you are forced to choose a passage out of it. The Windward Passage is out, and does she try the Middle Passage, she'll be full-and-by, sailing at the ragged edge of this morning's wind… without her stuns'ls spread, thankee Jesus, which means we'll drive right up her transom long before she can get to it. Your Leeward Passage is narrow, but not more than a quarter of a sea-mile…'bout two cables wide, 'twixt Thatch Cay and the north shore of Saint Thomas. Bags of room!"

Mr. Winwood uttered a soft complaint that sounded mightily like a cross between a moan and a well-muffled belch.

"Does she wish t'keep her stuns'ls rigged out for speed, she'll have t'use the Leeward Passage, Mister Winwood." Lewrie chuckled.

"The narrows, though, sir, here…"

About three-quarters of a mile due North of Cabes Point, halfway between Coki Point and the southeastern tip of Thatch Cay, there lay an indistinct indication of a shoal, stippled to show sand, which meant extremely shallow. On the scale chart they were perusing, a man could have mistaken it for a thumb smudge of ink, a tea stain from previous use. The vague extent of the shoal didn't leave much north of it, and there was another fan-like shoal round Thatch Cay's extremest tip, and that did have a sounding-one-half fathom-a scant three feet!

"He'll go south of the shoal, Mister Winwood, where there are soundings of seven to ten fathoms between the shoal and Coki Point," Lewrie insisted, "keeping well off the wind, under stuns'ls, hugging Thatch Cay a tad, once round your shoal, and giving little to loo'rd."

"Does he get past the shoal, sir, but-"

"Then it's his bottom that's ripped open, not ours. And we'll do all we can to save her people… obeying the law of the sea."

"Does he know of a wreck in there, though, sir…"

"The sun's barely up behind us, sir," Lewrie countered quickly. "The very best time of the day to see underwater obstacles ahead, long before we run afoul of 'em. And with the extreme clarity of the seas hereabouts… really, Mister Winwood! One could read a newspaper at six fathoms down. Does our Yankee captain yonder know of a wreck in the channel, then let him use his forefoot to dredge for it. Save us a deal o' gunpowder, it would! Wrecks shift, over time."

"Very well, sir," Mr. Winwood finally agreed, though not without a premonitory shiver. "Though I have expressed my reservations…"

"The fault will be mine, sir," Lewrie told him with a grim nod of his head before laying down the dividers and standing back up. "I will so note it in the log. Speaking of… Mister Elwes? Cast the log, if you please. Mister Pendarves? Hands to the fore-chains with the short leads, and two hands on the bowsprit to keep watch for any shoals or obstructions!"

Lewrie walked back to the stern and raised his glass. The privateer, and their boats, were now out of sight, and there was no smoke visible, had either the French or their own people set her afire. He pursed his mouth and chewed at its lining in worry of all that could have gone wrong. Even alee of the stranded schooner, they were too far away to hear the pops of muskets and pistols; only cannon on the schooner's decks might rumble over the sound of the wind, which would be a bad sign.

No news is good news, Lewrie told himself, turning forward.

Spotting the three other midshipmen standing idle without duty, he put Grace, Larkin, and Burns to work, taking bearings on sea-marks to either hand, and employing their scant knowledge of trigonometry for a range to them.

"Eight and three-quarter knots, sir," Midshipman Elwes reported.

"Thankee, Mister Elwes. I see you've hoisted 'Immediate' above 'Fetch-To'-very good. I doubt she'll respond any time soon, so keep at it with the knot-log, about every ten minutes or so," Lewrie bade him. "I do believe we've gained a touch on that brig, already."

"Aye aye, sir!" Elwes yelped with joy, dashing aft again, full of importance over his assigned task.

From the windward rails, it looked as if they had drawn closer to the Chase; more details could be made out that were indistinct before… or maybe it was simply full daylight that made him wish it so. Proteus was surging along, her wake bone-white atop the light green sea of Pillsbury Sound, heeling a bit to larboard and leeward, masts raked forward a touch, and groaning over it. Sailing almost downwind, the pace wasn't as apparent as it would be working closer to weather. The ship was sailing just as fast as the wind could blow, so there was no exhilarating rush and bustle that plucked at hats, clothing, and flesh, no bursting showers of salt-spray booming over the fore rails, but Proteus was moving quite well, gracefully and almost effortlessly. A touch on her lee "shoulder," Lewrie deemed her, but…

"Mister Langlie, run out the starboard battery, and run in the larboard to the recoil ring-bolts. Let's get her flatter on her keel," he decided of a sudden. "There's just enough wind for that to make a difference. A quarter-knot more, perhaps?"