Reefs and Shoals (13 page)

“Beg pardon? A bucket?” Lewrie gawped.

“Had himself a bucket made, with a glass-pane bottom,” Warrick explained, shaking his head in wonder. “Like an old tavern tankard in the old days? Wants to see the bottoms, watch the fishes, study the coral and such, and catch samples so he can gut them and pick them to pieces and draw pictures of them. Spends more time in the water, upside down as a feeding duck, hee hee! Last anyone saw of him and the
Lizard,
he was off for Grassy Bay, dropping Vickers, one of the other pilots, soon as he got out of The Narrows and into the South Channel cross Murray’s Anchorage, the silly sod!” Warrick huffed up like an adder in revulsion, and in defence of his “guild”. As dangerous as Bermudan waters were, the pilots had been making a killing for years, and anything that threatened their income was stealing food from the mouths of their children!

Don’t sound like the sort I need,
Lewrie thought.

“And the other small sloop, and her captain?” he queried.

“
Primrose
? Lieutenant Percy’s more sensible, but he’s been out the last two months, entire, and most-like won’t come back to harbour ’til the rum runs out … another month or so,” Warrick speculated.

Damn!
Lewrie thought;
I may be stuck with ‘Mister Minnow’ after all! Not much choice, really.

“Well, then. I intend to idle at anchor at least a whole day, through tomorrow. Give the hands a well-earned rest after the voyage
we’ve
had. Allow the chandlers and bum-boats alongside?” Lewrie idly said. “After that, the wind permitting, I’d be much obliged to you, did you pilot us up through, The Narrows, and into Grassy Bay, so that I may speak with Bury.”

“You have it, Cap’m Lewrie!” Warrick quickly agreed. “Now … if you’ll be ready, and if there’s not a scramble over a new ship coming in, there’s no need to make a hoist, asking for a pilot, see?” The man actually winked at him! “I’ll come out to you, and we’ll be off!”

“That would be most agreeable, Mister Warrick,” Lewrie replied.

*   *   *

Once Warrick and his sons had tumbled down the battens into the boat and had set off for Town Cut, Lewrie returned to the quarterdeck.

“We’ll be entering port, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked.

“I think not, Mister Westcott, sorry,” Lewrie told him. “We’ll hoist the Easy pendant to whistle up the bum-boats, and let the Purser go ashore for fresh victuals, but Saint George’s doesn’t look that promising. Did they send out
all
the doxies, I doubt they’d make a corporal’s guard.”

“I see, sir,” Westcott said, sounding a tad disappointed.

“I doubt there’s more than a half-dozen
decent-lookin’
girls on the whole island, and the men of Bermuda most-like guard ’em like the bloody Crown Jewels, anyway,” Lewrie told him, smiling and chuckling. “We’re ordered to visit all the major ports in America, from Cape Fear to Savannah, Mister Westcott, and Nassau, to boot, so you will have your … opportunities, hmm? Take joy o’
that
!”

“Oh, very good, sir!”

“Anything needful t’see to, sir?” Lewrie asked, turning back to ship’s business.

“Over the last few days of decent weather, sir, we’ve re-rove all the frayed or snapped rigging, patched or replaced all the torn sails, and replaced the odd broken spars in the topmasts, so there’s not that much to see to, really,” Westcott reported, more crisply.

“Summon all hands, if you will, sir,” Lewrie ordered.

Bosun Sprague plied his silver call, piping the hands up from below, summoning the on-deck watch to gather in the waist or on the sail-tending gangways. Lewrie stepped to the top of the starboard ladderway to the waist to address them.

“Men, we’ve reached the first stop of our voyage, and it’s been a hellish chore t’get here, as well you all know, hey?” Lewrie began. “We’ve put the ship to rights, as the First Officer informs me … and now it’s time to put
your
things to rights.

“We’ll not put the ship Out of Discipline, but we will allow the bum-boats alongside for fresh fruits and victuals,” he went on. “By tonight’s mess, I hope to obtain fresh meat and shore bread for your suppers, too. Right, Mister Cadbury?”

“Right, sir,” the Purser, who was standing by to go ashore in one of the ship’s boats, heartily agreed; though how much it would cost him out of his slim profits he would not express, even by a tiny frown or wince.

“We’ll have ‘all night in’, tonight,” Lewrie continued, noting the smiles breaking out, “and the second rum issue for the day will be ‘splice the main-brace’. Tomorrow…”

Lusty cheers interrupted him for half a minute.

“And tomorrow will be ‘make-and-mend’ to dry out and repair your kits,” Lewrie concluded. “Mister Westcott? Dismiss the hands.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

And I’ll sleep the bloody clock round, myself, at long last!
Lewrie promised himself.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I
think I’m beginnin’ to regret this,
Lewrie thought in trepidation as the pilot, Mr. Warrick, conned
Reliant
across Murray’s Anchorage towards Grassy Bay, two days later, after the winds had come fair. The Bermuda Islands lay too far North of the tropics to own reliable Trade Winds, and too far South of the North Atlantic Westerlies, in the belt of the Variables, to trust from which quarter the wind would blow, two days running.

Likewise the islands’ weather, the garrulous Mr. Warrick imparted in the idle moments between dashes to either beam of the deck, and many consultations of the ship’s binnacle-mounted compass. One could count on fairly mild weather, even in high summer, with temperatures rarely above the low eighties, but only a few degrees of relief after sundown. It could rain at least twice a week, and blow up a stronger quarter-gale at least every ten days to a fortnight. All that precipitation was welcome, though, for Bermuda was not blessed with all that many springs, and the rain was funnelled down into stone cisterns from the rooves, which every private house possessed, for later.

Taking pity on a new-come, Warrick piloted
Reliant
along the North Channel, which was deeper and more open, rather than the South Channel, which even Warrick admitted could be very tricky. Even so, Lewrie felt it quite enough un-nerving to look overside and see just how clear the waters were, and how close they were to the Three Hill Shoals, and how gin-clear and knee-deep the flats to the North were!

Near the Chimneys Shoal, Warrick directed the frigate into a turn to the Sou’west to stand well away from Devil’s Flats, then into a welcome “lake” of deep water, before threading a channel through the White Flats, a passage even narrower than The Narrows, which had been harrowing enough, just thankee! Well West of the vast expanse of Brackish Pond Flats, and with North Ireland Island off the starboard bows, Warrick reckoned that they could round up into the wind and safely anchor just about anywhere; they were in Grassy Bay.

There was only one other vessel in sight, a two-masted sloop anchored off Long Shoal to the Sou’east, with a rowing gig idling at the edge of the shoal.

“They don’t seem to be paying much attention to our arrival, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, after a long look with a telescope. Upon his face there sprang one of his brief, feral, tooth-bearing grins, in anticipation of somebody getting a strip torn off his arse. “Perhaps we should fire a gun to wake them up?”

“Bring my gig up from astern, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie decided, “and pass word for my boat crew. I think I want t’see what this Bury fellow’s like in his own element. Who knows, he might offer me a fine fish.”

*   *   *

Someone had been awake aboard HMS
Lizard,
for a small jolly boat had set out for the shoal and the gig a bit before Lewrie’s gig began to row over. There was a flurry of activity, a scramble of people into the far-off gig, and a furious row back to
Lizard
before Lewrie’s boat could arrive.

“Permission to come aboard?” Lewrie shouted up to the deck as his boat crew hooked on to the sloop’s main chains and began to ship oars.

“Aye aye, sir!” a flummoxed Lieutenant, a fellow in his early twenties, quickly replied, whilst hastily mustering a side-party fit enough to receive a Post-Captain. Feeling devilish, Lewrie did not stand on ceremony, but scrambled up the battens and man-ropes before the sloop’s Bosun could even begin a call.

“Captain Alan Lewrie, the
Reliant
frigate,” he said, doffing his hat to the flag and the young officer.

“L-lieutenant Rainey, sir. Welcome aboard the
Lizard.
The captain, ehm, Lieutenant Bury, is aft at the moment, sir, if you’ll pardon…” the young fellow babbled.

“We could be seen entering the bay from quite a way off,” Lewrie casually commented.

“Harbour watch, sir, and a ‘Make and Mend’ day, and some of the people off with the Captain, and … a thousand pardons for being so inattentive, Captain Lewrie,” the lad replied, all but wringing his hands. “Normally, we … but here’s the Captain, sir!”

HMS
Lizard
’s Captain, Lt. Bury, appeared from an after hatchway between the transom and the helm, looking anxious … and guilty. He was also sopping wet, dressed in faded and stained old breeches, with the knee buttons open and no stockings on his lower legs. He had not had time to don a fresh shirt, tie a neck-stock, or find a waist-coat, and had hurriedly donned a plain undress coat that had seen better days. Lt. Bury also sported a straw hat, much like pilot Warrick’s, which he quickly doffed in salute.

“I beg your pardon, sir, I have no excuse,” he baldly said.

“Alan Lewrie, the
Reliant
frigate,” Lewrie told him, doffing his own hat in reply. “I’ve come to summon you from your duties here in Bermudan waters, Mister Bury. I am to lead a small squadron able to go into shoal waters, and hunt and harry French and Spanish privateers, off to the West, and am in need of vessels such as yours.”

Lt. Bury looked at him most solemnly, blinking his pale blue eyes a time or two, as if stunned by that announcement, or pondering whether such duty might cut into his soundings and fishing.

“We would be delighted, sir!” Bury said at last, beginning to display a slow, equally solemn grin. “Ehm … might I offer you some refreshments, Captain Lewrie?”

“Lead me to it, sir,” Lewrie agreed.

Down the steep ladderway through the square hatch they went, with Bury offering the usual caution to mind the overhead deck beams. His quarters were tiny, almost a cuddy. There was a transom settee beneath the stern sash windows, piled with books, piles of foolscap notes, and a wood-and-twine fishing net. There was an open chest of clothing, a wee desk hooked to the larboard side to serve as his day-cabin, a slung hammock (not a bed-cot) to starboard, and a wee dining table right forward with only six wobbly old collapsible chairs. The rest of the cabin was draped with things hung on pegs. Most of the deck was taken up by wooden tubs made from cut-down kegs. They were full of fish!

“Pardon the mess, sir, but even were I expecting company, there is only so much room,” Bury said, going to a wee wine-cabinet for two glasses, then fetching a bottle of hock from out of one of the tubs, where it was slightly cooled in water. “If you will take a seat, ah … there, Captain Lewrie,” he added, indicating a chair by the dining table. Lewrie sat down, noting that the top of the table bore a few odd, and wet … things.

“My viewing devices, sir,” Bury explained. “None of them all that effective so far, but one hopes to discover a solution someday.”

“Viewing devices?” Lewrie asked, picking one of them up. It was an odd sort of spectacles, with two round glass lenses set into a wood frame, each lens as round-about as a mug, with tarred canvas attached, much like an executioner’s hood, with some light line so that it could be bound behind the head and knotted.

“At first, I thought it possible to slip the hood over my head and bind the spectacles snug enough to allow me to float face-down in the water and see the marine life,” Lt. Bury slowly explained, “but I found that the salt water still gets into my eyes … and the tarred canvas makes it hard to draw a breath whenever I turn my face up to the surface, do you see. Now the other…”

This one was a rectangular box with an eight-inch piece of window glass set into it, without the canvas hood. Lewrie picked it up, eying it most dubiously.

“The box frame cannot be bound snug enough to my face to keep out the salt water, either, sir, though when I turn my head, I am able to draw breath,” Bury said with a shrug, and a look of disappointment that his inventions had so far not been of much avail. “For now, the bucket with the windowpane in the bottom works best, though after a minute or so, it fills with water and has to be emptied out, else the view is no better than peering down from above the surface, alas.”

Christ, who still says ‘alas’?
Lewrie sourly thought.

“Just no way to tar it waterproof?” Lewrie idly asked, just to see what else Lt. Bury would say; he was an odd bird, indeed! “Maybe an iron or brass coal scuttle would work better.”

“Perhaps one might, sir, thank you,” Bury said, rising to the suggestion. “Now, the best solution might be to construct a glass ball, much like the one that Alexander the Great was reputed to use to look at the sea-bottom, though my readings of the classic histories shed no light on how to
construct
one.”

Bury looked sad that he could not conceive a way, either, as he took a morose sip of his wine.

“Have t’be a big’un,” Lewrie commented, “else you run out of enough air.”

Is he daft as bats?
Lewrie asked himself, half appalled.