Dewey Lambdin - Sea of Grey
Aye, sir!
The schooner dithered, swinging back to abeam the Trades, while Proteus surged past once more, rapidly falling astern.
"Safe enough, now, I should think, Mister Langlie."
"Aye, sir. All hands… Stations for Stays!"
Proteus swung up onto the wind, close-hauled and heading to East Sou'east, her hands freeing braces, tacks, and sheets. Langlie left it for a long moment, rocking upward on the balls of his booted feet before opening his mouth to shout through the speaking-trumpet.
"Quartermaster, ease down the helm. Ready, ready!" Lt. Langlie cried, waiting, turning and swivelling about, eyes everywhere for this maneuevre. "Helm's alee… rise, tacks and sheets!"
HMS Proteus, for all her length and tonnage, was a lively one, and she came up to the wind briskly, jibs clattering, the spanker aft eased amidships and driving, the foretops'l flat a'back, swinging easily until… "Haul taut! Now, mains'l haul!" and she was across the eye of the wind, the deck swaying upright, then canting leeward, yards swinging, blocks clanging, and canvas rattling like musketry.
"Stars above, if he hasn't come up close-hauled!" the Sailing Master Mr. Winwood exclaimed, coming as close to blasphemy as that good man might ever dare.
Lewrie spun about to glare at the Yankee schooner, chilling, as the thought struck him that, were she truly a French privateer that had captured a set of private signals, now would be the very best time to fire, with Proteus and her crew still all sixes-and-sevens, everything in the running rigging still free, her guns unloaded, run in, and bowsed snug to the bulwarks! Even a puny broadside of pop-guns could confuse the crew, turn their tack into a bloody shambles, whilst a bold French privateersman could swing up to windward-like the schooner was doing!-and scamper full-and-by to weather, pointing higher than ever a square-rigged frigate could attain, into the open, empty seas east of Barbuda, giving them a Gallic horselaugh, and with a tale to gasconade about the entire Caribbean!
No, Lewrie took note; Proteus had completed her tack, and would block this so-called Treasury Department cutter on her present course. ' Course, does she hold her course, she'll ram us! he thought; I don't see more'n thirty hands, all told, and all o' them hangin' in her riggin' for agood look-see!
"Very good, Mister Langlie. Now, stand aloof of that hen-head, 'til we may cock up into the wind and fetch-to. Mister Adair?" Lewrie bawled.
Aye, sir?
"A second hoist, young sir. Tell that aimless bastard to 'Fetch To.' Leave 'Come Under My Lee' flyin'. Is God merciful, even he might get our intent. Then, should he actually fetch-to in our lee, I will wish you to lower both of those, and hoist 'Captain Repair On Board.' Smartly, now… go!"
Again, like a hound warned away from the promise of fresh meat when a hog was slaughtered in the barnyard, the schooner shied off the wind to roughly abeam, leaving a thankful gap between them and ending the imminent threat of collision, as Proteus began the evolution for fetching-to, with some sails still drawing on starboard tack, driving forward, and others backed to snub her progress.
"Gad, quite the quadrille we're dancin' with 'em, hey, Mister Winwood?" Lt. Catterall said as he ascended the lee ladder from below. "Thought we would do 'swing your lady,' the rest of the afternoon!"
"Mmmmmm!" Lewrie harumphed quite pointedly, though he felt like growling at him.
"Though, they aren't quite fetched-to, yet," Mr. Winwood noted.
"Save us a spot o' bother, that," Catterall breezed blithely on. "And give them a shorter row."
"And us with more rigging and sail aloft, with more freeboard, we'll drift right down aboard her, if this fellow don't…" Winwood began to fret.
"I'll skin the bastard, swear it! That cack-handed, whip-jack, cunny-thumbed sonofa… lubber! Damn him!" Lewrie swore, nigh to one of his rare foot-stomping rants or a helpless whimpering, flinging his arms up in appeal to Heaven at Trumbull's captain, and his ignorance, his clueless disregard for side-timbers, paint-work, or seamanship!
"Do we get under way once he's aboard, sir, perhaps our loo'rd drift will not be so great, before we, uhm…?" Lt. Langlie helpfully suggested, heaving a deep, speculative shrug.
"Ah, hummm… p'rhaps, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said. Helpless appeal to Heaven won over rage, as he sagged in philosphical defeat.
"Side-party for a mere lieutenant, or a putative captain, sir," Lt. Catterall casually enquired.
"Bu'ck?" Lewrie answered, with a "what can you do?" shrug, and an unintelligible little noise that sounded hellish-like a cluck.
"Very good, sir," Catterall replied, backing away with a wary look on his face.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The crew of HMS Proteus had "oohed" and "aahed" over the sights of land they had encountered as the frigate continued on about Antigua and sailed near Nevis and St. Kitts before reaching English Harbour; a pack of mostly "Johnny Newcomes" to the bleak infinity of the sea, and starved for even a hint of green. Sere as those isles were, they did have trees and bushes, and plantations that reached down near the thin sand beaches. But those appreciative noises were nothing like the ones they made when once they sighted Jamaica!
Morant Point was barely above the horizon, but the Blue Mountains stood tall and cool and bold to the Nor'west, with Blue Mountain Peak spearing over 7,400 feet into the air; smoky and hazy blue-grey, cloud-draped as if it bore a magical snowcap even in the tropics, all above a descending, hilly swath of headland so lushly verdant, land so brightly green and welcoming that the hands could almost mistake it for Faeryland, or the Irishmen in the crew could conjure that they had discovered the legendary Happy Isles that always lay just beyond a sunset, somewhere across the wide western sea.
The officers and midshipmen-and Lewrie, too, it must be admitted-stood entranced at the starboard rails or bulwarks as Proteus cruised on under "all plain sail" nearer the coast, straight West and within a bare two miles of Morant Bay and bound for Kingston. For Alan Lewrie it was almost like coming home, for Jamaica had been the scene of many of his adventures, and misadventures, during the American Revolution, where he'd won and lost a very young and missish Lucy Beauman, had gotten orders to scout the Florida coast and march inland to the Muskogee Indians, where he'd learned the war was over in the summer of '83 and knew he'd lose his brief command of HMS Shrike, the old snow-rigged brig o' war he had "inherited" from her former master, Lieutenant Lily crop. Lewrie did not need a telescope to "see" the old headlands, the planter houses near the shore, the hints of coastal road between groves of trees, or the fringe of beaches where he had once gamboled nigh-nude in shallow surf with some hired strumpet.
"I do believe that is the Palisades before our bows, sir," Lt. Langlie announced. "Just above the horizon."
"And the ruins of old Port Royal at its western tip," Lewrie said with a slow, pleased grin. "Once the wickedest town in the whole wide world, or so 'twas said. And Kingston beyond… a 'comer' on the wicked roster, itself. Let's take two reefs in the courses and harbour gasket the royals, Mister Langlie. Slow but steady, on a 'tops'l breeze.' The harbour entrance is narrow, at the western tip of the Palisades, just by Fort Charles, and I'm damned if I wish to tangle with another frigate leaving port… and both of us with a 'dash' on." "Aye, sir."
"Mister Wyman, once we're ship-shape aloft, you and the Master Gunner, Mister Carling, will have a salute ready for Admiral Sir Hyde Parker. Mister Catterall?"
"Sir?" the Third Lieutenant said, after a long moment. "Ashore and with the Jamaican ladies already, were we, Mister Catterall?" Lewrie said with a smirk, twitting him.
"Natural philosophy, sir… the flora looks quite intriguing," Lt. Catterall quickly replied. "Why, I might discover a new orchid or a sprig of Captain Bligh's infamous breadfruit trees, or…"
"When we enter harbour, round up into wind and let go anchors. I'll be depending on you, sir, to make it presentable. With our new admiral and two-dozen post-captains watching. Flora, indeed. Ha!"
"Aye aye, sir," Catterall answered, the underlings' best reply in such situations. "Best performance." Catterall gave the middies who would serve at both forecastle and stern kedge anchor a glare, to warn them and pass the "mustard" on.
"Mister Winwood?"
"Aye, sir?" the Sailing Master said, presenting himself.
"I think we should steer a point more direct for the entrance," Lewrie said. "Do you concur?"
"Aye, sir… we can round up abeam once we're fair in the channel. Better than coming abeam a mile or more off the entrance, and get a veer in the wind off those mountains."
"Then make her head West-by-North, half North."
"Very good, sir. Quartermaster…"
"If I wer'nt a gunner, I wouldn't be here… number five gun, fire!" their new Master Gunner, Mr. Carling, droned, pacing aft from the forecastle belfry towards the stern, one arm swinging like a bandmaster's,, now and then swinging in a larger arc to point to a waiting gun-captain in signal to trigger his fire-lock and discharge his piece. "I've left my wife, my home, and all that's dear… number six gun… fire! If I wer'nt a gunner, I wouldn't be here…"
Marines in full red-coated kit, pipe-clayed crossbelts, and hats of white-piped black felt for once, stood at the hammock nettings overlooking the waist, and along the starboard side facing Fort Charles, their muskets held at "Present Arms." Usually, they saved wear on expensive uniforms (for which they'd have to pay if faded, torn, or soiled) and wore sailors' slop-clothing when not standing guard duty by doors to the officer's gun-room, Lewrie's quarters, the spirits stores, or the ladders to the quarterdeck.
Proteus ghosted into harbour on tops'ls, jibs, and spanker, and wreathed in gunsmoke from her salute that only slowly drifted leeward on a mild breeze. There were several two-decker 74-gun 3rd Rates anchored near the north shore, but none flew an admiral's broad pendant or looked even close to being a flagship. Frigates, sloops of war, brigs, and hired or captured warships below the Rates were two-a-penny, though, presenting a pretty problem as to where Lewrie could find room for his ship to anchor, and swing.
Why so many in port? he wondered to himself: don't they know I need room? Don't they know there's a war on?
"There's a guard-boat, sir… waving a jack at us," Lieutenant Langue pointed out. "I do believe he's showing us an anchorage."
"Well, thank God for small favours. Come about onto the wind, and steer for him, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said with a well-concealed sigh of vast relief. "Do not run him over, sir. It's bad form."
"Ya gig's ready, sah," his Cox'n Andrews informed him from his left side. "Ya don' mind, sah… I'll bring de boat off, oncet you step ashore, an' keep an eye skinned t'come fetch ya when ya done."
Lewrie frowned and turned to look at Andrews, who was "sulled up like a bullfrog," ducking his head and his eyes darting as cutty as a bag of nails-looking six ways from Sunday-in embarassment.
"Something wrong with a drink ashore, Andrews?" he teased.
"Be sumptin' bad wrong, do my old master see me, Cap'um, sah."
"Oh, that's right, you ran from Jamaica. But surely, so long ago…"
"Woll, he alius liked Spanish Town more'n Kingston, true, sah, but him an' his neighbours, dey was a hard set, sah. Hold grudges as bad as dem Serbs an' Turks back in de Balkans. D'ya not mind, sah, I don't wanna take no chance o' gettin' took up, again."
"Remind me to have my clerk Padgett forge you a letter of manumission from a master… in the Carolinas, Andrews," Lewrie decided. "For the other Black hands, too, just to be safe."
"Law, thankee, sah!" Andrews said with a wide grin of relief on his phyz. "Dot'd be hondsome-fine, sah!"
"After all, forging runs in the family." Lewrie chuckled. "But 'til we've proper, uhm… 'certificates' ready, aye, bring the boat back to the ship, and I'll hire a bum-boat for my return."
"Aye aye, sah."
Proteus found her anchorage, rounded up to slither on windward for a piece, her fore-tops'l flat a'back to brake her progress, until the very last of her way fell off and the helm went helpless. At that moment, the best bower anchor dangling from the larboard cat-head was let go to splash into the water, and the hawser paid out then snubbed after a run of half a cable, to see if the anchor would hold. With a faint jerk and groan, Proteus came to a stop, her voyage over.
"Hello, the boat!" Lewrie called down to the guard-boat that had been so obliging. "Where am I to report to Admiral Parker?"
"His flagship's in the careenage, sir!" the midshipman in the boat's sternsheets called back. "His staff captain keeps office at Fort Charles, for now!" he added, pointing back at the tip of the Palisades, the natural breakwater mole that made Kingston such a calm anchorage in most weathers, with the Blue Mountains lying in the harsh Nor'east, where most hurricanes blew their fiercest early winds. Lewrie looked in that direction, using a telescope to see if anyone had hoisted the usual "Captain Repair On Board" code flags. No, nothing. For the main base of the West Indies Station, Kingston maintained what could only charitably be termed as "peacetime" activity.
"Very well, sir, thankee!" Lewrie shouted down.
"I'm going that way, sir!" the midshipman offered. "Would you care to be rowed over?"
"Aye, that'd suit admirably. Come alongside!" Lewrie agreed.
"Thank de Lord," he heard Andrews whisper sotto voce.
"Don't feel too relieved, Andrews… you may have to come and fetch me back, then take me ashore to the civilian part of town. You scamp, you."
"Mebbe you'd speak t'Mister Padgett afore ya go, then, sah? He get dem certificates started?" Andrews countered, still looking wary.
"Dear Lord, what a lack-wit!" Captain Sir Edward Charles said, after Lewrie had filled him in on his meeting with the hapless Lieutenant Gordon of the United States Treasury Department cutter Trumbull. "If he's an example of what we may expect to meet in the near future, then God help them. In such a small service as their Treasury, or the new navy of theirs, surely only their very best and most experienced officers would gain commands. Unless they simply have none, o' course."
"I gathered that most of their experienced naval officers by now are quite aged, sir," Lewrie informed him, "those who won fame back in the Revolution; and most of them were privateersmen, to begin with."
