Nothin’ more satisfyin’ than roast rat that’s fed on bisquit, oatmeal and flour! Lewrie recalled from his own younger days, and just how much meat there was on one, as good as squirrel any day, once the hide, dusted as white as a grist mill worker or baker, was removed.
“The Purser, nor the Cook, either, will issue you a mouthful more than your proper due,” Lewrie warned them. “You couldn’t keep body and soul together for yourselves, much less support… him.”
“Bisquit, sir,” Rossyngton reiterated.
“We were going to name him Bandit, for his mask and muzzle, sir, but…” Munsell stuck in.
Was it possible that the dog somehow knew that its fate was being decided? It came forward from the Mids to sit at Lewrie’s feet and peer up, its stand-and-fall cocked ears perked. Lewrie could see why they’d almost named it Bandit, for its muzzle was much darker fur, approaching black, and there was a dark streak across its forehead and eyes, with the eyes themselves outlined in white fur. It whined and lifted one paw to touch Lewrie’s knee.
“Male, is he? Not going to come in heat?” Lewrie asked.
“Aye, sir, a male,” Munsell replied, sounding more hopeful.
“There’s worse creatures carried aboard ships, I suppose. We had a mongoose the Marines had found aboard my old frigate, Proteus. ” Lewrie allowed. “Captain Speaks and his damned parrot. He’ll need meat. He can’t live on porridge, cheese, and wormed bisquit.”
Lewrie looked about the deck in thought, noting that his crew seemed to be hanging on his decision, as well. He was the victim of a pacific mutiny! A friendly and playful dog would be the pet of the entire ship, not just the Midshipmen’s mess, and they were all aware of its presence days before.
What’s the harm? Lewrie asked himself.
“’Til we can obtain more, I’ve jerked meat and hard sausages for my cats, aft,” Lewrie said at last. “I can contribute to feeding him, somewhat. As I’m sure the ship’s people will be willing to hand over beef and pork bones, ’stead of casting them over the side.”
“Thank you, sir!” Munsell exclaimed.
“God help ye, ye flea-ridden mutt, but I suppose you’re ours,” Lewrie decided, leaning down to pet the dog, which set off a frenzied and playful reaction. It even rolled over to have its belly rubbed!
“We’ll take good care of him, sir, and he won’t be in the way,” Rossyngton vowed.
“Just keep him off the quarterdeck, and away from my cats,” Lewrie cautioned.
“Aye aye, sir!”
Lewrie gave it one last patting, then went aft to the door to his great-cabins.
“No, Bisquit!” he heard Munsell say.
Lewrie turned back to see the dog squatting to take a shit in gratitude.
“And clean all that up!” Lewrie barked.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Days later, Reliant and her little squadron struck the coast of Cuba, and the Old Bahama Channel, near Bahia de Nuevitas, and turned West-Nor’westerly to run up the deeps of the channel, skirting close ashore of Spanish Cuba, keeping an eye out for enemy shipping or privateers.
Lewrie regretted that he didn’t have enough bottoms to maintain a close blockade of the Cuban coast, for, as Columbus had discovered long before, there were hundreds of places for privateers or warships to lurk behind the fringe cays, and in the many “pocket” harbours and bays that stretched from Nuevitas almost to Havana. There was Bahia de Jiguey, fronted and shielded from the sea by Cayo Guajaba, Cayo Cruz, and Cayo Romano. Bahia de Perros was also fronted by Cayo Coco to the West of Cayo Romano; even further West lay Bahia de Buena Vista and Cayo Santa Maria and Cayo Fragoso.
To satisfy his curiosity, and to assure that French and Spanish privateers were not using those havens, Lewrie took his squadron West up the Nicholas Channel, well South of Cay Sal Bank, along the long scattering of the Archipielago de Sabana, which consisted of umpteen hundreds of cays, with so many channels and inlets between them that a foe could dash from one end to the next and pick any he wished to make an escape. And, by the time that they had peeked into Bahia de Santa Clara, Bahia de Cardenas, and Cayo Blanco, Lewrie was even further convinced that Cuba’s North coast badly needed patrolling. He had not seen another British warship in all that time; not ’til they came level with the much larger and deeper Bahia de Matanzas, and the approaches to Havana did they come across a pair of sloops of war which stood off to form a weak blockading force!
Letters to Admiralty, soonest, Lewrie determined; My Lords may I humbly submit… and all that blather. Hmm… fire one off to Forrester, too, and if he don’t act on it, he just might end up appearin’ damned idle, and dangerously remiss!
His shallow-draught ships had cruised as close to the coast as they could go, and the biggest vessels they had reported had been two or three two-masted fishing boats, no bigger than fifty feet or so overall, and they had quickly scuttled through the nearest inlets to shelter behind the cays. Perhaps they were coastal traders from Havana or Matanzas that peddled needles and thread and such to the scattered and isolated coastal or island villages. Lewrie imagined that Spain had never put much money back into her colonies after extracting so much wealth; if there was one decent road the whole length of Cuba’s north shore, he would be mightily surprised! Plus, it was a given that cartage by road in mule- or ox-drawn waggons was much slower than carriage by sea, and the tonnage of goods shipped was always greater aboard a merchantman.
What else had his sloops reported? Dozens and dozens of fishing boats, everything from small jolly boat-sized rowboats to one-masted launches, all of them scrofulous in the extreme but capable of panicky speed on their dashes to shelter behind the cays, some in so much fear that they had abandoned their buoyed nets! Though the squadron still was in need of more boats, they had not been able to capture any. The best they had done was to upset a few poor traders’ schedules and ruin a great many fishermen’s catches!
All in all, perhaps prowling the coast of Florida was the easier task, Lewrie concluded, after comparing charts of the coasts. While he was sure that someone would have to pay a closer watch on Cuba, Lewrie was a bit relieved that that someone would not be him. That would be a task worthy of Hercules… with eagle-eyed Argus thrown in for good measure!
“It isn’t well surveyed at all, sir,” Mr. Caldwell, the Sailing Master, glumly informed Lewrie as the squadron stood in close to scout Key West. “Once behind the cay, I doubt even Firefly could find sufficient depth of water.”
“And the charts upon which we depend are copies made from Spanish charts, sir,” Lt. Westcott added, “and God only knows how long ago the Dons drew them up, and what’s changed in the meantime.”
Even without his telescope, Lewrie could see the changes in the colours of the waters. There were steel-blue patches indicating deep water, surrounded by brighter aquamarine, with the aquamarine shading to bright green or milky jade-green nearer the shore of the key. The waves that broke upon it that early morning seemed as lazy as a wind-driven lake’s waves; there was no real beach, unless one deemed rocks and pebbles and gravel a “beach”. It was very pretty, though, which was about the best that could be said about it.
“Mast-head!” Lewrie yelled through a brass speaking-trumpet at the lookouts in the cross-trees. “Any settlements ashore?”
“ Shacks, sir!” Midshipman Munsell yelled back. “Only a few shacks. There’s no one about! No boats to be seen! Looks abandoned, sir!”
From the cross-trees high aloft, Lewrie expected that Munsell could almost see clear across the island to the far shore, for it was very low-lying, its mean elevation only a few feet above the high-tide mark. God, ’tis only the really poor, and demented, who’d live here! Lewrie thought.