“Hmm,” Lt. Westcott said with his mouth screwed to one corner. “It’s not even the first of April yet, sir. Perhaps the itinerants don’t winter over, and they’re not ready to start their fishing season, yet.”
“Or, they’ve crossed back over to Cuba for Easter,” Mr. Caldwell opined. “Papist Spaniards put a lot of stock in Easter. End of Lent, and all that? Fiestas, dancing, swilling, and stuffing their faces with whatever they gave up in penance?”
“Aye, cleansed, and free to sin all over again!” Lt. Westcott scoffed.
“Beyond the shallows back of the island chain, though,” Lewrie speculated, “the Florida Bay is deep enough to admit vessels with moderate draught. Right, Mister Caldwell?”
“Aye, sir,” Caldwell cautiously agreed.
“It’s broad enough here to allow privateers easy access to open seas, and stays broad right up to Key Largo,” Lewrie pointed out. “If a privateer captain wished, he might be able to find a pass through these little isles to that deep water… either end of Key Largo, it seems,” he went on, crossing to the chart pinned to the traverse board by the compass binnacle cabinet, forward of the helm. “Here, at the West end of Largo, or the North end near Isla Morada, or even take the pass into the bay that lies to the Nor’east of Isla Morada.”
“A privateer of very moderate draught, sir,” Caldwell warned.
“Perhaps, sir,” Westcott suggested, “were we to take Reliant into the Florida Bay, and scout up the inside of the island chain, whilst our smaller ships each form a blocking force at the passes and inlets? If there’s anyone lurking back there, we’d be the ‘beaters’, and Thorn, Firefly, and Lizard could form the firing line. Like going after grouse or pheasant?”
“And, do we flush a wild boar, Reliant gets the kill?” Lewrie asked with a brow up.
“Something like that, sir, aye,” Westcott agreed most slyly.
Lewrie bent over to peer more closely at the chart. The Florida Bay began deep enough for Reliant, deep enough for even a Third Rate ship of the line, but it did turn shallow as one made way Easterly up the chain of islets. It was a tempting idea, but there seemed to be no exit if need arose, unless one put the ship about and returned to Key West and round it out into the Florida Straits once more, leaving the lighter ships on their own should they stumble over a well-armed threat. Lewrie shared a look with the Sailing Master, who gravely shook his head in an almost imperceptible “no”.
“If we do spot someone hiding behind the islets, we’ll find a way t’get at ’em, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie decided, “but I’d not wish t’leave the rest of the squadron on their own for that long. Mister Rossyngton? Signal to the squadron to alter course to the Nor’east.”
“Aye, sir!”
Am I goin’ t’regret that decision? Lewrie asked himself; But, I can’t abandon the little ships.
“Hands to the braces and sheets, Mister Westcott, and be ready to put about,” Lewrie ordered as he paced forward to the full hammock stanchions and nets at the break of the quarterdeck.
“Aye, sir,” Lt. Westcott replied, as crisply as if his suggestion had never been broached.
As the hands of the watch made ready to free the braces and the sheets to take the winds on a new point of sail, Lewrie caught sight of his cats making a beeline up the starboard ladderway to the quarterdeck. In rather a hurry, he noted, with their tails bottled up and their bellies low to the oak planks. For a brief second he reckoned that they were playing tail-chase, or were coming to see him, but… not a second later here came the damned dog, yelping merrily in close pursuit!
Spry Chalky, even slower and clumsier Toulon, gained the top of the hammock nettings’ canvas covers in a flash, and dug their claws in so they could arch their backs, turn sideways in threat, and moan and hiss in anger. Bisquit loped up and began to bark, his bushy tail wagging.
“Damn my eyes, what’d I say about keepin’ him off the quarterdeck, or scarin’ the cats?” Lewrie snapped. “Down, you, down! And stop yer bloody gob!”
Bisquit stood on his hind legs, front paws on the nettings to reach them, safely just short of some tentative claw swipes.
“Down, I said!” Lewrie barked. “Down! And hush!”
The dog sat down, looking at Lewrie, then up at the cats, his tongue lolling, and damned if the silly thing didn’t look like he was grinning! He uttered a few encouraging woof s at the cats, who would have none of it, of course, hissing, moaning, spitting, and hunkering.
“Hands are at stations, sir,” Lt. Westcott reported.
“Very well, sir,” Lewrie said, looking further afield. “Make the ‘Execute’, Mister Rossyngton.”
In succession, Thorn, Lizard, and Firefly put about to the Nor’east to continue skirting up the Keys. Once they were all steady and their sails trimmed, Lewrie ordered Reliant put about as well, so that the three smaller ships formed a line ahead and to larboard, with the frigate standing further out to sea of them.
“Mister Rossyngton!” Lewrie snapped.
“Sir?” Right timid, that.
“Now there are no signals to be made for the moment, I wish you to see this…,” Lewrie began. The dog made a last playful leap at the hammock nettings, then turned to trot to Lewrie, nuzzling under a hand for attention. “Ahem! I wish you t’see this dog off the quarterdeck. Ask the Bosun for a length of line to make a leash or tether for him, so he can’t romp up the ladderways again.”
“Aye, sir!” Rossyngton replied.
The dog was licking his hand! Grinning upwards playfully and licking Lewrie’s hand. Despite the sternness he’d intended, Lewrie found himself scratching him behind the ears, which elicited another goofy, tongue-lolling grin.
“Go on, now, ye daft thing,” Lewrie growled. “Get below, and stay there. Hear me?”
Midshipman Rossyngton took the dog by the collar and led him to the top of the ladderway, then down to the ship’s waist. A whine or two of complaint, and a longing look or two at the cats on top of the hammock nettings, perhaps at Lewrie, or the denied expanse of the quarterdeck, and Bisquit suffered to be led forward, his tail held low.
“It appears he likes you, sir,” Lt. Westcott commented.
“Damn what he likes,” Lewrie rejoined, going to the nettings to placate his cats. “There there, lads,” he cooed. “Threat’s over, and ye won’t be eaten.” He reached out to stroke them, but both Chalky and Toulon spat and hissed at him! They would not settle down and flatten their tail fur ’til they’d seen the dog securely tethered to the bottom of the boarding pikes stored upright round the main mast. Only then did they allow Lewrie to stroke them and pet them.
The cats seemed to gloat whilst the dog lay down with his head on his forepaws, looking up at them. One last hiss to get their message across, and the cats sat up and began to groom themselves.
“I’ll uh… be below in my cabins for a bit Mister Westcott. You have the watch,” Lewrie said, clearing his throat and hoping that his ears weren’t turning red in embarassment.
“Aye aye, sir,” Westcott answered, sounding as if there was a slight smirk deeply hidden.
As Lewrie reached the foot of the ladderway, the dog perked up in hopes, but Bosun Sprague was by his side, kneeling down to stroke and knead. “An’ ain’t ye a fine dog, now? Ain’t ye, Bisquit?” the Bosun was cooing in a very un-characteristic voice, one which made sailors turn and gawp; Sprague was more used to bellowing at them than he was to speak softly.
Christ, now Sprague ’s dotin’ on the silly beast? Lewrie thought; This ship’s turnin’ into a schoolyard full o’ boys!