"Shallow water heats faster than deep, sir," Adair said on. "As the bay heats, it should make a touch more breeze and thin this fog."
"This humid air, though, Mister Adair," Lewrie countered. "As the bay water warms, it'll make for a thicker fog. To clear would take hours… far past dawn. Round noon, by the looks of it."
"It has thinned a tad, sir," Lt. Adair hesitantly opined. But, as if to bely that hope, a thicker bank of fog loomed up ahead, slowly rolling down to swallow them and cut their visibility to a mere stone's throw ahead of the jib boom and bowsprit. But it had been driven down to them by a slightly stronger breath of wind, and the sails rustled and meagrely filled out; tackle blocks and parrel-balls clink-clanked or groaned, and for a few moments Lewrie could hear the burbling sound of the shalope's hull making a knot more way through the water.
And the fog seemed to thin a trifle!
" 'Bout a full cable's visibility now, sir!" Lt. Adair pointed out. "Aye, sir… thinning. With a touch more wind now, too."
"Fine for us," Lewrie muttered, looking aft as if he could sear through the foreboding mist. "We're gaff-rigged, fore-and-aft, but… it might be a 'dead muzzier' for Proteus, square on her bows. She'll be stalled in-irons, and helpless."
And without his frigate's artillery, there'd be no support for his assault on the buccaneer's camp, no support for the landing party, either. If Lt. Langlie could not even row her into range, much less in sight in this fog, using her 12-pounders at Range-To-Random-Shot, then Lewrie's small and divided assault force might be massacred, half by half, and there'd be nothing Lewrie could do to prevent it. Worse, it would take much too long to send a boat to shore to recall Captain Nicely's men, to go about and try to find Proteus in the fog!
Lewrie crossed his fingers behind his back, knowing that, for better or for worse, they were now committed. But the breeze did feel fresher, and the fog did look just that much thinner, so…
"Damme, that smell…" Lewrie said, as a sour odour arrived on that slight wind. He lifted his face and sniffed deep like a hound.
"Cook-fires, sir!" Lt. Adair exclaimed in a guarded whisper as he, too, picked up the reek of wood-ash and smoke, spilled, fried-out fats and cast-off gristle from meats, and the low-tide tang of boiled shellfish. "We must be very close to the Nor'east tip of Grand Terre, sir… almost onto the camp!' "Alert the hands, Mister Adair," Lewrie bade, forcing down his frets and donning the steely, determinedly confident air of a leader sure of success. "Muskets and pistols loaded, but not yet primed. Do you and Mister Larkin oversee that personally, sir. Mister Jugg, helm over a bit… pinch us up to larboard half a point, no more."
In for the penny, in for the pound, Lewrie grimly thought as he tried the draw of his sword in its scabbard; and pray God don't let me get half these men killed in the next hour!
Lt. Catterall simply bloody hated snakes and felt his skin go icy as he shied from another particularly dangerous-looking serpent, his sword-point aimed at its hideous cotton-white mouth and fangs as he gave it two sword lengths of berth, eyes darting all round to avoid stumbling into another as he fled the latest one.
Grand Terre Island was working alive with the bastards, and Lt. Catterall was already miserable enough. From the moment he'd stepped ashore, he'd been swarmed by midges, gnats, whining mosquitoes, and wren-sized moths. His exposed skin itched like mad from their stings or bites, his face felt puffy and "pebbled" with mosquito welps. Grit and mud still filled his shoes from wading sightless through the marshes, puddles, and rivulets. His feet chafed and squished with every step, and he'd splashed mud and foul-smelling wet something higher than his knee buckles. Catterall even vaguely envied soldiers; they could wear "spatterdashes" from their shoe soles to the crutch. Boot would have been better, but his single pair were new, and he hadn't imagined he'd need them this badly, so…
Their extremely slow, groping march from the beach on the south shore through the forest's tangles, thorny shrubs, and clinging vines had been a horror, too, utterly mystifying and confusing. For hours, it had been black as a boot, and he'd barely been able to see his hand in front of his face. Everyone was forced to shamble, shuffle, and put each foot ahead of the next on sheer faith, led by a few Marines who'd been woodsmen.
The halts were many, the progress treacle-slow, and the forest was an eerie foe to seamen, Marines, and civilised gentlemen used to open fields and sensible terrain. Owls hooted, un-named things cawed and chirped; insects sawed and squeaked all about them, and armed men shivered and took fright at every unexplained rustle close by in the underbrush. Once off the beach, the air had been dank and close, too warm for woolen uniforms, too dense to breathe comfortably, stinking with raw, oozing dankness and putrefaction, with foul, sappy odours.
Then had come the fog, just as it was almost possible to see, making the march even more ominous, and each scampering rodent was an enemy scout dashing off to give the alarm, and…!
There were bare-tailed rat-like things that grinned, as big as bloody spaniels scurrying away almost at their feet; ring-tailed and masked beasts that chittered and growled; 'possums and raccoons, Lt. Devereux had whispered to calm them, and all quite harmless. Humped, hard-shelled lizardy creatures called armadillos, disturbed squirrels in the trees, whose sudden barks could startle Catterall to crying out!
"Halt here," a Marine hissed ahead of him, "passin' th' word, we halt here fer a bit."
"Hold here," Catterall repeated as loud as he dared, both arms outspread to indicate a ragged skirmish line for his men. It was all taking too long, he thought; in the dark and this pre-dawn fog it was possible they'd gotten hopelessly lost, and when the sun rose they'd find themselves far from where they were needed, unable to hit the pirates' camp in time to coordinate with Captain Lewrie's seaward attack. The pirates would be awake and ready for them, it'd turn into a disaster, and…!
"Passin' th' word, there… awf'cers, front," the Marine said in a raspy, weary whisper.
Lt. Catterall almost tiptoed forward, trying to go quiet, but the many scrub bushes and palm-like swishing greenery made that a forlorn hope. He finally made out two men who stood before the kneeling sailors and Marines, men in cocked hats peeking round a thick cypress at something: Devereux and Capt. Nicely.
"Smell them, sir?" Devereux asked with a happy grin. "We are there. They are there, just yonder, the other side of this wall."
"A wall, sir?" Catterall said, trying not to sound "windy" to his comrades-in-arms. "Damme, not a fortification, is it?"
"Irregular," Capt. Nicely hesitantly opined, wiping sweat from his brows with a calico handkerchief. "Not laid stone, perhaps…" "A dug entrenchment, with a firing step behind it?" "Damme," Capt. Nicely groused softly. All evening long, all during the ferrying, then the arduous trek through the swampy wastes, Nicely had practically boiled over with energy and enthusiasm. Now he was taken aback by an un-looked-for obstacle. This fog, though it was thinning as a light wind sprang up, combined with the fearsome-looking fortification, was almost the last straw, and his eagerness seemed flown from him; the imperturbable Capt. Nicely was just about ready to chew on a thumbnail in worry. In the fog, the frigate and the shalope could not support them, or even find them, and now this! And it was impossible to call off the ships, to withdraw. If the fog dissipated and the ships attacked without the shore party, the pirates might just sail farther up the bay, beyond reach, without the landing party ravaging and surprising their encampment!