“A wonderful berth,” Avery sighed. “And I thought that rotten armed transport was bad.”
“Hell with it,” Lewrie said. “I hear she’s made her people a pot of prize money, and she goes her own way looking for fame and fortune. We’re in the right place. Now all we have to do is to convince our captain that we’re the right midshipmen for him.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Avery said. “Here, Lewrie, you wouldn’t have a neckcloth that would pass Divisions, have you?”
* * *
Just before departure, mail came aboard, and Lewrie was surprised to have two packets. Sir Hugo was actually living up to his end of the bargain and had sent him a rouleau of one hundred guineas. Well, actually, the solicitor Mr. Pilchard had sent it. There was no letter attached, and that was no disappointment, but the money was most welcome.
The next was from Lucy Beauman. He had been isolated aboard Ariadne following the duel, then rapidly transferred to Desperate and had not been allowed to see her, though he had sent her a letter that he was not sure her aunt and uncle would allow her to see.
There was belated fear for his life, wonderment at his courage, a recital of prayers said for him, a brief screed against Wyndham, who had not struck her as a trustworthy gentleman, a denial that she had encouraged him in the slightest manner (which Lewrie doubted … she was a girl, wasn’t she?), profound relief at his victory and survival, deep despair at being denied his presence, grief and tears at their cruel separation (but more prayers for success at his new endeavors in Desperate) and fond hopes of a quick reunion.
She enclosed an embroidered handkerchief for him, scented and splashed with her tears, binding up a generous lock of her honey gold hair. There was also Old Isaac’s completed juju bag, which he was to hang about his neck immediately and never remove. Lewrie was leery as to that instruction; the bag had a redolence of badly cured goat skin, tidal effluvia and perhaps the slight admixture of chicken guts. She wrote:
I shall wate with constant Longing for your Safe Retern, that we may avale ourselves once more of that mutuol Pleasure in our companyunship, and may agane strole without Cares on that particular Strand I have cumm to regard as a most Blesed and Speshul Place.
Awl my Fondness Goe With You, Lucy
Someone should teach the little mort to spell, he thought, but was touched by her sentiments, and by her evident love for him. He took time to pen her a proper but passionate reply, the sort that would turn a young girl’s head for a while. As a fillip, he enclosed a lock of his own hair (still fairly short). Then it was time to sail.
* * *
Admiral Rodney had plugged one hole in the dyke against all the supplies from Europe that reached the rebellious Colonies by taking the island of St. Eustatius, a major smuggling and transshipment port for naval and military stores and a convenient outlet for American produce and manufactured goods with which they partly paid for all the French, Spanish and Dutch largesse.
By keeping the expected flags flying, and with secret recognition signals, Rodney kept the island open, luring in ships that had no chance to be apprised of the change of ownership. It was resulting in scores of captures.
Desperate was sent north with a roving commission to hunt down ships hoping to use St. Eustatius.
Barely ten days after coming aboard, Lewrie emerged on deck one fine brisk morning sated with a good breakfast of thin-sliced fried pork, boiled egg and crumbled biscuit in treacle. He was still smacking his lips and regretting not being able to enjoy a second cup of coffee when the lookout gave a loud hail to the deck below, ending any thoughts of sail drill for the Forenoon watch.
“Sail ho!” he bellowed. “Three points off the larboard bow!”
Lieutenant Railsford chose Avery to dash aloft to confirm the sighting, and Avery handed Lewrie his hat, brushed back his black hair and ran for the mainmast crosstrees.
Treghues came on deck in breeches and waistcoat and went to the wheel, waiting for a report. Peck, the gangly young blond Marine officer, came up, eager for action.
“Two sail, sir,” Avery said. “Schooner and brig. Headed due north, under all plain sail.”
“Mister Monk,” Treghues called. “Alter course to chase, and we shall crack on all sail she can stand. Stuns’ls, too.”
“Bosun!” their stocky, dark sailing master relayed. “All hands aloft and make sail. Trice up and lay out for stuns’ls.”
The single night reef in the courses and tops’ls was shaken out, and Lewrie went aloft to the t’gallant mast as the yards were raised up by the jears. Below him on the main course yard, hands were extending the stuns’l booms, bending on canvas to spread every stitch their ship could fly. Desperate leaned her shoulder firmly to the sea and began to soar across the moderate seas, smashing into the odd wave, but slicing clean through the regular set of rollers, her wake boiling.
By ten in the Forenoon she had run the schooner hull-up before her, and the brig beyond showed all her sail plan; clearly they were overtaking handily, which suggested ships too heavily loaded to run. Desperate was already towing one boat, and put another down to be ready with boarding parties. Lewrie hoped that he would be entrusted with one of those parties.
Just after Clear-Deck-And-Up-Spirits at seven bells of the Forenoon they beat to Quarters and manned their guns. Lunch would be delayed, but with the prospect of prizes ahead, no one minded.
Treghues had gone below to catch up on paper-work with his clerk, interview the purser and pretend that there was nothing to get excited about, while Lewrie fretted and stewed in impatience. And when their captain did emerge he was close-shaved, dressed in a good coat and cocked hat, his small sword hung “just-so” from his belt frog.
When they had the schooner within range of a six-pounder, just about six cables off, she took one look and raised her rebel colors to satisfy honor, then quickly hauled them down and rounded to into the wind. Mr. Feather, a burly master’s mate, and Midshipman Forrester went over in the first cutter to take charge of her with ten hands.
“Good man, Forrester,” Treghues commented to Railsford by the quarterdeck nettings. “He’ll keep our prize safe.”
“Aye, sir,” Railsford agreed dutifully but without much enthusiasm. Lewrie stood close by and heard this exchange and weighed it for what he thought it was worth. In his short time aboard he had found that young Forrester had a reputation much like Rolston in Ariadne when it came to discipline and tautness.
Then they were off again in pursuit of the brig. Treghues ordered stand-easy for the gun crews, but unlike old Bales he had had the ship properly cleared for action, though their chase might be a mere smuggler and not a privateer or warship. He was taking no chances, and Lewrie approved. Their captured schooner fell in line-astern far back, so loaded she was barely able to stay in sight.
Water and cheese and biscuit was brought up to the gun crews as they stood easy for a cold dinner with the galley-fire extinguished. Lewrie stood in the waist of the ship by the mainmast, idling on the jear bitts and chewing his dry dinner. The cheese was a navy-issue Suffolk, more like crumbling rock than cheese. Giving up on making a meal on it, he brushed his hands and stood on the jear bitts for a better view.
The brig was now well hull-up, perhaps a league off and still being overhauled. Lewrie imagined that she was badly laden besides being heavily loaded. Her bow seemed to slough and make a large wave even with her forecourse spread taut for its lifting effect. Had her bow ridden higher, lessening her resistance, she might have made a knot more. And as low in the water as she looked, her shallower draft would be of no avail in the maze of islands ahead to the nor-nor’west, where she could normally expect to lose the frigate with her deeper draft.