"And here's the wind, please God, sir," Ballard said with his excitement tightly repressed. Alacrity had cleared Southwest Point, skating across the open waters of Clear Sand Road, and found the ever-present Trades, which laid her over fifteen or more degrees onto her starboard side. "Hands to the braces, hands to the course sheets!"
She heeled harder still until the angles of her sails were set, then rose up almost level and set her shoulder to the sea, her bluff bows snuffling foam as tops'ls rustled and cracked with the new-found power. One could feel her leap forward, could exult in the way she sprang to life, hot-blooded and eager as a racehorse.
"Hoist the colours," Lewrie said, as Cony fetched him his coat and hat, and his sword to buckle on.
The three-masted merchantman had turned south once she had seen the suspicious luggers pursuing her, to open the distance and turn the hunt into a long stern chase. But the luggers were fast off the wind, sails winged out like bat's wings and skimming the shallow-draughted boats across the bright blue waters quick as pilot boats. Two of them had gybed and were a little west of the trading ship, while the other three were boring in for her larboard side. As Alacrity plunged along, they could see tiny puffs of smoke on the merchantman's high stern from a pair of light chase guns, and white feathers of spray leap aloft near the luggers. The luggers opened fire in reply, and near-misses splashed close alongside the trader. One hit twirled lumber into the air from her poop rails. What seemed like minutes later, the flat sounds of the artillery reached them like far-off thunder.
"They still don't see us!" Lewrie exulted. "Quartermaster, a point more aweather. Steer us just inshore of that trio to larboard of the chase. We'll trap them between our guns and hers."
To leeward there was a clear, sharp horizon, the sea dark blue and winking in the morning sun. Ahead and to windward, the shallower waters were a palette of greens and pale blues, the white breakers of the reefs curling and spuming like artillery shots, and beyond toward morning the Caicos Bank lay still and calm, the palest aquamarine with the clouds mirrored upon it like some desert mirage.
At last, though, someone aboard the luggers looked aft in the act of reloading a boat-gun and gave a great shout of alarm, and Lewrie saw fifty heads swivel about, and fifty mouths gape open in the round iris of his telescope.
Alacrity ran down on them, commissioning pendant streaming long as a tops'l yard, the red ensigns of the Bahamas Squadron flaming huge and menacing to leeward from her taffrail and her foremast truck, her gun ports open, and a frothing white mustache of foam growling under her bows.Fast as the luggers were, Alacrity had infinitely more sail area, a longer waterline, and she drew closer to them as they bore off from the merchantman to run south. The pair to leeward gave up their chase and turned to join their comrades, thinking that there was safety in numbers.
"Mister Ballard, I make the range possible for random shot," Lewrie said at last. "Let's try our eye on those two yonder."
"Aye, aye, sir!" Ballard replied eagerly, almost running to the quarter-deck nettings to look down into the ship's waist. "Starboard guns, Mister Buckinger! Take them under fire!"
Number One starboard gun barked, its crew shying back from the recoil run as the gun captain jerked the lanyard of the flintlock igniter. The barrel was cold, so even at maximum elevation, the round-shot struck short, but within line of the target. Slowly, the other four cannon of the starboard battery exploded stinking clouds of powder that swirled downwind toward the luggers.
Number One fired again, this time with a warm barrel, and its round-shot scored a hit so close-aboard the leader of the pair that it heeled over almost on its beam ends and rolled back upright, its single mast snapped off and the large lugsail draped over its stern. The trailing lugger ducked leeward behind its injured consort, which act raised sarcastic jeers and catcalls from the British gunners as they pounded shot around the now-stationary target. Another strike lifted the injured lugger clear of the water, breaking it in two and spilling its crew into the sea. The pirate lugger behind it continued on course, weaving at speed to throw off their aim.
"I'd not like to be swimmin' in these waters," Gatacre shivered. "Sharks and spets a'plenty. Cowardly bastards. Leave their mates to drown or get chomped. Gahh!"
"Mister Ballard, tell the gun crews well done. Cease fire for now," Lewrie ordered. "Quartermaster, put your helm down two points. We'll shift our attention to the trio there. How close may we come to Molasses Reef, Mister Fellows?"
"The charts infer there's ten fathoms within a cable, cable and a half, sir," Fellows told him, rolling his eyes and shrugging. "I'd suggest we stand off at least two cables… about 400 yards, Captain. We'll be fetching Molasses Reef in another mile."
The trio of luggers ahead of them were now bending their course sou'easterly, as though to run down close to Molasses Reef themselves, or make for the reputed deep-water entrance at its north end, trying to dart under Alacrity's bows to escape.
"Quartermaster, helm down another point. Mister Ballard, take the nearest lugger under fire," Lewrie smiled. "Discourage them."
Hot now, the gun barrels had a harsher, more insistent sound, and the low carriages and barrels leapt as they discharged, rearing off their front wheels to crash back to the deck. Hot barrels meant slightly greater range. Five tall feathers of spray erupted as graceful as poplar trees all around the single-masted lugger which trailed the trio. Once the foam and spray had subsided, they could espy her hauling her wind to bear away out of range toward the open sea. The leading pair fitted with two masts turned more southerly to continue to run as well, denied a chance to get to windward.
Alacrity had taken the pass below Southeast Reef from them, the pass above Molasses Reef. Once more the luggers tried to turn up into the wind below Molasses Reef, but Alacrity was too close, and, hauled up onto the wind herself, had cannonaded that idea from their minds. The morning wore on as they chased them south, slowly gaining.
A low-lying spit of sand, French Cay, fell astern by noon, and once more, the luggers turned east to seek escape into the Banks, but Alacrity peppered them with round-shot so fiercely they turned south again, daunted by the rapidity and closeness of her fire.
"West Sand Spit in sight, sir," Fellows announced. "Fine on our larboard bows. Five miles, about. There's a long reef with breakers and exposed coral below it. Fifteen miles, it runs, sir, all the way to White Cay and Shot Cay."
"And no more passes after this 'un?" Lewrie demanded.
"Two, perhaps, sir, either side of White Cay," Fellows shrugged.
"Deep water east of us now, Captain Lewrie," Gatacre told him. "Seven fathom reported. Five fathom from that thumb o' deep water as runs south to West Sand Spit. Do they wish escape so bad, sir, this'd be their last chance. Ye'll have 'em close-aboard in two more hours."
"Deck there!" Midshipman Parham howled from aloft in a squeaky wail. "Chases go close-hauled on the wind, sirs!"
The four surviving luggers had caught up with each other in a loose gaggle, the two-masted ones outdistancing the single-masted. All had turned due east to beat against the Trades as close as they could bear. They were at best three-quarters of a mile ahead, with Alacrity able to run down on them to close the range rapidly before she turned up to windward and took them under fire again, this time at about four cables' distance. They were daringthe best killing zone for a long-barreled six-pounder, showing their desperation.
"Helm down, quartermaster. Mister Ballard, hands to sheets and braces! Haul taut, close-hauled to weather!" Lewrie ordered. "Quoins out on the starboard guns and prepare to open fire!"
The angle was almost right for all but the leading lugger, which had gotten too far to windward for Alacrity's guns to bear.
Fists rose in the air as gun captains signaled their charges ready. Flintlock striker lanyards were taut as bowstrings. "Fire!" Lewrie called out.
Alacrity roared out her defiance, thrashing along with wind singing in her rigging, foam flying about her hull, spray leaping high as the clews of her jibs. The guns crashed and bellowed, and a wall of smoke gushed from her to be ragged away astern. "Fire!" And another broadside howled from her artillery. A single-masted lugger was torn to splinters, leaping stern-high and pitch-poling, tumbling as if she'd tripped over her own bows! She crashed upside down into the sea in a welter of white water and began to sink at once. "Reefs ahead to larboard!" a lookout shrilled. "Helm up, quartermaster! Bear away starboard!" Lewrie shouted.
"Deep water to starboard, sir!" Gatacre counseled from a perch on the starboard bulwark where he could see ahead and below.
"Ten fathom t'this line!" a leadsman shouted back from the foredeck, pointing to his right to indicate blue water and safety.
"The clever bastard!" Lewrie sighed with relief. "He knew what he was about, turning to windward so early."
"To wipe us off him in passing, so to speak, sir," Lieutenant Ballard commented. "The guns cannot bear, sir, unless we turn up to windward again."
"Eight fathom t'larboard! Eight fathom t'this line, sir!" the other leadsman sang out. "Clear water ahead."
"Mister Fellows, Mister Gatacre, do you think there is depth enough for us to continue the chase, sirs?" Lewrie inquired. "For a space, sir," Fellows allowed.
"Another mile or two, sir, if we're quick about it," Gatacre recommended.
"Quartermaster, put your helm down. Lay us close-hauled"
"Aye, aye, sir! Close-hauled t'weather!" Neill parroted. The luggers had gained at least half a mile on Alacrity after she was forced off course, and now lay more ahead than abeam of her after she began to beat to windward once more. The gun crews had to pry the guns about to angle them within the ports to point at the foe, grunting and sweating as they put their backs and arms against the metal crow-levers and handspikes.
"Quartermaster, pinch us up and let her luff," Lewrie snapped. "Gun captains, as you bear… fire!"
One at a time the guns belched and leapt, rolling back from the gun ports and snubbing on the breeching ropes, slewing a bit due to the acute angle and making the tackle men, swabbers and loaders jump back.
"Tacking!" the foremast lookout wailed.
Lewrie stepped to the left side of his small quarter-deck for a view. The luggers had tacked across the eye of the Trades and were now heading west-nor'west, back the way they had come all during the long morning chase. But this time, they were inside the Caicos Bank, sheltered from pursuit beyond the reefs and breakers, skimming along over pale aquamarine waters far too shallow for Alacrity.
" 'Vast, there!" Lewrie roared. "Mister Buckinger, ready the larboard battery. Quartermaster, ease your helm two points aweather. Mister Ballard?"
"Aye, sir?"
"We'll not have much time, I'm thinking, so be ready to haul our wind and come about to loo'rd."
"Six fathom!" the leadsman warned.
"Guns ready, sir!" Buckinger called out.
"Open fire, Mister Buckinger."
Alacrity rocked with recoil, and spent powder smoke rolled over the decks like a thick fog, only slowly wafting away. Shot moaned in the air, across the shoaling waters, across the sand and coral reefs which separated them from the foe. A second broadside; a third, and one of the two-masted luggers was at last hit. Two shots slammed home, rocking her at the extreme limit of Alacrity's range. Powder charges or a cask of powder aboard the lugger must have taken light, for there was a sudden ruddy mushroom cap of flame, followed by a squat, bulging hump of gray-black smoke shot through with whirling wreckage, then a hailstorm of splashing debris and she was gone! The sound of her ruin came to them as a twofold Crump-Fhwumph as the smoke-cloud turned to a sooty mist chased low across the shallow sea, and the white-roiled waters became a series of ripples.
"Out of range, sir," Buckinger informed them from the foot of the ladder to the waist."Three fathom!" a leadsman called mournfully. "Three fathom to this line, and shoal-waters ahead! Two cable, no more, sir!"
"Mister Ballard, haul our wind. Mister Buckinger, secure your guns for a gybe," Lewrie commanded.
"Run out unloaded! Bowse up to the bulwarks and belay!" the quarter-gunner told his hands. "Put those slow match out."
"Sheetmen, brace-tenders, stations for wearing ship! Off yer belays and haul taut!" Ballard instructed. "Ready about? Helm hard up to weather, quartermaster. Wear-ho!"
Once settled on her new course out toward safer, deeper water, and the guns secured with charges and shot drawn, vents covered and striker pans emptied, ports closed and the guns lashed securely hard up against the hull, Lewrie had all hands summoned. They thundered aft to mill about at the foot of the quarter-deck, grinning with delight and chattering their excitement.
"Lads, we did damned well!" he told them, putting a brave face on his embarrassment. "From powder monkeys to waisters to the guns. We shot like a crew three years in commission, and I'm well pleased with you this day! Mister Keyhoe? We will splice the main-brace!"
They cheered the announcement of a double rum ration, one free of accumulated debts among themselves of "sippers" and "gulpers."
"Then!" he continued, raising his hand to silence them, "then, lads, we pick up survivors and clap 'em in irons. We go back to get our boats and other mates in Clear Sand Road. And hunt the rest of this pack of murderers and cut-throats down and bring 'em to court to hang! Mister Harkin? Pipe 'Clear Decks And Up Spirits'!"
After the clamor died down, Lewrie paced aft to the taffrail on the windward side. He raised his telescope and glared at the surviving luggers as they receded from view two miles or more away now', hull-down, with their sails mirrored on the glassy waters inside the Caicos Bank.
He had hurt them. He'd sunk three out of five of them, saved a merchant ship… come to think on it, he gloomed, where had that bugger gone so quickly, without a word of thanks… he'd put the fear of King's Justice in the rest of them. But it wasn't enough. The fact remained that he had been outmaneuvered… fooled! He'd almost lost his ship on those razor-sharp reefs!
Somewhere out there was a very clever criminal, laughing fit to bust he was certain, at how he'd bested him! A criminal who had outsmarted him!
Chapter 3
"A 'Brother Johnathon' ship," Lewrie chuckled wryly. "I saved a Yankee's ship. And now here he is, selling bold as brass!"
"That you did," the local magistrate Mr. Lightbourne said as they strolled past the open-air market of sheds just above the high-tide line. "I've no way of stopping him. No reliable bailiff, no real power to regulate for the Governor-General."
"But this is a violation of the Navigation Acts, sir," Lewrie insisted. "Is there no King's ship in these waters?"
"Nothing against your fellow officer, Captain Lewrie, but there is but the one tiny single-masted cutter, and she's off at the moment," the gloomy magistrate said, halting their stroll to make a point. "Sir, were it not for Yankee ships coming to the Salt Isles, we would have no imported food or goods! Not in the winter months after salt-raking season, to tide us over, certainly. When British ships put into port, their prices are dear. Dear, sir! With a half-battalion of troops, a fleet of revenue cutters, the full force of the King's Customs, even then I would have no hopes of enforcing steep prices, just to benefit fat London merchants, who got this Order In Council passed."
"So you have to tolerate this?" Alan said, trying not to sound too accusatory. To Mr. Lightbourne's reluctant nod, he went on. "May I take it, sir, that some revenue is gathered? Some import duty?"
"Uhm," Lightbourne shrugged eloquently, but meaning "no."
"The Navy cutter," Alan said. "Did she just happen to be away as an interloper is selling here in Cockburn Harbour? Or anchored here when Yankees enter Hawk's Nest Harbour over on Turks Island?"
"Better that than being sued, sir," Lightbourne told him. "Try to arrest a foreign vessel, impound its goods, and one ends up incourt months later, with damned little support from the Crown. Try to panel a court, I dare you! They vote for acquittal every time, and then the accusing officer is liable for damages. For slander, false arrest, for restraint of trade… lost incomes. For demurrages accrued while the suspect vessel was at anchor, and the crew's back wages, by Tophet!" the fellow spluttered. "Now you shew me the Navy officer able to defend himself against that, or the one with a purse fat enough to afford counsel and court costs. Oh, the Navigation Acts are a grand idea, but no thought was given to just how Crown officials were to enforce them, sir! 'Twould be better were we to accede to the inevitable, deal with the possible, and levy imposts to gain a little from each shipload. But to bar foreign traders and goods, to demand all British trade to and fro is done in British bottoms, well…"
"The only way possible would be if the foreign vessel resisted being stopped and inspected," Lewrie surmised aloud as they resumed a leisurely stroll past all the palmetto-roofed sheds, the canvas-topped pavilions heaped with goods of every description. "If they fired on a King's ship."
"Aye, and they're not that stupid, sir," the magistrate said with a wry chuckle. "Thumb their noses at you, bare their bums…"
"Introduce me, anyway, sir," Lewrie sighed in resignation. He was led to an open-sided pavilion where several civilians sat in the shade imbibing wine or ale. As Lewrie approached, dressed as a Crown officer, several of them found reason to finish their ales and make off, while the rest shifted uneasily.
"Mister Lightbourne," a gray-haired sea captain nodded to the magistrate. "A splendid good afternoon to ye, sir."
"Captain Grant. Allow me to name you Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, captain of His Majesty's Sloop Alacrity, sir."
"Captain Lewrie," Grant beamed, extending a calloused hand. "Captain Grant, your servant, sir," Lewrie rejoined, taking the hand. "Is that good ale you're enjoying there, sir?"
"Philadelphia beer, Captain Lewrie," Grant allowed. "It travels well, though. Do sit and enjoy a mug, if you've a mind."
"I would, sir," Alan replied, removing his cocked hat and taking a shaky seat in a sprung chair at the rickety table which rested on a shipping pallet over the sandy soil.
"Here on some official business, are ye, Captain Lewrie?"
Grant inquired with an innocent expression, and a deal of humour.
"To seek a small measure of gratitude, Captain Grant," Alan said as a wooden mug appeared, foaming and aromatic with hops. "You and I almost met two days ago, off West Caicos, sir."
"Aha! Your Alacrity was the brave little bulldog that saved me bacon from those pirates, was she?" Grant boomed. "Well now, 'tis 'deed happy I am to make your acquaintance, Captain Lewrie! Devilish it is, sir, the brass o' those cut-throats. 'Tis getting so an honest trader goes in fear o' his very life, engaged may he be 'pon his 'innocent' occasions! My undying thanks to ye, sir! Should have seen it, lads. Chased them buggers right to the razor's edge o' the reefs off French Cay, he did, within a whisker o' tearing the stout heart o' his fine little vessel out! Oh, ye've bottom, ye have, sir, no error! I saw ye sink one. Rest get away?"
"Sank three, sir," Lewrie replied as the others gave him cynical cheers. "And captured a dozen survivors. We have them in Mister Lightbourne's custody at the moment. Two boats escaped me."
"You'll get 'em," Grant prophesied. "Eager young feller like y'self, they got no chance, sir."
"I will, thankee, sir," Lewrie smiled, getting to the meat of the matter. "As for the ones now in custody, though… a case must be laid, sir. Not merely my word they were taken in arms. I need your testimony as the intended victim, Captain Grant. Else they'll be set free instead of swing. To continue their foul activities of preying upon… honest merchantmen, engaged upon their lawful and innocent occasions."
"Well, now, young sir…" Grant frowned, ready to strangle on such a preposterous notion. "Me testify? Bless me soul, Captain! A long voyage to Nassau… weeks waiting for the court to convene, sir. Demurrages piling up and all… were I to be paid recompense, I might be able to. But, hurricane season's almost upon us, and me poor old Sarah and Jane…"
"Mister Lightbourne does assure me, Captain Grant, that a deposition would be sufficient," Lewrie interrupted. And was galled by the sarcastic humour from all present his suggestion elicited.
"My, ye are a young'un, ain't ye now?" Grant chuckled. "For me to depose in a British court… American master and all… wheww!"
"You would have to lay yourself open to a charge of violating the Navigation Acts, I know, sir," Lewrie said, reddening with anger at their laughter. "And their lawyer would make Puck's Fair of you. But, were you to state that you were on passage for Hispaniola…"
"Ahh!" Grant smiled as he was let off the hook. "And we said that you forced me to enter harbor here…"
"So your testimony could be written out by a Crown official,"Lewrie sketched on. "An unbiased magistrate appointed by the Governor-General of the Bahamas, who could provide additional testimony to the unimpeachable nature of your voyage, sir."
"Why, bless me soul, young sir, if ye ain't the knacky'un!" Grant hooted and leaned back on his rickety stool. "And whilst I was in port here, not o' me own free will, as it were, I do believe I did trade Hispaniola goods fer salt. Straight across the board, hey?"
Lewrie blushed once more, feeling sullied by what he was being forced to ignore. "Your, uhm… commercial endeavors following what testimony you render, sir, are none of my concern, Captain Grant, and surely are not required to be cited in the deposition."
Playing fast and loose with King George's official edicts was an unsettling experience for him, one he knew for certain he did not wish to repeat. Sins of a personal nature were one thing, but… the Law! And placing his personal honour in jeopardy, to boot!
"We understand each other, Captain Lewrie," Grant simpered.
"This once we do, sir," Lewrie insisted. "Yet I would pray you complete your trading and clear these waters with all haste. I might just be possessed of a deep-enough purse to defend myself were I of a mind to inspect your vessel the next time I see her. Do we understand each other now, Captain Grant?"
Grant laughed and gave him an elaborate seated bow. "I do stand admonished, Captain Lewrie," he allowed with a wry expression. "We'll not cross hawses again, more'n like. And if we do, I'll try to outrun ye 'stead o' bribing ye. Ye catch me, though, I just might try the depth o' that purse o' yer'n. Can't expect the fish to be hauled aboard without a fight, ye know."
"I know," Lewrie nodded.
"Still want that deposition, then?" Grant asked.
"I do, sir, if you're still of a mind."
"Then let's be about it," Grant agreed. "Faster I give me testament, the faster I'll be out o' yer hair."
"And out of port," Lewrie prodded.
"And out of yer jurisdiction," Grant beamed. "Fair enough."
"Galling, ain't it?" Mr. Lightbourne said as they walked back to the Commissioner's House together. "Now you begin to know what I face here in the Turks. No support from Nassau. No real authority. Threat of being lynched were I too effective. Or turned out by those bone-lazy worthies on New Providence for being incapable, were they to discover the true circumstances which obtain here. I've turned many a blind eye, long as there's revenues from salt quarterly. Yet I cannot blame the people hereabouts for wanting lumber and luxury. They'd go naked and starving without the illicit trade. There'd not be one decent shack to live in without it."
"Mmmm," Lewrie frowned, pacing into his advancing shadow, eyes downcast.
"I do not sell my office, Captain Lewrie," Lightbourne told him. "Nor do I think you would. Watch yourself, though."
"Sir?"
"There's enough would sell their honour, turn the blind eye, and pray not to be bothered. Some of our exalted, so to speak, superior to you and me. And some so venal they'd even countenance your pirates, long as it was foreign-flagged merchants they plundered. Have a care, Captain Lewrie, whom you arrest. They might turn out to have powerful allies."
"You caution me to ignore the Navigation Acts, sir?" Lewrie demanded, stopping his stroll and looking up sharply at Lightbourne.
"I caution you, do nothing rash, Captain Lewrie," Lightbourne shot back, his own honour touched. "Think deep before you commit yourself. Before you do what honour dictates. But don't trust to a single snare. Lay yourself a web maze-y as a spider's, so there is no way for your prey to wriggle out. And, like me, be thankful for a small victory now and then, 'stead of going crusading."
"I see," Lewrie softened, seeing what sense Lightbourne was endeavoring to give him. "Thankee, Mister Lightbourne, I'll take a round turn and two half hitches. Look before I leap, then. And that's a trial best tested later. For now, I'll be satisfied with running the rest of this gang to earth. No way I suppose those in custody'd talk to us? Tell us where the rest may be found?"
"This lot're practiced sinners, Captain Lewrie," Lightbourne shrugged resignedly. "Honour among thieves… some freebooters' code of silence… the black spot and all that. They'd rather swing game on the gallows and be infamous for a few days. No hope of that."
"Then it'll take combing these islands," Lewrie vowed. "But comb 'em I will. However long it takes."
Chapter 4
"Make 'Captain Repair On Board,' Mister Mayhew," Lewrie ordered as Alacrity ranged up to within half a cable of the wayward Navy cutter Aemilia. They had spent a whole day and night seeking her, first in Hawk's Nest Harbour on Turks Island, Long Bay and Balfour Town on Salt Cay, and had finally discovered her cruising south of Big Sand Cay in the Lower Turks Passage.
The young officer who came through Alacrity's starboard entry port came most unwillingly, having dressed hurriedly and still had a blotch or two of shaving soap behind his ears, a fresh tea stain on his shirt front, and acted very put out and sulky.
"Courtney Coltrop," the officer said before Alan could open his mouth, his demeanor on the ragged edge of open insubordination. "I was not informed another ship was in my area, sir."
"Alan Lewrie, Mister Coltrop," Lewrie said, taking an intense dislike to him at once, and spurning the honorific of "captain" which he merited. "You're a hard man to find, sir."
"I do not maintain a set patrol, sir," Coltrop almost sneered, "so I may spread confusion among our King's enemies the better."
"Pirates and smugglers, aye," Lewrie glared. "Such as the Yankee trader in South Caicos harbor yesterday, which you did not find on your irregular patrol. Nor the pirates off West Caicos the other day. Ever patrol as far as that, do you?"
"The bulk of the trade is here in the Turks, sir," Coltrop said, waving an arm about the empty straits. "And I am one small cutter with a huge area to cover. Here now, what's the date of your commission?" he demanded, irked at the preemptory questions.
"February of '82," Lewrie snapped. "Yours? As if it matters."
"March of '83, sir," Coltrop reddened, realizing that he was junior at last, and should begin to show proper courtesy. Though it was a mystery to Lewrie that the lout would not automatically assume the deference due a captain of a warship larger than his tiny sixty-foot cutter. Alan put it down to insufferable, overweening pride, or impeccable connections and patronage; some powerful "sea daddy."
"Mister Coltrop, you were unaware that a substantial band of pirates were active in the Caicos? There was no rumour of an action off West Caicos three days ago, sir? No hint of past depredations?"
"No, sir," Coltrop grunted, considering the consequences.
"If you would be so kind as to join me in my chart-space, sir, I will discover the matter to you," Lewrie smiled benignly, "and use your knowledge of these waters so we may hunt the others."
They repaired below to Alan's quarters; Lewrie, the truculent Coltrop, sailing master Fellows and James Gatacre. Lewrie sketched out the area where the action had occurred with a pair of dividers.
"… picked up our boats here, and searched the foreshore for them," he said, laying the dividers aside at last. "There was some sort of temporary camp, but no arms or stores. Palmetto leantos or shacks. Empty and abandoned. They had nothing to return for. But I believe they have some lair in the Caicos still."
"That don't follow, sir," Coltrop told him, screwing his face into a moue of disagreement "They're freebooters. Live wild like so many bloody gypsies! More than like, they came up from Tortuga, off Hispaniola. Maybe over from Spanish Florida or Cuba, with all their goods in their boats. You scared the bejesus out of 'em, so they crossed through one of these passes after dark to scuttle off to safer waters. They're probably drunk as lords in some hurricane hole this very instant. Just came over for the odd raid or two."
"One or two luggers I deem a raid, sir," Lewrie smiled. "But five boats, with about eighty or ninety men between them, would need a shore base where they might store their ill-gotten gains. One or two boatloads could take one ship of the summer trade, at best, but five seems enough to raid all summer, and they had to have a place to cook, to sleep, to keep lookout for inward-bound ships."
"Well, one would suppose, sir," Coltrop sighed as though he were bored. "But, given me hurt you allege you dealt 'em, I'd put my guineas on their being long gone from the Caicos by now."