“I’ll take a peek at the time,” he whispered to Spendlove, at last, ducking under the canvas, opening the shutter of the lanthorn, and discovering that it was almost 4 A.M.
If Caldwell’s right about the tides, he thought, dredging up one lean scrap of hope, slack-water’s over, and it’s beginning to make.
“I think that I can make out two of our boats astern, sir,” Spendlove said, his whisper muffled by the canvas, “and there are two more off the starboard beam. Lizard ’s, I think.”
“Are they sparking?” Lewrie asked, emerging from the cover of the suffocating canvas, glad for the sudden rush of cool night air.
“They are, sir!” Spendlove said, sounding not only relieved, but amazed that the boats from Lizard assigned to his division would be able to find them in the dark and link up. He drew out an un-loaded Sea Pattern pistol-a heavy and clumsy weapon of such poor accuracy that it was best when fired against a foe’s chest or belly-blew on the pan just to make sure that there was no priming powder, and drew it to full cock. Holding it aloft he pulled the trigger, and the flint created a brief but bright shower of sparks as it scraped down the raspy face of the frisson. That was another necessary violation of complete black-out, but a useful one suggested by Lt. Lovett. “All our boats answer, sir!”
Lewrie stood, resting a steadying hand on Spendlove’s shoulder, and peered far out into the North, looking for a matching set of sparks between Lt. Westcott’s gunboat and his assigned rowing boats.
“Yes, I think I see them!” Lewrie eagerly hissed. “Three… four. They’re all assembled, too. Show two flashes from the lanthorn, Mister Spendlove, and let’s get this procession under way.”
The plan laid out was for assorted rowing boats to lead, with a gunboat close astern of each group. Once past the entrance channel Westcott’s group would take the centre of the river, whilst the boats under Spendlove would press towards the shore of Amelia Island, and the mouth of that river, in case any privateers or prizes were moored there, closest to a quick exit from Cumberland Sound.
Astern of the two boat groups, Lizard and Firefly would try to row in abreast using their longer, greater sweep-oars, with Lovett’s Firefly stationed near the North Bank, and Bury’s Lizard, with more 6-pounders, would provide support for Spendlove’s group should they run into awake and well-armed resistance.
At least it looked good on paper, Lewrie miserably thought as he recalled the last briefing to his officers, his over-sized sketch of the entrance channel, the rivers, and their bends, with pecan shells to represent the major vessels, all moving along in parallel columns abreast, with Thorn trailing closely. What it looked like now in the dark, what it would look like when false dawn greyed the sky, would be a sloppy other matter.
Silence was essential, yet the oars still creaked as they were hauled despite the rags over the thole-pins to muffle the skreak! of wood-on-wood. Oarsmen had to breathe hard, and sometimes cough. The Marines had to fidget and rattle their weapons and accoutrements, and the gun crew of the 6-pounder carronade now and then created wee rumbling noises as they swivelled the slide platform about. The rush of the river seemed a loud rush-gurgle as the boat ploughed through it, the bow lifting at each rhythmic stroke of the oars.
“I think I can make out our boats, sir,” Lt. Spendlove whispered close to Lewrie’s ear, almost making him jump out of his skin.
It was true. Ahead, Lewrie could barely see the white-painted transoms of the two boats from Reliant, and the four others off the sloops! He looked astern and thought he made out the foresails and fore gaff sail of Lizard, too. A quick duck under the canvas, again, and a furtive slit opening of the hooded, lanthorn showed him that it was almost five in the morning; false dawn would come a quarter-hour later. He closed the lanthorn and came back to the cooler air, looking North to see if he could spot Westcott’s division, but they were still invisible; he didn’t even try to hunt for Thorn. To the South, there was nothing to be seen in the mouth of the Amelia River. There were no ship’s riding lights one might expect to see aboard a ship at safe anchorage.
“We’ll have to steer larboard, Mister Spendlove, just to make sure there’s no one in there,” Lewrie said.
“Ehm… how do we tell the other boats to do that, sir?” Lt, Spendlove asked.
It was still thankfully dark enough to hide the stupefied look on Lewrie’s face. He had planned for them to be off the river mouth with just enough light to see up it, and had made no contingency plan for supplemental signals!
“Let the other boats proceed,” Lewrie snapped. “We’ll go a few hundred yards or so up the Amelia on our own, and catch up later.”
“Aye, sir,” Spendlove said with nary a dubious note, and whispered to the helmsman to put the tiller over. The boats ahead rapidly melted back into the gloom, and they were alone, steering South into the river mouth. Lewrie stumbled forward to the boat’s single mast to cling to it and peer ahead.
“Easy all,” Lewrie ordered. “Rest on yer oars for a bit.”
He got the sense that they were further West than the middle channel. There was a strong hint of the bulk of Amelia Island to his left, and a smell of marsh to his right, as if they were nearer to the West bank. What he could see was a faint mist beginning to rise and cling to the surface of the water. There were no ships in sight.
“Let’s put about, Mister Spendlove, and catch up our boats,” he ordered after making his way back to the stern.
The larboard oarsmen backed water, the starboard oarsmen pulled, and the gunboat slowly swung about to row Nor’west. As they did so, a spark loomed up off the starboard bows. A moment later there came a second shower of sparks.
“Best answer that, Mister Spendlove,” Lewrie said.
“Hoy, there!” a voice called. “Who are you?”
“Spendlove!” Lewrie replied as loud as he dared.
“ Lizard, here!” Lt. Bury called back. “For a minute, we almost fired into you! Did you get lost, Spendlove?”
Sure enough, the sloop loomed up in the dark, her sails rustling and her sweep oars groaning.
“We detatched, to look into the river,” Lewrie told him. “My idea. If you swear not t’run us over, we’ll be catching up our boats.”
“I will veer off Nor’west, sir, to avoid that!” Bury promised.
“Let’s get a goodly way on,” Lewrie told Spendlove.
He pulled out his pocket watch once more to duck under the canvas, but found that he could almost make out its white face, and barely identify the hour marks! Turning about, he saw Spendlove referring to his boat-compass without the use of the lanthorn! It was false dawn at last! Without straining he could spot the gaggle of rowing boats that had gone on without him, far off, see the splashes of each oar as they bit the water, and the low, swirling mist they passed through. To the North, he could finally see Lt. Westcott’s division, and Firefly astern of them! They looked to be in good order, for a wonder!
The gunboats stroke-oar set a hot pace, and the oarsmen gasped and grunted as they rowed, but they began to close the distance to the other boats, which had swung Nor’-Nor’west for the mouth of the Saint Mary’s River. The Midshipmen in charge of the largest boats from the frigate spotted them, and slowed their stroke to allow them to rejoin.
But, when the gunboat was slightly less than a cable off, there came spark signals from Entwhistle and Grainger, and all of the boats laid on their oars, slowly coasting to a stop.
Mr. Entwhistle was standing and waving his arms over his head to get their attention, then pointing towards the river’s mouth. Two minutes longer on, and the gunboat was within hailing distance.