"Mister Langlie, we'll stand in as close as we may to the Cape of Saint Nicholas before tacking," Lewrie announced. "Claw us out all the ground you can to weather, before we come about to North-by-West."
"Aye aye, sir."
"Ah, now that is Monte Cristi, sir," Mr. Winwood pointed out as he fiddled with his charts at the binnacle cabinet, "bearing, uhm… Sou'west-by-West. And to the East'rd…"
" Cape Isabella," Lewrie supplied, "which now bears, ah… Sou'east-by-East, or thereabouts. I make it… eleven miles, if the chart is correct as to its height." He lowered his sextant and fiddled with it for a moment. "Then we are here, sir… nine miles offshore of Spanish Santo Domingo, 'twixt Monte Cristi and Cabo Isabella," Winwood opined. "And the depths shown are still abyssal. First real soundings with a deep-sea lead don't begin 'til we're within the three-mile limit, Captain."
"Three miles, hmm," Lewrie muttered. "Mister Wyman, we'll haul our wind and stand due South, for a piece…'til Mister Winwood says we're near 'soundings.' After that, we will wear and reduce sail, to scud back along the coast towards Cape Francois and see what's stirring."
"Aye aye, sir," Wyman said, reaching for a speaking-trumpet with which to relay orders to the watch.
"And let's hope something is out of harbour, Mister Winwood." "Indeed, sir."
Lewrie's familiar old stomping grounds about the Turks Islands had been nearly empty of all but local fishing boats and small traders, the Caicos, Turk's, Mouchoir, and Silver Bank passages glittering but barren, and conversations with local boats had revealed that it was a rare day when they'd seen any sail at all. Such stops had allowed the Purser, Mr. Coote, to purchase a bonanza of fresh fish and sea turtles, now trussed with their flippers threaded together, and all for a song, but useful intelligence was nil.
"Once we take a good, long look into Cape Francois, we'll head back to the Old Bahama Passage," Lewrie decided aloud. "Yankee merchant-men'll be floodin' South this time of year, and most-like that will be where the Frog privateers'll be thickest, too. So many of 'em tradin' at Havana, and other Spanish Cuban ports… before heading further South to the Leewards, ey, Mister Winwood?"
"Always a wrench, to cede the windward station, sir, but in the circumstances…" the Sailing Master said with a noncommittal shrug, as he carefully, almost lovingly, stowed away his own precious sextant in its velvet-lined rosewood box.
"Shortest distance, we might've been better off in the Gulf of Gonave, if they're comin' from Havana," Lewrie griped, "most-like sailing right past us. Or passing far to the East'rd of the Bahamas and Puerto Rico."
"Well, sir, there's great risk in that," Winwood replied, digging out another chart and spreading it on the traverse board. "There are reefs and shoals aplenty near Puerto Rico, and the Danish Virgins, and our own. Anegada and Virgin Gorda are infamous wrecking grounds, and the north shore of Saint Thomas? A rocky maze, sir!"
Mr. Winwood used a closed divider as a pointer as he indicated the dangers, sketching courses from America.
"Do they leave New York, Boston, or Philadelphia, the Chesapeake, or even the Carolinas or Georgia, their best course would be very far Easterly, out to beyond Bermuda, before taking a slant across, abeam the Nor'east Trades, with hopes to fetch Anguilla or Saint Martin just a touch alee of them, and close to all those lee-side harbours."
"Which'd put them in our Antigua squadron's bailiwick, then," Lewrie said, nodding, "and we'd never see 'em…'til on their way back home, through these waters."
"Aye, sir."
"But they can't all sail that far East and South first. There must be some who trade closer to home," Lewrie griped. "Witness those Yankee men o' war and Treasury cutters convoying merchantmen here. Or are you saying we've been handed a bill of goods, Mister Winwood?"
Winwood winced and sucked his teeth; it was a cold day in Hades when he ventured an opinion outside his own expertise.
"It might not have been the most productive area to patrol, sir. How else may one explain why, with over seventy or eighty men o' war on the West Indies Station, we've been so unsuccessful in eliminating the many French privateers?"
"Sloth and indolence," Lewrie scoffed, with a sour laugh. "So little profit in it, such hard work… when it's more exciting, more profitable, to hunt enemy merchant ships and warships! Prowling about for such- even if it's fruitless-holds the greater honour, and a chance t'get your name in the papers back home. Make a great show, with all the huffing and puffing? 'By God, we almost had 'em but for a slant o' wind, but we'll do better next time, wot?' Surely you know their sort by now, Mister Winwood."
"Indeed, sir," Winwood said in response, very even and flat.
And by God, was he lookin' at me cutty-eyed when he said that? Lewrie thought, trying to recall six months of bombast or excuses.
"Sail ho!"
Lewrie's head snapped upward to the mainmast lookout's perch.
"Where away?"
"Four points orf th' starb'd bows!" the spry young topman wailed back. "Three… four sail! They'm sloops and luggers, there!"
"And we're inshore of them!" Lewrie exulted. "Where bound?" he shouted aloft through cupped hands.
"Standin' North, sir!"
"North, hmmm…" Lewrie mused, riffling through the charts for one of Saint Domingue and Santo Domingo. "Fishing boats, perhaps. Out of a French or Spanish port. Either sort, they're fair game."
He traced the reciprocal course back to the coast, but found no point of origin, other than a few coves or inlets, and those were two-a-penny. He glanced at the commissioning pendant high aloft, which was flowing to the wind, now steady out of the Nor'east once more.
"A point higher than we could manage, goin' close-hauled. That fits," he muttered. "Now, Mister Winwood. Were you wishin' to coast to the East, you'd have to zig-zag, wouldn't you?"
"Aye, sir. A short board along the coast, but a long one, out to sea, to make any ground to weather," Winwood agreed. "Even with a sloop or lugger rig, it would be an all-day chore to make twenty miles to the good."
"Sooner, sooner or later, they'll have to come about onto larboard tack and head Sou'east, would they not? Right into our range, so to speak, sir?" Lewrie snickered.
"Aye, sir… do they not see us first."
"And if they do, their best hope'd be to come about Sou'west, and run back into whichever little harbour or inlet they left," Lewrie crowed. "And… we're still inshore of 'em, and can run 'em down; do they put about this instant!"
Lewrie went to the larboard bulwarks and looked out at the land, now that Proteus was within three miles or so of it and scudding along almost due West. Fingers drumming on the cap-rails, thinking, evaluating… With a jump, he was at the binnacle rack and snatching a glass, then up into the starboard mizen shrouds, clambering aloft, up past the cat-harpings and onto the futtock shrouds, dangling dangerously for a second or two before gaining the mizen top platform, where he felt the need to pant for a bit before scrambling onto the stays and rat-lines to the upper masts and cross-trees above the mizen tops'l.