In between, below decks, he would shuck his clothing and attempt to sleep. But then, "What if?" he would think, and his mind would go galloping off on a flight of frenzied imagining. Had he forseen all that could go wrong? Had he forgotten anything vital? And then those possible disasters would play themselves out in half-nodding nightmares from which he would snap awake, only to slip into another.
"Goddamn, I'm only twenty-two years old!" he muttered aloud. "Who in their right minds'd ever give a twit like me this much to be responsible for?" He might get people killed on the morrow. He knew some people would die. For him. What if they died for nothing?
Like the Battle of The Chesapeake. Like Yorktown. Like Jenkins Neck. The expedition into the barrens of Florida, or trying to retake Turk's Island.
He'd go back over his plan once more, finding gaping flaws in it. Would shiver with chill and bolt upright, suddenly finding need to speak to Lady Charlotte or his father, now ashore, just one last time. But that was impossible. Would pore over his one poor chart searching for omens, for portents of victory or defeat.
They came about for the last time at four a.m., just as the last of eight bells chimed, ending the mid-watch, and the bosun's pipes sang to summon "All Hands" to scrub decks and stow their hammocks in the bulwark nettings for the day.
Time, too, to prepare for what the dawn would bring. Lewrie dressed in one of his Navy uniforms, spurning civilian clothes for the day's bloody work. The coat and waist-coat were badly wrinkled from being pressed to the bottom of his sea-chest, mildewy, and stiff with salt crystals from being so long at sea.
"Ready about, Mister Hogue?" he asked.
"Aye, sir."
"Helm alee!" Lewrie shouted. With nothing aloft but fore-and-aft sails on both masts, there was little of the usual heavy labor involved. Except for the jibs up forward, they almost tacked themselves.
"Should be here, if we maintained an easy four knots during the night," Lewrie said, peering at the chart tacked to the traverse board. "A little east of north would put us here, even with the harbor entrance, by half-past five. Perhaps that would be even better than waiting until six, and full dawn."
"And if we have slipped to leeward that far during the night, we may harden up to the wind and make it good, sir," Hogue added.
"D'you want t' inspect the decks, sir?" Murray asked, coming aft from the waist of the ship.
"White decks are not the greatest thing on our minds this morning, Mister Murray," Lewrie replied, unable to suppress a smile. "Hands to breakfast. Then douse the galley fires soon as they've eaten."
"Aye, sir," Murray replied, knuckling his brow.
"Got some 'ot coffee, sir," Cony offered. "An' wot'll ya be 'avin' fer yer breakfas', sir?"
"Just the coffee, Cony, thankee," Lewrie replied, taking the mug in both hands to savor its warmth and its aroma.
"Land ho!" the lookout called.
"Where away?"
"One point off the starboard bow, sir!"
"That should be the central hill, the highest point above the sea. And a little to the left of a direct line for the entrance," Alan surmised, bending over the chart again, then straightening. "Quartermaster? Larboard your helm, half a point, no more. Pinch us up to windward a mite."
"Aye, sir."
"They should be able to see us by half-past five, sir," Hogue prodded.
"Aye," Lewrie nodded. "Bows on, coming into harbor like we're expected, with no flag flying. Now who, I ask you, would be stupid enough to enter a pirate's lair but another pirate, Mister Hogue? They might go on their guard, but they don't know what a surprise we have ashore already. We shall have to chance it from here on."
"Aye, sir," Hogue shrugged with him.
"You get below and eat if you've a mind. I have the deck," Lewrie said. "Spell me when you get back so I may shave. And then, Mister Hogue, we shall beat to Quarters."
Chapter 6
We're going to be damned early," Lewrie groused. The winds out of the east were beginning to blow more freshly, and Culverin had the bitt in her teeth, cleaving the early morning at a pace he did not like. "Hands to the braces! Ease her sheets!"
They winged out the big gaff sails until they luffed and fluttered, then hauled them back in until the luffing eased, but Culverin was still making a rapid five knots. Too fast! They'd arrive in the middle of the narrow harbor channel not a quarter of an hour past five a.m.
"Lower the outer flying jibs!" Lewrie commanded. It made little difference, as if their little warship had a will of her own! She slowed by perhaps half a knot, and the shore loomed closer.
"First reefs in the mains'ls, sir?" Hogue suggested.
Lewrie took a look at the chart once more, gnawing on the inner side of his lips in frustration and worry. Last of the ebb, still at least five fathoms in the entrance channel, he told himself. Narrow entrance, but widening once we're in. Calmer waters once inside, and the eastern peninsula will partially block the winds; we'd have to shake out our reefs once we're in harbor, and we'll be too busy for that!
And gun-batteries, he almost gasped! Something else I didn't consider, but only a fool would not have a battery on the tip of the western peninsula, to guard the entrance. Speed's the thing. Get past them before they could get off more than a couple of broadsides.
"No, Mister Hogue. Stand on as we are," he ordered. "I think a certain amount of dash is necessary this morning. Leadsmen to the chains now. You take the gun deck."
"Aye, sir."
"Sail ho!" the lookout called from aloft, making Lewrie feel like his bladder would explode. "T the larboard beam!"
Lewrie seized his telescope from the binnacle, raced to the larboard mizzen shrouds and scaled them until he was about twenty feet above the quarterdeck. Thank God!
It was only the Lady Charlotte, standing sou'east from her night anchorage after disembarking the troops, fulfilling her role as a possible threat. She was deliberately being placed too far down to leeward to make the harbor entrance against the prevailing wind. But at least she was obeying his command even in part.
It was getting light now. Light enough to see details on the island, now not two miles off Culverin's bows. Suddenly, Lewrie was glad the wind had freshened. Now came the time when the plan lay at its most exposed. Troops possibly in position, artillery ready for firing, perhaps…. and Culverin and another strange ship racing to enter harbor. Let's get it over with, he thought eagerly.
He descended to the deck and stowed his telescope away, trying to show that great calm which was expected of naval officers, the calm which he had never quite achieved before. Things always seemed too urgent and desperate to him at moments like this to walk instead of run, to keep a gambler's face instead of cheering his head off or cursing Fate.
"And a half, two!" a leadsmen screeched from the fo'c'sle.
Lewrie could not stifle a yelp of alarm. Where in hell was that shoal sprung from? Was it charted? Were they about to wreck this fine little ship? He bent to the chart and sighed heavily. It was marked. An outer reef wall that lay tumbled like those the Romans had built in the far north of England centuries before. Some island-to-be, an outer harbor that might have existed long before a taifun's fury had shattered it.
Coral heads and breakers to starboard, two cables off, thank Christ!
"And a half, two!" the other leadsman shouted. Culverin's keel was now skating across razor-sharp coral with about six feet to spare. If the chart did not lie, please God, he prayed.
"Three!" the first leadsman yelled. 'Three fathom!"
It sounded like a winter wind, to hear all the people on the quarterdeck sigh out in blissful relief at the same time, and Culverin's captain the loudest of all.