Chapter 3

"Hmmm," Lewrie had opined when Caroline had shown him which house she wished. It had once been a gatehouse stables, then some overseer's cottage for the Boudreau plantation, a Bermudian "saltbox" done in stone, little better than a country croft. It had one large parlor and dining room in one half, and two bedrooms for the other, with deep covered porches front and back. A breezeway had been added on the right-hand side opposite the sitting rooms, what Caroline termed a Carolina "dog-run," to make a covered terrace and separate the house proper from the added-on kitchen and pantries, and their great heat. Off the back porch was a detached bathhouse and "jakes." It had clearly seen better days, and needed work.

"Bit... dowdy, ain't it?" he'd suggested dubiously.

"The Boudreaus want an hundred guineas a year for their row houses, Alan," Caroline had told him. "Wood, with barely a scrap of land in back. Sure to be eaten to the ground by termites in a year! Here, we have stone walls, and stone floors, and stone will be cool in high summer. The Boudreaus will replaster, replace the shakes, and allow me to re-tar against the rains. I know it looks a fright, but with some paint, our furniture, draperies ... and just look out at this view! All this for only sixty guineas the year, Alan!"

The house faced nor'east, fronted by Bay Street, across the sound from the eastern end of Potter's Cay, turned eater-corner to face the Trades so the porches and "dog-run" would be cool even in midafternoon heat. And from the porch, Potter's Cay and Hog Island were dark green and pale dun, swimming in waters that ranged from as clear as gin or wellwater to aquamarine, turquoise, emerald and jade, and there was an inviting beach just across the road on the East Bay where only the smallest ships could moor.

"Here, we'll have half an acre for a small vegetable garden, and flower beds, Alan," she'd praised on. "Should I wish a coach or saddle horse, I may day-rent from them,' stead of us having to buy mounts or an equipage and paying to stable them. And they'll allow me all the manure I wish for the garden and all. The Boudreaus are Charleston Loyalists. Low Country Huguenots, Alan. Wonderful people, and when Betty Mustin introduced us and they found I was from North Carolina, well .'.. 'tis a marvelous bargain, dearest!"

"Well..." he'd waffled, not seeing the possibilities.

"So close to them, I'll need but one maid-of-all-work at a day, Alan, saving us even more on servants' wages. With their land played out, and a glut of slaves now, they're servant-poor. Oh, do but indulge me in this, love! And when you return, I'll have us a home to do an admiral proud!"

"What the devil's a fellow to do?" he sighed to himself, wondering again at his easy surrender to her will, at how quim-struck he had become so quickly. So like a—by God—so like a husband! He shivered at the image. Why, next would come children, sure as fate! Nappies and fouled swaddlings! Conversations centered upon a host of domestic dullities—teething, potty training, breeching, and all! No, he thought grimly, surely not with spritely Caroline, please God?

And though the house was a bargain at sixty guineas, there was more to consider; those drapes, those painters and plasterers, those improvements. His purse was nicely full, but not bottomless. Yet to move them in, stock the larder, purchase implements for the gardens, equip the kitchen and outfit those porches with some needed furnishings had set him back an additional sixty guineas already, so there had gone most of his grandmother's remittance, and the £500 he had brought out had to be left with a local banker for her to draw upon for "improvements," the bulk of it, and her household allowance doled out to her with his shore agent at what he prayed was a liberal eight pounds the month. Suddenly, marriage was becoming more a "pinchbeck," coin-counting drudgery than a terror, he decided.

"Pray God Phineas was right," he muttered aloud. "She'd better be 'economical' as Christ feeding the five thousand."

"Sir?" Lieutenant Ballard asked, interrupting his pacing to leeward.

"Eh?" Lewrie jerked, wakened from his pecuniary musings.

"I swore you said something, sir."

"Just maundering to myself over the high cost of domestic life, Mister Ballard," Lewrie said with a shy grin, waving one hand idly. "Pay me no mind. Now we've what seems a constant three-and-a-half fathoms to work with in this Exuma Sound, I was indulging myself."

"Aye, aye, sir," Ballard said, going back to his duties.

Alacrity stood sou-sou'east with a touch of easting, driven by the Trades large on her larboard quarter. The day before they'd gone close-hauled up the chain of cays and shoals east from Nassau toward Eleuthera, threaded the Fleeming Channel near Six Shilling Cays, and now loped across the Exuma Sound for their first survey area.

Well, perhaps "loped" was too strong a word, since they towed a pair of local-built, two-masted luggers of thirty-foot length, with their own ship's boats a-trail of them on long towing bridles, so their forward speed was much impaired.

Lewrie wasn't sure he wanted too much speed, anyway, given the clarity of the sea around them. He could look over the side and see the bottom quite easily in the midmorning light, could espy the occasional coral head to the west as the Sound shoaled, and observe Alacrity's shadow rising and falling away as it passed over stray, startled bat-winged rays or sharks below, or shimmering clouds of bright-hued fish.

James Gatacre and his assistant came aft from the bows, trailing the four midshipmen. He ascended to the quarter-deck and peeked into the compass bowl. He laid a thick-fingered hand on the traverse board, which made John Fellows the naval sailing master , sniff suspiciously. Gatacre turned his heavy, craggy head aloft and eyed the set of the sun. He peered down at the issue chart and paced off progress along their course from the Fleeming Channel entrance.

"Ahum," he said, folding up his dividers and shoving them into a pocket. "Captain Lewrie, my compliments to you this morning, sir."

"Mister Gatacre," Lewrie nodded pleasantly.

"Might I humbly suggest to you, sir, that we get the way off her and come to anchor in the next ten minutes or so?" Gatacre said. "There are rumors of a sandshoal, and sand bores ... ahum, just about here, to be plumbed, sir."

Lewrie peered at the chart himself. Where the dead reckoning of their course ended, assuming the chip log was right and they were doing six knots and a bit, where Gatacre's thick thumb rested, given four miles to the inch, they were...

"God's teeth!" Lewrie spat. "Mister Ballard, all hands! Take in tops'ls, pay out a cable to the best bower, hand the forecourse and the inner jibs."

"Nought to dread, Captain Lewrie," Gatacre smiled confidently. "We've a good two miles before we fetch it. Assuming the position of the wreck was taken correctly, o'course. Nought to dread."

"The wreck!" Lewrie goggled. "Christ on a bloody cross! Quartermaster, put yer helm down. Two points to weather. Mister Ballard? Loose sheets and let her luff!"

"Did I not mention it last night in your cabins, sir?" Gatacre frowned.

"You mentioned shoals, sir. But said nothing about a wreck."

"Bless my soul, I was sure I had, sir," Gatacre chuckled at his failure, bemused by a faulty memory. He stuck a forefinger into his ear and waggled it about vigorously, as though that action restored thoughts.

"A shipwreck." Lewrie muttered to himself. "Mine arse on a bandbox!"