With that, he turned away to shout orders to his crew, to reduce sail, and went to the tiller-bar aft, to direct the helmsman to wear out to sea. The tartane slowed, began to slough and rock. Lateen rigs were horrid when it came to sailing so fine downwind. A square sail, off the wind, would belly full, strain equally from corner to corner, and reduce the excess wallowing motion, which robbed a ship of speed.
Shop clerks, Choundas was forced to fume in silence! Eager for their own beds tomorrow evening, no stomach for a long voyage. Working for the gold, the excitement… but with no sense of discipline, purpose, or loyalty. Mongrels, he added to the list of their sins. Just as bad as those swaggering, cockscomb mercenary privateers; all bluster and brag. Once Genoa was theirs, Choundas vowed, and the guillotines came, to winnow out the "aristos," the usurers, those opposed to the new regime, he would be sure that this captain's name was found in the book of the damned.
Mongrels, he thought, squinting his eyes in fury; so dumb they cling to barbaric Arabian lateens, when even the most famous man of Genoa, Christopher Columbus, knew to change over to square rig! An ignorant, mongrel race!
"I'd not be pressin' closer ashore, sir," Buchanon warned him. "Too dark t'see what we're about. Nor whether we're still chasin' yon tartane."
"There's depth enough, Mister Buchanon?" Lewrie countered. "A nor'east wind to drive us offshore, for once? Not a lee shore…"
"But th' coast trend's southerly, sir," Buchanon insisted. "I suggest we come t' west by south, Captain. E'en does our Chase stand inshore o' us durin' th' night, the coast'll shoulder her out."
"It's the coast he wants, to land on, Mister Buchanon," Lewrie spat, as two bells of the Middle Watch chimed at one a.m.
"Which he'd be a purblind fool t'do, with such a sea runnin," Buchanon countered. "He can't close it till dawn, same'z us, sir."
"Very well, Mister Buchanon. West by south it is. Mister Knolles, we'll haul our wind a mite more, to west by south. Hands aloft, take in sail. First reefs in the main course, mizzen and maintop'sls. I don't wish to shoot past her in the dark. Nor be blown too far loo'rd of the coast by sunrise… by this nor'east wind."
Should there be a wind shift, which usually happened along such a coast, should it moderate or clock northerly, he'd be headed, robbed of power when he needed it most, and badly placed for pursuit.
Assumin' there's somethin' t'see at dawn, he sighed, frustrated. Jester had logged a steady eight knots since espying their Chase around Voltri. Three hours later, and they were almost level with Vado Bay, at that speed. And still had no further sighting of that spectral tartane. He had to admit that Buchanon was right to be cautious. Rocks aplenty inshore, the sea not so boisterous they'd be warned of risk by white foam breaking on them, the moonlight too weak to give them first sight to steer clear. Stout as the wind had blown, he'd expected some rain with it, such a pall of storm cloud overhead that what poor view the lookouts had would be blotted out entirely; but that hadn't come. The solid black of the shore could still be guessed at, if one didn't peer too long or hard at it; whitecaps could be espied all about, by the faint moon. But no sign of that damned tartane!
Jester slowed as her sail was reduced, even with the wind fine on her starboard quarter. Purring now, as three bells chimed, solidly surefooted and ploughing. But to where?
CHAPTER
7
"Sir?" Knolles prompted, a little closer to Lewrie's ear, and giving him a "gentlemanly" nudge. "Sir?"
"I'm awake, sir," Lewrie grumbled, rising from a treacly sleep from his wood-and-canvas deck chair. He fought the constricting folds of his boat cloak, sensing immediately that the weather had changed.
"Wind's died out, sir," Knolles reported, fighting a yawn himself. "The last five minutes, it went scant, then… nothing."
Jester was rocking and heaving, her timbers and yards groaning in protest, and her sails slatting like flapping laundry amidst all the squeaking of parrel blocks and pulleys. Lewrie marveled that he could have slept so soundly through all that. "What's the time?" he asked.
"Two bells of the morning just went, sir," Knolles informed him. "I make it about a quarter-hour to false dawn, sir. Sorry, sir, but as we kept both watches on deck all night, I held off on pumping and swabbing, and let the hands caulk for a bit. Do you wish me to…"
"No, no, you did quite right, Mister Knolles." Lewrie shivered, wrapping himself in the boat cloak again. "Galley fires going? Soup's the thing. Soup and gruel. Cold… but clear."
"Remarkably clear, sir." Knolles grinned. Or fought a yawn, it was hard to tell. "The sea's moderating, too."
"Just what I feared." Lewrie groaned. "Good as stranded, much too far to seaward. Northerly, or a Levanter easterly to come, after sunrise proper. Beat for hours to get back inshore, against the land breeze. I s'pose there's no sign of our Chase?"
"Uhm… not yet, sir," Knolles had to admit. "But we can see a bit better now."
The moon had set, but their world was a nebulous charcoal gray, disturbed only by an occasional whitecap. The coast was definable… just barely. About ten miles off, that solid blackness? he thought. Off which a morning's land breeze would flow, dammit to hell. Maybe a nor'wester, to begin with, before the ocean heated and countered, from whatever capricious direction the Ligurian Sea had in mind today?
"If the galley fires are going, I'd admire some coffee," Lewrie said. "And an idea how far west we were blown during the night."
"I'll send a messenger down to roust your steward, sir," Lieutenant Knolles offered. But Aspinall clomped up the larboard ladder from the gun deck, having already made a trip to the galley. For a warm-up, if nothing else, Lewrie thought, uncharitable that early in the morning. He cradled a battered old lidded pot, and bore some tin mugs on a string.
"Coffee, sir? Coffee, Mister Knolles, sir?" He beamed. "Got enough fer all, sir. Thought th' gennlemen'd relish a spot o' hot."
Toulon had gone with him on his errand, for a bite of something from the cooks, who ever would spoil him. Now he came prancing up the ladders to the quarterdeck, tail stiffly erect and "maiwee ?"-ing for a good-morning rub. He leaped atop the hammock nettings to greet Lewrie with loud demands for attention. After a warming sip or two, Alan went to him to give at least a one-handed tussling and stroking.
He stiffened suddenly, stopped his frantic purring, and turned to look to the north. His ears laid back, his back hairs and tail got bottled up, and he craned his neck, whiskers well forward.
A faint whicker of wind came from there, the worst direction of all, to Lewrie's lights, just as Knolles extracted his pocket watch to state that it was now time for false dawn.
"Sail Ho!" a forecastle lookout yelped. "Four points off th' star-b'd bows!"
"Due north?" Lewrie gulped. "Due north of us?" He looked at the cat, wondering whether he'd sensed the wind's arrival, or caught a scent of that ship… Toulon was now busy washing himself, intent on a paw, and the side of his face that Lewrie had tussled.
"What sort o' sail?" Knolles bellowed back.
"Tartane, sir!" came the quick reply. "Close-hauled t'th' nor-east! "Tis her, d'ye hear, there!"
"Get us underway on starboard tack, Mister Knolles. Sheet home and brace in. Full-and-by to weather," Lewrie demanded. Coffee mug in one hand, telescope slung open in the other, and laid on the mizzen shrouds to starboard, he espied her. Aye, a two-masted tartane, about three miles off, showing them her stern as she ghosted against a faint land breeze, pointing higher than Jester ever could but riding so slow her decks were level, even with her bows as close to the wind's eye as she could lie, with her lateen yards braced in almost fore-and-aft.