A century and a half ago, by Papal Bull Inter Caetero of 25 September 1493, the Line had been drawn down the mid-Atlantic, north to south, by Pope Alexander VI to divide the world between Portugal and Spain. What hope was there that the excluded Christian nations, in their envy and resentment, would honour this declaration? Spontaneously, another doctrine, was born: "No peace beyond the Line!" It became the watchword of the privateer and the corsair. And its meaning extended in their minds to encompass all the unexplored regions of the oceans.
Within the waters of the northern continent, acts of piracy, rapine and murder whose perpetrator previously would have been hunted down by the combined navies of Christian Europe and hanged from his own yard-arm were condoned and even applauded when committed beyond the Line. Every embattled monarch signed Letters of Marque that, at a stroke, converted his merchantmen into privateers, ships of war, and sent them out marauding on the newly discovered oceans of the expanding globe.
Sir Francis Courtney's own letter had been signed by Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, the Lord Chancellor of England, in the name of His Majesty King Charles II. It sanctioned him to hunt down the ships of the Dutch Republic, with which England was at war.
"Once you desert your station, you forfeit your rights to claim a share of any prize!" Sir Francis called across the narrow strip of water between the ships, but the Buzzard turned away to issue orders to his helmsman.
He shouted to his piper, who stood at the ready, "Give Sir Francis a tune to remember us by!" The stirring strains of "Farewell to the Isles" carried across the water to the Lady Edwina, as the Buzzard's topmast men clambered like monkeys high into the rigging, and loosed the reefs. The Gull's top-hamper billowed out. The main sail filled with a boom like the discharge of cannon, she heeled eagerly to the south-easter and pressed her shoulder into the next blue swell, bursting it asunder.
As the Buzzard pulled away rapidly he came back to the stern rail, and his voice lifted above the skirling of the pipes and the whimper of the wind. "May the peace of our Lord Jesus Christ shield you, my revered brother Knight." But on the Buzzard's lips it sounded like blasphemy.
With his cloak, which was quartered by the crimson croix pat tie of the Order, billowing and flapping from his wide shoulders, Sir Francis watched him go.
Slowly the ironic cheering and heavy banter of the men died away. A sombre new mood began to infect the ship as the company realized that their forces, puny before, had been more than halved in a single stroke. They had been left alone to meet the Dutchmen in whatever force they might appear. The seamen that crowded the Lady Edwina's deck and rigging were silent now, unable to meet each other's eyes.
Then Sir Francis threw back his head and laughed. "All the more for us to share!" he cried, and they laughed with him and cheered as he made his way to his cabin below the poop deck.
For another hour Hal stayed at the masthead. He wondered how long the men's buoyant mood could last, for they were down to a mug of water twice a day. Although the land and its sweet rivers lay less than half a day's sailing away, Sir Francis had not dared detach even one of the pinnaces to fill the casks. The Dutchmen might come at any hour, and when they did he would need every man.
At last a man came aloft to relieve Hal at the lookout. "what is there to see, lad?" he asked, as he slipped into the canvas crow's nest beside Hal.
"Precious little," Hal admitted, and pointed out the tiny sails of the two pirmaces on the distant horizon. "Neither carries any signals," Hal told him. "Watch for the red flag it'll mean they have the chase in sight."
The sailor grunted. "You'll be teaching me to fart next." But he smiled at Hal in avuncular fashion the boy was the ship's favourite.
Hal grinned back at him. "God's truth, but you need no teaching, Master Simon. I've heard you at the bucket in the heads. I'd rather face a Dutch broadside. You nigh crack every timber in the hull."
Simon let out an explosive guffaw, and punched Hal's shoulder. "Down with you, lad, before I teach you to fly like an albatross."
Hal began to scramble down the shrouds. At first he moved stiffly, his muscles cramped and chilled after the long vigil, but he soon warmed up and swung down lithely.
Some of the men on the deck paused at their labours on the pumps, or with palm and needle as they repaired win dripped canvas, and watched him. He was as robust and broad-shouldered as a lad three years older, and long in limb he already stood as tall as his father. Yet he still retained the fresh smooth skin, the unlined face and sunny expression of boyhood. His hair, tied with a thong behind his head, spilled from under his cap and glistened blueblack in the early sunlight. At this age his beauty was still almost feminine, and after more than four months at sea since they had laid eyes on a woman some, whose fancy lay in that direction, watched him lasciviously.
Hal reached the main yard and left the security of the mast. He ran out along it, balancing with the ease of an acrobat forty feet above the curling rush of the bow wave and the planks of the main deck.
Now every eye was on him-. it was a feat that few aboard would care to emulate.
"For that you have to be young and stupid," Ned Tyler growled, but shook his head fondly as he leaned against the whipstall and stared up.
"Best the little fool does not let his father catch him playing that trick."
Hal reached the end of the yard and without pause swung out onto the brace and slid down it until he was ten feet above the deck. From there he dropped to land lightly on his hard bare feet, flexing his knees to absorb the impact on the scrubbed white planks.
He bounced up, turned towards the stern and froze at the sound of an inhuman cry. It was a primordial bellow, the menacing challenge of some great predatory animal.
Hal remained pinned to the spot for only an instant then instinctively spun away as a tall figure charged down upon him. He heard the fluting sound in the air before he saw the blade and ducked under it. The silver steel flashed over his head and his attacker roared again, a screech of fury.
Hal had a glimpse of his adversary's face, black and glistening, a cave of a mouth lined with huge square white teeth, the tongue as pink and curled as a leopard's as he screamed.
Hal danced and swayed as the silver blade came arcing back. He felt a tug at the sleeve of his jerkin as the sword point split the leather, and fell back.
"Ned, a blade!" he yelled wildly at the helmsman behind him, never taking his eyes off those of his assailant. The pupils were black and bright as obsidian, the iris opaque with fury, the whites engorged with blood.
Hal leaped aside at the next wild charge, and felt on his cheek the draught of the blow. Behind him he heard the scrape of a cutlass drawn from the boatswain's scabbard, and the weapon slide across the deck towards him. He stooped smoothly and gathered it up, the hilt coming naturally to his hand, as he went into the guard stance and aimed the point at the eyes of his attacker.
In the face of Hal's menacing blade, the tall man checked his next rush and when, with his left hand, Hal drew from his belt his ten-inch dirk and offered that point also, the mad light in his eyes turned cold and appraising. They circled each other on the open deck below the mainmast, their blades weaving, touching and tapping lightly, as each sought an opening.