Majbur, Jazmurian, Sotaspe, Dur… Here it was, Palin-dos Strait. Barnevelt whooped when he saw that here Kar-rim's tide lagged behind that moon by less than a Krishnan hour, and the tides of Golnaz and Sheb by even smaller amounts.
"Chask!" he yelled.
Although Chask looked dubious, he had to admit that there was nothing to do but try the western channel, especially as they should hit it a little past noon. Then, and a little past midnight, were the times of the highest tides.
The Shambor swung to port and crept towards the channel, while the galleys crept towards the Shambor. The wooded hills of the peninsula that came down to the Strait from the west now rose into view. As they plodded over the glassy sea, the land rose higher until it looked as though the island were part of the mainland. Then, as they came still closer, the western passage opened out.
Still the galleys lessened their distance. Barnevelt looked back with a shiver. Would they have to duck another barrage of bolts and missiles?
One of the sailors called out, " 'Tis no use, Captain. We're spent!" Others joined the chorus of defeatism: "They'll take us long ere we reach sanctuary…"
"Let's give up on terms…"
"Shut up, all of you!" said Barnevelt. "I got you out before…"
At that moment a sailor—not Zanzir, but an older and bigger fellow—began to harangue the crew. "This haughty captain cares nought for you, but only for his royal doxy. Let's throw them to the fish…"
Barnevelt at the start of this speech drew his sword and walked towards the man. The latter, hearing his approach, spun round and reached for his knife. Others among the crew did likewise.
Barnevelt made his last two steps running and, before the mutineer could either stab or throw, struck the side of his head with the flat of his rapier. The man staggered side-ways, across the deck, through the gap in the rail left by the galley's catapult missile, and over the side. Splash!
"Anybody else?" he asked the crew.
Nobody answered. He walked up and down the catwalk, peering at the rowers. One whom he judged to be shirking he whacked on the bare back with the flat of his sword.
"Lay into it, you!"
They passed a rock. Barnevelt said, "Chask, take the tiller. Put a couple of men in the bow to take soundings. I'll go aloft—oh-oh!"
"What, sir?"
"Our new rig has no ratlines. Get me a hammer, some spikes, and a length of rope."
Presently Barnevelt, his implements dangling from him, began to shinny up the mast. It was a foul job, since all he had to climb by were the rope rings holding the luff of the sail to the mast, and these provided poor purchase. When he was about two-thirds of the way up, he drove a couple of spikes into the.mast and looped his rope from them to make a crude boatswain's chair. Though neither safe nor comfortable, he could now at least judge depths from the varying shades of green of the water ahead. From behind came the thump and splash of the galley's oars.
"A point to port," he called down. "Little to starboard. Steady as you go…"
Any minute the ship might touch ground, probably snapping him off his perch. He kept peering for patches of dark water. A slight tidal current through the Strait to northward helped the Shambor along.
When he found a good channel, he snatched a look aft. The galley was still coming up, also picking its way, and a couple of hoda behind it came its sister ship. The cries of men taking soundings in the galley drifted up to the Shambor like an echo of the calls of her own leadsmen in the bow, except that the figures were different.
Barnevelt concentrated on a bad patch, where pale-green shoals seemed to block his way completely.
A sudden outburst of yells came up to his ears, "She's aground! The pirate ship has struck!"
Ha! he thought, his scheme had worked. Still he dared not take his eyes off the water ahead. He'd feel foolish indeed if he lured the pirate aground only to strand himself a minute later.
A jerk of the mast told him the Shambor had touched, too. "Pull hard!" he shouted. "A hair to starboard!"
The oars dug in and the Shambor came free. Ahead lay all the dark-green water anyone could ask.
Barnevelt drew a long breath and looked back again. The galley was backing water furiously, the sea foaming about her oar blades. Behind her the second galley, in response to flag signals, had turned to starboard and now showed her profile heading east.
Barnevelt guessed that the second ship had received orders to go around by the eastern channel and try to catch the Shambor in the Sadabao Sea. Therefore it would not do to sail blithely on for Qirib as if their worries were over. Once the second galley sighted them in the open sea, they'd be in the same fix as before, without any shallow strait or north wind to rescue them.
What the Shambor needed was a hiding place where the water supply could be replenished. The men were not exaggerating their exhaustion. Barnevelt's own throat felt like something dug out of an Egyptian tomb. If his own sailors for superstitious reasons were afraid to land on Fossanderan, the pirates would probably feel the same way.
He told Chask, "Hard to starboard, and find me a cove on the north side of Fossanderan that might be the mouth of a stream."
"But Captain…"
"That's where we're going!"
Chask, shaking his head, swung the ship east. As they emerged into the Sadabao Sea, the promontories of Fossanderan hid the stranded galley. The breeze freshened a little. Sailing with the wind on the beam, they made good time along the rocky, wooded shores.
After most of a Krishnan hour, Barnevelt said, "That looks like a good place; a little valley that ought to have a stream."
"Say not I failed to warn you, sir," said Chask, and turned the Shambor shoreward.
At once the men, who had been very quiet since the mutineer had fallen overboard, set up an outcry: "The haunted isle!"
"Our mad captain's taking us to the home of the demons!"
"All's lost!"
"He must be a demon himself!"
"Anywhere but that!"
"We'd liefer forgo water!"
Again Barnevelt faced them down, though the oarsmen relaxed their efforts until they were merely dipping their oars in the water. That, however, made little difference, because the breeze wafted them shoreward.
"The first man who backs water without orders," said Barnevelt, "gets this. Zeil Come out. We're going ashore. Get out the buckets."
The Shambor nosed gently into the embayment until tree branches swept the deck and swished against the rigging. Chask ordered the sail and the anchor dropped and then hurried forward. Barnevelt dropped off the bow into knee-deep water and caught Zei as she climbed down.
He shouted, "Fresh water!" and pointed to where a little trickly stream spread itself out thinly over a small sandy delta. The men scurried to the bow to leap off also, drink, and fill buckets for the ship's water tank, which they passed to others on deck. Although he was as thirsty as they, a quirk of vanity made Barnevelt hold off from drinking untl everyone else had done so. He turned a grin to Zei.
"We'll tell old Qvansel his three moons did save our skins— not by occult astrological forces, but by the good old force of gravity."
Chask came ashore last. He walked up to Barnevelt swinging an axe, and said, "I like this not, Captain. We should all be armed in case the beast-men appear. Yet with the crew in its present temper 'twere folly to serve out arms to 'em. Besides, we're low on stove wood, and methought…"