“Mr. Wesley,” Bishop called softly. The midshipman came running. “Take this glass to the masthead and report.”
“Aye, sir.”
Captain Seward, rocking on his heels and staring out at the fog, stood with his hand fidgeting behind his back. “It looks promising so far, doesn’t it, Mr. Bishop?”
“It does indeed, sir. The fog will help hide us all the more.”
“What do you think now, helmsman?” the captain asked Wyatt.
“I think I’ll wait for Mr. Wesley’s report. If you don’t mind, sir.”
Seward folded his arms in irritation and began to pace, his short legs and plump belly doing little to impart the vision of a commanding figure.
Wesley reached the masthead and extended the glass.
“Well?” Seward called aloud, his impatience getting the better of him.
“I can’t tell, sir. The fog is too thick.”
“They say the Dacca can use magic to raise a fog when they want,” Poe whispered to Hadrian as they watched. “They’re likely using it to sneak up on us.”
“Or maybe it’s just because the air is cooler this morning,” Hadrian replied.
Poe shrugged.
The crew stood around, silent and idle, for an hour before Mr. Temple ordered Hadrian to serve the morning meal. The men ate, then wandered the deck in silence, like ghosts in a misty world of white. The midday meal came and went as well, with no break in the mist that continued to envelop them.
Hadrian had just finished cleaning up when he heard Wesley’s voice from the masthead shout, “Sail!”
Emerging from the hold, Hadrian felt a cool breeze as a wind moved the fog, parting the hazy white curtains veil after veil.
The single word left everyone on edge.
“Good Maribor, man!” Seward shouted up. “What kind of sail?”
“Red lateen sails, sir!”
“Damn!” Seward cursed. “How many?”
“Five!”
“Five? Five! How could there be five?”
“No, wait!” Wesley shouted. “Six to windward! And three more coming off the port bow.”
The captain’s face drained of color. “Good Maribor!”
Even as he spoke, Hadrian spotted the sails clustered on the water.
“Orders, Captain?” Wyatt asked.
Seward glanced around him desperately. “Mr. Bishop, lay the ship on the port tack.”
Wyatt shook his head defiantly. “We need to grab the wind.”
“Damn you!” Seward hesitated only a moment, then shouted, “So be it! Hard aport, helmsman. Bring her around, hard over!”
Wyatt spun the wheel, the chains cranking the rudder so that the ship started to turn. Mr. Temple barked orders to the crew. The Emerald Storm was sluggish, stalling in the futile wind. The ship slowed to a mere drift. Then the foresail fluttered, billowed, and started to draw, coming around slowly. The yards turned as the men ran aft with the lee braces. The mainsail caught the breeze and blew full. The ship creaked loudly as the masts took up the strain.
The Storm picked up speed and was halfway round and pointed toward the coast. Still, Wyatt held the wheel hard over. The wind pressed the sails and leaned the ship, dipping the beam dangerously low. Spray broke over the rail as men grabbed hold of whatever they could to remain standing as the deck tilted steadily upward. The captain glared at Wyatt as he grabbed hold of the mizzen shroud, yet he held his tongue.
Letting the wind take the ship full on with all sails set, Wyatt pressed the wheel, raising the ship on its edge. Bishop and Temple glanced from Wyatt to the captain and back again, but no one dared give an order in the captain’s presence.
Hadrian also grabbed hold of a rail to keep from slipping down the deck. Holding tight, he worried that Wyatt might capsize the ship. The hull groaned from the strain, the masts creaked with the pressure, but the ship picked up speed. At first it bucked through the waves, sending bursts of spray over the deck, then faster it went until the Storm skipped the waves, flying off the crests with the wind squarely on its aft quarter. The ship made its tight circle and at last Wyatt let up, leveling the deck. The ship fell in direct line with the wind and the bow rose as the Storm ran with it.
“Trim the sails,” the lieutenant ordered. The men set to work once more, periodically glancing astern to watch the approach of the ships.
“Mr. Bishop,” Seward called. “Disburse weapons to the men and issue an extra ration of grog.”
Royce was on his way aloft as the larboard crew came off duty. “How long do you think before they catch us?” he asked Hadrian, looking aft at the tiny armada of red sails chasing their wake.
“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. What do you think?”
Royce shrugged. “A few hours maybe.”
“It’s not looking good, is it?”
“And you wanted to be a sailor.”
Hadrian went about the business of preparing for the evening meal, mindful that it might be the last the men would have. Poe, conspicuously absent, hastily entered the galley.
“Where you been?”
Poe looked sheepish. “Talking to Wyatt. Those Dacca ships are gaining fast. They’ll be on us tonight for sure.”