by nightfall and, if the wind were to back, might even break into the Thames estuary by dawn. But however handy the crew might be, it lacked practical sea time, and the brig's course through these crowded waters, in darkness and with no vessel showing running lights, would be fraught with danger. An awkward encounter with some wayward Englishman was the most likely hazard, but one had to bear in mind as well that Trafalgar had not swept the Channel clean of every mischievous predatory Froggy bottom.
The orders of Sir Hugh Abercrombie himself had forbidden Hoare ever, ever, to put to sea in Royal Duke, yet here they both were, by that same admiral's command, hard on the wind in mid-Channel, in the gathering darkness of a raw January night, a weakling at the mercy of all comers.
Having made his inquiry of Stone and issued certain corrective instructions, Hoare now removed to his truncated cabin and called for his silent servant Whitelaw. Unlike his master, Whitelaw had a perfectly healthy man's voice; he simply forbore to use it except in extreme need, a trait that Hoare found quite desirable in a captain's servant. Within two minutes and without orders, Whitelaw brought him a supper of soft bread, a chunk of hard cheese, and a few slices of ham, with a carafon of adequate Burgundy to wash it down. While consuming these, Hoare jotted down his rough log for the day. He read a scene or two of As You Like It in the selection of Shakespeare's works, which- with the chess set whose mysteries she had not yet had time to unlock for him-had been Eleanor's wedding gift. At last he disrobed, blew out the lamp, and turned in to his swinging cot.
On the larboard, windward side of the cabin, the enormous special chair that had been kept for Sir Hugh Abercrombie swayed gently in unison with the cot. To the sound of Royal Duke's quiet working and the occasional mutter of her sea-pigeons in their quarters of unearned privilege aft of the bulkhead, he fell asleep.
It seemed no more than a minute before the brig's change of course awakened him. For another minute he lay confused. He had been awakened at the climax of a highly erotic dream in which the body he embraced mingled Eleanor's firm roundness with the muscular limbs of Sarah Taylor. This must cease, he ordered himself as he swung his feet to the deck. The sound of Mr. Clay's roaring voice told him that his lieutenant was simply tacking ship; he supposed Clay had chosen to tack rather than wear, so as to give the watch the challenge of groping its way through the more difficult maneuver in the dark. The brig did not fall into irons but eased to an even keel and, with a slatting of canvas and a banging of blocks and Mr. Clay's great bellows, came 'round nimbly enough, falling off onto the larboard tack.
So far, so good. If he could put Royal Duke about in the dark with her half-trained crew, Clay was as good a seaman as himself. If not better, Hoare admitted. He should be as good, heaven knew. Clay had been at sea since boyhood without interruption, while Hoare had been shore-bound for eleven years. He feared he had lost the exquisite timing it took to execute even the basic maneuver Clay had just made. But the handling of small fore- and-aft-rigged craft, slooplings like his beloved pinnace Nemesis, now towing obediently behind Royal Duke, Hoare knew he still had no master.
Hoare thoughtfully dressed himself in the dark. He took down the superb set of French foul weather gear that he had brought aboard from the pinnace, donned it, and went on deck into the spitting midnight gloom.
'I was on the point of calling you, sir,' Mr. Clay said into his ear. 'The lookout in the fore crosstrees is sure he glimpsed the loom of some vessel to windward, off the larboard bow.'
'Hail him for details.'
'Deck there!' came the reply. 'She be about a cable's length to windward, steerin' the same course as we be! We be closing' on 'er fast!'
'Order silence aboard, Mr. Clay,' Hoare directed. 'Ease the spanker sheet and slack the main topsail braces. I don't want to run aboard of her until we know more about her, and I'd rather not call her attention to us.'
'Aye, aye, sir,' came Mr. Clay's acknowledgment; in a quiet voice, he gave the requisite commands. In response, Royal Duke's passage through the water slowed noticeably.
'How does she bear now?' This time, Clay's bellow was muted.
'Oldin' 'er own, sir!'
Hoare made a decision. He might have no voice, but his eyes were as keen as those of anyone aboard. He swung himself into the larboard main shrouds and swarmed up the ratlines as nimbly as Miss Austen would have. At least, he thought as he climbed, his cruises in Nemesis had left him hard-handed enough.
The lookout slid himself out onto the brig's fore crosstrees to accommodate the new arrival. He gave a startled grunt on seeing his skipper's face up here. Hoare could read his mind: 'Captain Oglethorpe, bless 'is ol heart, 'ud never 'a made it up 're wifout a block an' taykle.'
Sharp eyes or no, it took Hoare a good minute, even with the other's patient guidance, to find the stranger in the murk, but at last he had her. From all he could tell, she was a sharp-looking craft, a three-masted lugger with a topsail on her main. She looked at least as handy as the smuggler Fancy Hoare had seen founder off the Isle of Wight over a month ago. But her masts were more sharply raked, and there was that mizzen besides. There was something familiar about the rig.
'Frenchman, sir, or I miss me guess,' the lookout said.
'What makes you think so?' was Hoare's whispered question.
'Seen enough of'em in St. Malo 'arbor, sir, durin' the peace. Chaz Marie.'
Hoare was slow in understanding the man's word. Then it sank in. Chasse-maree was what he had said, mangling the French as every good Englishman should. The Chasse-maree, the 'tide-chaser,' was a fast French coaster, always lug-rigged, always three-masted.
'Smell 'er, sir? Only a Frenchman smells like that, or a Portygee. Garlic. An' she wouldn't be no Portygee, not in these waters. Besides, she don't pong of fish like a Portygee. No, sir, that's French cookin', or I'm a lobster.'
'Clever man.' Hoare could only agree. Now that the lookout mentioned it, even he could smell the rich scent of garlic, wine, and onions. The product of English sea-cooks was one thing, he thought sadly; French sea-cooking was another kettle offish entirely. And now he remembered who the lookout was: he was Danny Quill, an Irishman for all his Cockney speech, cook's mate.
'She'll be a privateer, sir,' Quill said, 'packed as full of Frogs as a keg of sardines.'
'I think you're right, Quill,' Hoare whispered. 'Keep a sharp eye out until you're relieved. Are you a good shot?' He had a mind to see a Frenchman served the way that unknown marksman had served him, those years ago.
'Not much of an 'and at musketry, sir, fer a fact. Need practice fer that.'
'Well, then, I'll have Leese send up one of his Marines to keep you company. I plan to put a spoke in that Frog's wheel.' So saying, Hoare grasped the main backstay to windward, preparatory to sliding down it to the deck.
' 'Ave 'im bring a spare musket with 'im, sir,' Quill suggested. 'Oo knows, I might strike it lucky.'
'Aye, aye,' Hoare answered, and let himself slide. He slid prudently, having seen more than one rash young man peel the skin off his palms on the harsh, tarred cordage of a backstay, just by the sliding.
'Call all hands, Mr. Clay, to quarters,' he ordered once on deck, his hands burning a trifle despite his care. 'But quietly, man, understand?'
How Clay was to manage preparing the brig for battle quietly was something he decided to leave to the lieutenant.
'Aye, aye, sir,' said Clay, quietly, and did as Hoare had ordered. Silently, the Royal Dukes collected at their stations. The stranger's loom was ever so slightly greater.
Hoare knew what his next order must be, and his heart sank.
'And let Nemesis slip,' he said. Towing behind Royal Duke as she was, she could only hold the brig back. Then he added, 'Belay that. I'll do it myself.'
Every man, he thought, should be man enough to shoot his own dog at need, or-if, like himself, he had no dog, at least to let go of his private bark, at need. He stepped to the taffrail and cast his sweetheart's towline off the cleat to which she had been made fast. As he watched, she disappeared astern in the mid-Channel gloom.
'Have the gunners load with chain shot, and run out the guns,' Hoare now ordered. 'When I whistle, they are to fire. High. High, Mr. Clay!' Clay relayed Hoare's order. All too well, Hoare knew the propensity for even trained gunners to hull the enemy whenever possible, the hull being the most massive target and the place where humans could be hit. Aiming high to disable was a foreign trick; hulling was the English way, and it generally worked. But if this craft was what he thought she was, he had no vestige of hope either of unmanning her or fleeing.
Now, how to assure himself absolutely of the other craft's nationality? It was all very well for Quill's culinary nose to identify her as a Frenchman, and the distinctive Chasse-maree brig could belong to a prize. How to smoke
