their attention. But the pirates had needed no such enticements; the Algerine had come on with a will, all three lateen sails swelling out, as if straining to reach the little fishing boat ahead of the rest of the xebec.
To whet their appetite for the kill, and to make their speedy closing of the ship-to-ship gap seem natural, Miro had instructed his crew to undo two sets of the lacings that held the scialuppa ’s own lateen-rigged sail to its gaff. That modification nicely mimicked the look and effect of damage to the triangular sail, which even now flapped fitfully up near the gaff tip, spilling wind.
The Algerine had maneuvered as anticipated. Enjoying the windward position, she used some of her superior speed to move out from a stern chase and set herself up on the fishing boat’s starboard aft quarter. This allowed the Algerine to shepherd the scialuppa closer against Monte Cristo, on their port side. And if the fishing boat now tried fleeing into the open water to starboard, she’d be putting herself directly in the path of the faster xebec, which would be sure to cut her off.
Miro watched the range close, reassessed their course, and said, as Harry came back from peering under the tarp at the rear of the boat, “They mean to chase us into Cala Maestra. I’m sure of it, given the way they’re starting to crowd us now.”
“Well, sure, Estuban; they know these waters, too.”
Miro smiled. “If they didn’t, I’m not sure how well this plan would work.” He noticed that the Piombinesi amongst the rowers were starting to push the pace against the resistance of the crew from the barca-longa. “Steady pace, not too hard,” Miro ordered calmly. “You’ll have need of your strength in a bit.”
Harry, distracted by a rough mechanical sputter from beneath the tarp hanging over the aft port quarter, now looked back up the mast to where the halyard attached to the boom. “So is our rigged rigging ready?”
“Indeed it is,” answered Miro, who, making sure his back was completely to the Algerine, slipped his binoculars out of their case and focused on where the inlet’s high, hump-backed southern headland-Punta Maestra- rose up out of the water. The naked weather-worn rocks at its lower fringe quickly disappeared beneath the scrub growth that steadily increased in density up the slope. He tracked the lenses farther up the side of the headland, carefully studying every shrub and rock-cast shadow until he found what he was looking for at its crest: a pair of binocular lenses looking back at him.
“Does Don Estuban see us, Colonel?” asked Orazio Porfino, a young relative of the Piombinese captain Aurelio. In this case, a relative from a very distant branch of their tortuously intertwined family trees.
“I imagine so,” responded Thomas North, “since he’s smiling, now. Are we ready, Mr. Porfino?”
“Yes sir, all ready.”
Thomas grunted. Perhaps they were ready. And perhaps, if he looked up, he’d see a winged pig fly past. But scanning down the slope, he could see nothing amiss-which meant that he saw nothing other than shrubs, rocks, and shadows. He raised his binoculars to quickly scan the lesser slope on the opposite, northern side of the Cala Maestra inlet. Nothing to be seen there, either. Hmm. Well, so far, no one had cocked up the plan. But then again, the day was young.
North leaned backward carefully, staying well within the shadow of the long pillow of rock which crested the signal point of the headland and which he had made his command post. Thomas’ slight change in position afforded him a view into the much smaller inlet that flanked the Punta Maestra on its south side, the Cala Santa Maria inlet. The water was a lighter blue, since the inlet was shallower and narrower-but was still large enough to conceal the crowded barca-longa, and the more normally crewed gajeta just behind her.
Looking up at him from the barca-longa was a very white face with very red hair and beard: Owen Roe O’Neill, watching for the next signal. Around Owen were all the present members of the Wrecking Crew-save Harry-and Owen’s own Wild Geese. The running crew were well supplemented with Piombinese fishermen, all gesticulating, talking-but, with a look from Dr. Connal, they fell silent, shushing each other fiercely. All of which North saw as a mime-show; from this distance, the only sounds were the waves and the wind moaning softly through the scrub.
Owen’s face never looked away.
North nodded and looked over his shoulder at the approaching scialuppa and the xebec angling in from the open water, which either meant to push the smaller boat upon the rocks or into the Cala Maestra inlet. He looked back down toward the barca-longa, speaking over his shoulder to his adjutant: “Four minutes or less, now, Mr. Porfino. Show Colonel O’Neill two green pennons.”
“Yes, sir,” and the young Piombinese did as he was told.
Owen nodded, gave a sharp order. In the bows of the barca-longa, one white and one black pennon were raised in answer.
“Message received and understood,” translated Orazio.
“Very well. Is everything else in readiness, Mr. Porfino?”
“Yes, sir. Our sniper just signaled from his blind across the Cala Maestra; he’s waiting for our signals, sir.”
North nodded his acknowledgement and raised his binoculars to take one last look at Miro and Lefferts.
Miro replaced his binoculars in their case, and turned. The pirate was only two hundred yards off, now, and gaining rapidly.
“Signor Miro,” said the senior sailor at the tiller, “we have no choice; the Algerine will push us on the rocks if we do not veer to port, toward Cala Maestra.”
As it to encourage compliance with that navigational imperative, Miro heard two pops above the chop of oars and the rustle of the faltering sail. Puffs of smoke marked the sounds’ origins on the xebec’s long stern overhang; a moment later, two splashes marred the swells approximately ten yards starboard of the scialuppa ’s stern.
“They’re firing,” commented a fisherman/rower redundantly, sweat starting out on his lip. Next to him, one of the veteran crew from the barca-longa rolled his eyes and simply hunched lower over his oar. Within moments, the other Piombinese fishermen were all aping the actions of the combat-experienced sailors of the Adriatic, except that their eyes were still wide and desperate. But they’d hold together for another few minutes-which was all that was required.
Orazio’s voice was tense. “The scialuppa is entering the inlet now, sir. The xebec is a minute behind, no more.”
North nodded sharply. “Time to show Colonel O’Neill the red flag, Mr. Porfino. Let’s get our bull charging toward the ring.” He raised his up-time starter’s whistle, clamped it between his teeth and watched the xebec bear down upon the scialuppa.
“Colonel O’Neill! A red-”
“I see it, Turlough. Captain, get us moving. Best speed.”
As two halyards creaked in unison and the yards tilted to catch what breeze they could, the oars, six on each board, rose to readiness, and then, at the order of the coxswain, dipped down and cut deep into the gentle swells of the Cala Santa Maria inlet.
The barca-longa surged against the current and wind, and began making northwest for the southern tip of the Punta Maestra headland.
Three musket balls whined off the rocky slope that marked the Cala Maestra inlet’s northern extent. Another one went through the sail, not more than two feet over their ducked heads. Miro checked the rear: Harry was smiling forward at him, hands ready on the tarp. “Steersman,” shouted Miro above the oars, wind, and flap of the luffing sail, “as the rowers bring us into the Cala Maestra, keep us within five yards of the rocks on the northern side.”
“What? Why?”
“Hugging the side of the inlet will conceal us for a few seconds.”
Just then the sail began to luff less, sagging instead as they passed into the lee of the northern slope and the wind began to die. Well, nothing to lose and no time to waste, thought Miro, who reached up, yelled “Watch out!” and tugged on the lead line of the closer of the two knots belaying the yard’s halyard.
With the knot undone, the yard suddenly had four feet of slack; it fell swiftly, stopping within five feet of the deck. The lateen fell in folds, mostly over the bow. A loud cheer went up from the xebec just as the scialuppa ’s course took it out of the pirate’s line of sight.
“Oars, all speed; get us distance!” Miro shouted. “Pilot, prepare to bring us about to leave the same way we came in.” He looked aft toward Lefferts. “Harry, it’s all your show, now. Pull the tarp and wait for my signal.”
As Miro’s small boat surged forward, North watched the xebec add oars to full sails and angle toward Cala
