“Oh, I see, sir,” Harcourt said, crestfallen at the delay.

He’s a damned good sailor, a good officer, but my Lord, he’s a dullard! Lewrie thought.

“The Spanish have long experience with lateen-rigged vessels,” Lewrie said to fill the time ’til the Purser arrived. “Picked ’em up from the Moors, and built their war-galleys on the designs of xebecs. When we were chasin’ privateers off Cuba a couple of years ago, they were a common sight along the coast.”

“Indeed, sir,” Harcourt said, with a brow up as if he felt that his leg was being pulled. “But only ’til they learned the advantages of square-rigged ships, I’d imagine.”

“You’ve never seen a lateener thrash to windward, closer than any of our ships could sail,” Lewrie countered.

Thump-crash of musket butt and boots. “Th’ Pusser t’see th’ Cap’m, SAH!” from the Marine sentry.

“Enter!” Lewrie called out, glad of the interruption.

“You sent for me, sir?” Mister Cadrick, their paunchy Purser, said, stepping inside with his hat in his hands. He was as well-fed and sleek as a tavernkeeper, and had always made Lewrie think that he ran a prosperous “fiddle,” no matter how well his books balanced.

“What did we buy ashore, Mister Cadrick?” Lewrie asked. “And, do we have to await delivery?”

“An hundredweight of flour, sir,” Cadrick easily ticked off, “two bullocks, four sheep, a dozen chickens, and small lots of goods for the wardroom, mostly coffee beans, spices, and fruit. Neither your cook nor your steward made any requests, else I would have gotten some items for your needs, sir.”

“How long before the goods come aboard, Mister Cadrick?” Lewrie asked him.

“A-rabs have their own sense of time, sir,” Cadrick said with a dismissive laugh. “Inshallah, they say, ‘God willing,’ which I took for sometime in the afternoon, perhaps by the start of the First Dog.”

“Stringy bullocks, most-like?” Lewrie wondered aloud. “That means those two will only make one meal for a crew this size. Hmm, slaughterin’ ’em, carvin’ ’em into eight-pound chunks for each mess, and the pumpin’ and sluicin’ the decks clean, after … We’ll remain at anchor overnight, then, keepin’ a close-eyed watch on those Spanish boats in the harbour, and that damned Corsair.”

“Very good, sir,” Cadrick said, bobbing his head. “Would you be interested in some of the goods, sir? There are dates, honey, and coffee beans, some of that couscous—”

“A bit of each, sir … along with a good-sized beef steak,” Lewrie said, perking up.

“A pound of dates, a crock of honey, and say, a five-pound bag of coffee beans, for … oh … two pounds, sir?” Cadrick said, looking crafty.

“Sounds good, Mister Cadrick,” Lewrie agreed, sure that he was being over-charged, even so. “You may go, and thankee. Don’t forget the steak!”

“We won’t act tonight, sir?” Lt. Harcourt asked, disappointed.

“If the winds allow, we’ll up-anchor round two in the morning, hopefully as quiet as mice, Mister Harcourt,” Lewrie told him. “And hope to be off Ceuta’s piers, close to the coast, just before dawn.”

“Then the boat-work, and cutting-out parties, sir?” Harcourt asked, perking up at the hint of action.

“Hopefully, sir,” Lewrie told him. “Once the bullocks’ve been slaughtered, and the decks are clean, I’ll send for all officers, and we’ll thrash things out together.”

“Very good, sir!” Lt. Harcourt said, taking his leave.

Lewrie bent over the desk, ready to go to the chart room for another peek at the old chart of the North African coast, but halted. Something in Midshipman Fywell’s rough sketches caught his eyes, something he’d missed the first time round.

“Just damn my eyes!” he spat as he shuffled through them.

Fywell’s quick pencilled impressions of the suspected Corsair showed a three-masted xebec, and the two Spanish “boats” that Harcourt had described as feluccas were not small single-masted lateeners, but two-masted dhows, much bigger than little feluccas! The figures that Fywell had shown on their decks made him think that both were about sixty or seventy feet in length, which left bags of room aboard for crews large enough to put up a stiff resistance to any attempt at boarding them, even in the wee hours.

It was like mistaking a brig for a gig!

Scheme yer way outta this, ye damned fool! Lewrie chid himself.

He’d promised action by dawn, and should it have to be abandoned, or attempted and result in failure, he’d look like the biggest idiot in all Creation!

CHAPTER NINE

He’d dined alone after the long meeting with Lieutenants Westcott, Harcourt, and Elmes, and Marine Lieutenants Keane and Roe. The steak was fresh and juicy, though a bit tough going. Yeovill found some wrinkled old potatoes, had cut out the bad bits, and made him a spicy hash, with some chick peas and flat local bread, all sloshed down with a very passable Spanish red. Yeovill had done an appetiser with the chick peas, sesame oil, lemon juice, and garlic in which he could dip shreds of the bread, something Arabic he called hummus. A few of the preserved pitted dates made a superbly sweet pudding, too.

Chalky was not deprived, either, getting hashed potatoes along with some steak ground after roasting to manageable bites, while Bisquit got strips of meat, and a meaty bone to gnaw after, so he didn’t go after Chalky’s bowl.

After a turn on deck in the cool darkness, a look at the sky, and an observation of the night’s moon, Lewrie determined that their attempt might be disguised ’til the last moment. The moon had risen just at dusk, and would be almost below the horizon by three in the morning. There was a slight overcast by the end of the First Dog Watch at 6 P.M., which might thicken during the night. The Sailing Master, Mr. Yelland, had cautiously concurred.

By nine in the evening, Sapphire went dark. Her Master-At-Arms, Mr. Baggett, and his Ship’s Corporals, Wray and Packer, had gone round ordering the extinguishing of all candles, lanthorns, and glims belowdecks, and the soft amber glows from the gun-ports opened for fresh air disappeared. Below the thick bulwarks, and hopefully out of sight, there remained one tiny glim up by the forecastle belfry so a ship’s boy could see his sand-glasses and ring the bells at the proper time, and one glim in the compass binnacle cabinet. Out of the ordinary, and also hopefully un-noticed by anyone ashore, the large taffrail lanthorns were not lit. Sapphire was a black mass in a night as black as a boot.

Lewrie napped in his darkened cabins, fully-clothed upon his settee, not sleeping exactly, for his mind was going like a galloping Cambridge coach. He might have drifted off for ten minutes at a stretch, at best, before a new worry arose, snapping him back awake. Midnight’s Eight Bells were struck, beginning the long, dark Middle Watch. He did drift off and missed the single stroke of half-past midnight, but came round as Two Bells was struck at 1 A.M. A moment later, and there was a knock on his door.

“Midshipman Hillhouse, sir!” the Marine sentry called out, much softer than usual.

“Enter!” Lewrie called back, rising from his impromptu bed.

“Sir, those two Spanish boats are moving!” Hillhouse said in an excited rush as he entered the cabins. “The lookouts spotted them just this instant, coming down the inlet from the quays against the few lights burning in the town.”

“No pipes, Mister Hillhouse, pass the word for All Hands, and take stations to raise the anchor!” Lewrie told him in a conspiratorial whisper. “Off ye go, instanter!”

“Aye aye, sir!”

Belowdecks, the Bosun and his Mates would be rousing sailors from their hammocks and urging them to the fore capstan, where the long bars had been shipped in place before Lights Out, surely a give-away to one and all that something out of the ordinary would happen; else, hunting them up and shipping them into the pigeon-holes and the drop-bolts fitted, and the light “swifter” line passed through the outer ends of the bars, much less finding the mauls to fleet the messenger cable round the capstan drum, would have been chaos in the dark.