“Fore capstan manned and ready, sir,” Lieutenant Westcott reported a few minutes later. “Messenger’s fleeted, and the nippers are standing by.”

“Very well, Mister Westcott, let’s have ’em breast to the bars at once. Once the bower’s free, I’ll have spanker, all jibs, and all stays’ls set t’get a way on her.” Lewrie ordered, “No music, mind! Let’s keep it as quiet as possible.”

There was supposed to be good holding ground off Tetuán, according to the Sailing Master’s books, so Sapphire had come to anchor in six fathoms of water, and had paid out a five-to-one scope, meaning the men at the capstan bars only had to haul in 180 feet of cable. It would not be noiseless, though. The capstan pawls clanked as loud as pistol-shots, the thick cable groaned as it came slowly in against the hawsehole’s lower rim, and even horny bare sailors’ feet drummed on the decks. Despite the need for quiet, the ship’s boy “nippers” just had to stumble and argue with each other as they dashed back and forth to nip the lighter messenger line to the cable, follow it near to the drum of the capstan, then dash to nip on again to seize onto a freshly-revealed length of cable. And the drumming of the mauls fleeting the messenger up the capstan drum put Lewrie in mind of a dance among the Muskogee Indians in Spanish Florida ages before!

“Short stays!” the word came from the forecastle, followed a very long moment later by “Up and down!” and a harsh voice up forrud calling for the Heavy Haul, for the hands to stamp and go!

“Anchor’s free, and haul away!” the Bosun cried.

“Make sail, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered. “Hands aloft to the tops’l yards.”

The stock of the bower anchor was snagged and “fished,” a fluke “catted” and men on the forecastle and weather deck walked away with the “fish,” then the “cat” to ring the anchor up to the out-jutting cat-head beam and swung it up for stowage, even as the ship began to get a slight way on her.

“No bite, sir!” Senior Quartermaster Marlowe reported from the double-wheel helm, turning spokes either way. “Her head’s fallin’ off to starboard. Sou’east.”

Aloft, tops’ls were being loosed and let fall, clew lines sang in the blocks to draw them down, and brace lines groaned through theirs. The wooden parrel balls squealed as the yards were braced round to cup wind in the sails, impossible to see, and only imagined in the mind by the sounds of sails pivotting on the masts, and the rustling of canvas.

“Answerin’ her helm, now, sir,” Marlowe announced, sounding relieved.

“Close-haul her ’til we get some speed,” Lewrie ordered. “A cast of the log!” A minute later and some Midshipman aft reported that the ship was making three knots; Lewrie could not differentiate who it was by the screech.

“Aloft, there! Lay out and free the fore course!” Westcott yelled. “Sorry about the shout, sir,” he apologised to a shadow on the quarterdeck he took for Lewrie. “Will you wish to tack or wear once we get some drive on her?”

“A wear’s safer, Mister Wesctott,” Lewrie replied. “Do we miss stays, those Spaniards will get clean away.”

Westcott took a long look aft towards Tetuán and must have reckoned that they were now better than a mile out to sea and out of ear-shot, for he yelled aloft for the main course to be freed and let fall. More rustling, groaning, and squealing resulted.

“Five knots, sir!” came the call from the chip-log tender.

“Stations to wear, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie snapped. “Thank God our night-time doings last Summer got the people used t’doing their duties in the dark.”

“Then I will not disappoint you with a description of what a muddle it was, sir,” Westcott teased. “Hands to sheets and braces! Prepare to wear ship!” he shouted.

Lewrie could not see the long commissioning pendant high aloft, but he could judge the direction and strength of the night winds by turning his face left and right; they were light but steady, coming from the East-Nor’east. A peek into the compass bowl confirmed that. Once fully about, the ship could jog towards Ceuta on a close reach, haul her wind to close the coast in pursuit of the Spaniards, and go “full and by” to clear the coast, later.

Unless it changes, Lewrie fretted to himself; Pray God that it don’t. Just a little help here, please Jesus?

“In all the rush, Mister Westcott, has anyone kept track of our Dons?” he asked. “Have they cleared the inlet?”

“Ehm … don’t know, sir,” Lt. Westcott had to confess.

Lewrie fumbled about for a night-glass at the binnacle cabinet and went up to the poop deck, leaving the wear to Westcott. He could see absolutely nothing! Tetuán lay astern, and there were some weak lights ashore there, but nothing moved across them; the harbour was asleep, with nothing moving. He peered urgently up the coast beyond the entrance to the inlet, knowing that there was solid land there, but it was invisible, and nothing moved in front of it … wait!

He was high enough above the sea to barely make out two tiny glows, about one cable apart. The Spanish had cleared the inlet and gotten to sea in total darkness just as Sapphire had, but they had to see their own compasses to avoid getting too close to shore and grounding. Their compass bowls were lit, but shrouded by cloth so the helmsmen could take a squint now and then!

“Got you, you bastards!” Lewrie growled, just as Sapphire began to put about.

*   *   *

Dhows with two large lateen sails could be fast, but Sapphire, under courses, tops’ls, spanker, and her stays’ls, had much more sail aloft, and she had a much longer waterline. The dhows might be sixty or seventy feet overall, but they were built with a lot of that length in bow and stern overhangs. Once Sapphire got a way on her, even in light night winds, she was a lot faster than their foes.

“All officers to the quarterdeck,” Lewrie called out, waiting for them to assemble. When they were all present, he amended his plans. “They’re over yonder, gentlemen, about a mile alee of us, three points off our larboard bows, and we’re closing on ’em. You can spot ’em by their compass bowl lights, a faint amber glow, with a flash now and then when they take a peek under a burlap covering. They look to be sailin’ close together, about a cable apart in line-ahead. I think we can close with both of ’em, about evenly ’twixt both, and open fire on them both at the same time, six-pounders and carronades on one, and the upper-deck twelve-pounders on the second, at a long musket-shot’s range. We’ll call on them to strike, close one, and board her, while we shoot the second to surrender, but it’ll have t’be quick, brutal, and overpowering. No boat-work tonight, sorry, Mister Harcourt, but we’ll save that for another day … or night, rather.”

“Work up ahead of the leader, then haul our wind and fall down with one on the bows, and the other abeam, sir?” Westcott said, getting it in one.

“Exactly, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said. “No pipes, again, and no bellowing or drumming, but let’s go to Quarters. Here are the keys to the arms lockers, sir.”

“Very good, sir,” Westcott said, accepting the keys.

“Now, let’s be at it,” Lewrie said.

While the two-decker rumbled to the tumult of hands turning out to man and load their guns, and the Marines assembled with their weapons on the sail-tending gangway on the larboard side, Lewrie went atop it all to the poop deck, where he could get a better view of the two Spanish vessels, where their shrouded compass binnacle glims showed more clearly. They were still sailing close together, the stern-most dhow about three points off the larboard bows, slowly sliding to four points as Sapphire’s greater speed out-paced the Spaniards.

God above, he told himself with a grin; we’re faster than somebody, at long last? Wonders never cease!