"We also will get under way, if you please, Master Ned!" Sir Francis said. "Up with her anchor."

The galleon bore away from the African coast, heading into the south. From the masthead where Hal crouched the Lady Edwina was still in plain view. The smaller vessel was standing out to clear the treacherous shoals of the Agulhas Cape, before coming around to run before the wind down to the Dutch fort below the great table-topped mountain that guarded the south-western extremity of the African continent.

As Hal watched, the silhouette of the caravel's sails altered drastically. He leaned out and shouted down, "The Lady Edwina is altering course."

"Where away?" his father yelled back.

"She's running free," Hal told him. "Her new course looks to be due west."

She was doing precisely what they expected of her. With the south-easter well abaft her beam, she was now heading directly for Good Hope.

"Keep her under your eye."

As Hal watched her, the caravel dwindled in size until her white sails merged with the tossing manes of the wind driven white horses on the horizon.

"She's gone!" he shouted at the quarterdeck. "Out of sight from here!" Sir Francis had waited for this moment before he brought the galleon around onto her true heading. Now he gave the orders to the helm that brought her around towards the east, and she went back on a broad reach parallel with the African coast. "This seems to be her best point of sailing," he said to Hal, as his son came down to the deck after being relieved at the masthead. "Even with her jury-rigging, she's showing a good turn of speed. We must get to know the whims and caprice of our new mistress. Make a cast of the log, please."

With the glass in hand, Hal timed the wooden log on its reel, dropped from the bows on its journey back along the hull until it reached the stern. He made a quick calculation on the slate, and then looked up at his father. "Six knots through the water."

"With a new mainmast she will be good for ten. Ned Tyler has found a spar of good Norwegian pine stowed away in her hold. We will step it as soon as we get into port." Sir Francis looked delighted: God was smiling upon them. "Assemble the ship's company. We will ask God's blessing on her and rename her."

They stood bare-headed in the wind, clutching their caps to their breasts, their expressions as pious as they could muster, anxious not to attract the disfavour of Sir Francis.

"We thank you, Almighty God, for the victory you have granted us over the heretic and the apostate, the benighted followers of the son of Satan, Martin Luther."

"Amen!" they cried loudly. They were all good Anglicans, apart from the black tribesmen among them, but these Negroes cried, "Amen!" with the rest. They had learned that word their first day aboard Sir Francis's ship.

"We thank you also for your timely and merciful intervention in the midst of the battle and your deliverance of us from certain defeat. -" Hal shuffled in disagreement, but without looking up. Some of the credit for the timely intervention was his, and his father had not acknowledged this as openly.

"We thank you and praise your name for placing in our hands this fine ship. We give you our solemn oath that we will use her to bring humiliation and punishment upon your enemies. We ask your blessing upon her. We beg you to look kindly upon her, and to sanction the new name which we now give her. From henceforth she will become the Resolution."

His father had simply translated the galleon's Dutch name, and Hal was saddened that this ship would not bear his mother's name. He wondered if his father's memory of his mother was at last fading, or if he had some other reason for no longer perpetuating her memory. He knew, though, that he would never have the courage to ask, and he must simply accept this decision.

"We ask your continued help and intervention in our endless battle against the godless. We thank you humbly for the rewards you have so bountifully heaped upon us. And we trust that if we prove worthy you will reward our worship and sacrifice with further proof of the love you bear us."

This was a perfectly reasonable sentiment, one with which every man on board, true Christian or pagan, could be in full accord. Every man devoted to God's work on earth was entitled to his rewards, and not only in the life to come. The treasures that fitted the Resolution's holds were proof and tangible evidence of his approval and consideration towards them.

"Now let's have a cheer for Resolution and all who sail in her." and Sir Francis They cheered until they were boars silenced them at last. He replaced his broad-brimmed Hat and gestured for them to cover their heads. His expression became stern and forbidding. "There is one more task we have to perform now," he told them, and looked at Big Daniel. "Bring the prisoners on deck, Master Daniel."

Sam Bowles was at the head of the forlorn file that came up from the hold, blinking in the sunlight. They were led facing the ship's company. aft and forced to kneel, Sir Francis read their names from the sheet of parchment he held up. "Samuel Bowles. Edward Broom. Peter Law. Peter Miller. John Tate. You kneel before your shipmates accused of cowardice and desertion in the face of the enemy, and dereliction of your duty."

The other men growled and glared at them.

"How say You to these charges? Are you the cowards and traitors we accuse you of being?" "Mercy, your grace!" Truly we repent. Forgive us, we beg you for the sakes of our wives and the sweet babes we left at home," Sam Bowles pleaded as their spokesman.

"The only wives you ever had were the trulls in the bawdy houses of Dock Street," Big Daniel mocked him, and the crew roared. Let's watch them "String them up at the yard-arm! dance a little jig to the devil."

"Shame on you!" Sir Francis stopped them. What kind of English justice is this? Every man, no matter how base, is entitled to a fair trial." They sobered and he went on. "We will deal with this matter in proper order. Who brings these charges against them?"