To discover the candles and light one with the tinderbox so that the porter might see the light through the windows was the work of a moment. Seconds later, Jolival was climbing the narrow spiral stair that led up from beside the doorway two steps at a time, with the vigor of a young man.
He knew where to find, in its niche beside the bell, an object of the greatest relevance to his present purpose. This was the telescope, used by the ambassador to survey the traffic of the harbor and also from time to time the movements of his diplomatic colleague and neighbor, his particular bete noire, the British ambassador.
The belfry was not very high but high enough in daylight for a person standing there to be able to see everything that was happening in the vicinity of the Tower of the Maiden. And by the time that Jolival arrived somewhat breathlessly at the top, the night was already beginning to pale.
A lighter strip was showing behind the hills of Scutari, as though the color were being leached out of the sky. Very soon the narrows would be visible but not yet. Jolival tucked the telescope under his arm and leaned against the wall, trying to master his impatience. The morning seemed unconscionably slow in coming.
Little by little, as if a curtain were rising very slowly on a new act in the theater, the majestic sweep of the Bosporus and the Golden Horn began to take shape out of the darkness, still clad in the gray light of early morning which made one color of the sky, with its hurrying shoals of wind-driven cloud, and the sea, with its watery clouds of foam flecking the surface.
Suddenly Jolival seized the telescope and clapped it to his eye with a joyful exclamation. Down below, near the little wooden fort that crowned the ruined tower, the Sea Witch was hoisting her sails. The foresail billowed out, followed by the jib. It was still blowing too hard for her to carry much sail.
"They've done it!" Jolival cried exultantly to himself. "They're away!"
It was true. In the gray light that was clearing and brightening with every second, the brig was veering gracefully, like a huge ghostly bird, setting her course for the open sea. But their bold stroke had not gone unnoticed, for Jolival heard the sound of a shot and saw the little puff of smoke break from the fort, so that it looked like a testy old man smoking a pipe. But the shot fell a long way short. The Sea Witch was already clear of the land and, scorning the efforts of her would-be keepers as contemptuously as the steep seas under her prow, was heading gloriously for the Sea of Marmara and freedom, with the stars of the United States climbing challengingly to her masthead.
Arcadius watched her for a little while with eyes that were full of tears and he was on the point of giving thanks for her escape when all of a sudden it happened… In a moment the sea was alive with sails: tall pyramids of white canvas sailing out from behind the Princes' Islands in line ahead. These were no xebecs or polaccas or any of those antiquated vessels which, however seaworthy, remained somehow pathetic. These were big, modern warships, well armed and formidable.
Jolival swore vigorously as he recognized them. A ship of the line, two frigates and three corvettes: Admiral Maxwell's squadron, moving out slowly, with the serenity of conscious power, to bar the way. What could Jason do, alone against six, even the smallest better armed than he?
Jolival saw that the brig was cramming on all sail regardless of the state of the wind and guessed that the American meant to try and make a run for it. He had the wind with him and by making skillful use of it a seaman of his quality might still succeed in giving his more powerful but less streamlined enemies the slip.
"He's mad," a voice said calmly at Jolival's side. "It takes a fine sailor to try a trick like that. It will be a pity if he runs her aground because she's a beautiful ship."
It was almost without surprise that Jolival looked around and saw the Comte de Latour-Maubourg, clad in dressing gown and nightcap and provided with another telescope, of which he appeared to possess something of a collection.
"He is a fine sailor," Jolival said. "But I've a nasty fear—"
"Me too! Because there's another thing—look there! The wind's changing… Ha, damnation! By God, what wretched luck!"
The ambassador was right. The Sea Witch's sails flapped suddenly and the vessel heeled over to the gale. Meanwhile, the English ships, which had been beating up-channel with the wind against them, now had the advantage of a following wind and were not slow to make use of it. Their tall black hulls seemed to leap over the troughs between the waves and they piled on more and more canvas as they prepared to run down the brig.
It looked as if Jason were bound to be captured. In a fight of one against six he was lost from the start and it was no longer possible for him to get up sufficient speed to outdistance his pursuers.
"But good God," Jolival muttered through clenched teeth, "what is the English squadron doing here at this of all moments? Have we been betrayed? Were they warned in advance?"
The ambassador's shortsighted eyes blinked at the vicomte in real surprise.
"Warned about what? What is this talk of a betrayal, my friend? Admiral Maxwell is on his way to the Black Sea for an inspection of the north coast harbors. The two frigates are going as escort but the corvettes will stop short at the entrance to the Bosporus."
"A tour of inspection? By an Englishman?"
The French ambassador gave vent to a deep sigh which culminated in a violent bout of coughing. He went very red in the face and vanished behind a huge handkerchief which he fished out of his dressing gown pocket. When the coughing had died down, he reappeared, still looking very flushed.
"Forgive me. I have a dreadful cold… But you were saying?"
"That it's queer to find an English squadron inspecting Ottoman defenses."
"My poor friend, can you tell me anything in these times that is not queer? Canning rules the seraglio and has the sultan in his pocket, because His Highness is relying on the English to help him bring about the great reforms he dreams of. He is also hoping for help from London in patching up some sort of decent peace with the tsar. In all of which we are very much in the way. All the old friendship is quite dead. I may well find myself persona non grata before long. The emperor has remembered us a little too late."
Being reluctant to become involved in a discussion of the international situation, Jolival put his telescope to his eye once more and uttered a startled cry. The Sea Witch had extricated herself from her predicament by going about and was now fleeing before the English under full sail, making up the Bosporus toward the Black Sea. Her topsails grew larger and more clearly visible in Jolival's glass.
Latour-Maubourg had also returned to his observation of the vessel's movements.
"May I ask whither she was bound?" he inquired.
"Charleston—in North Carolina."
"Hmm… she seems to be going the wrong way, then. I wonder what her captain hopes to find in the Euxine? I'll admit, though, you were quite right. He is a magnificent seaman."
"I'm wondering, too. Yet he must know it's a dead end. But I suppose he has no choice. It's that or see his ship taken and himself made prisoner. But I think he's simply hoping to scatter Maxwell's pack and try the passage again later, with a following wind."
"I agree. All the same, if I were he I'd haul down that American flag. It's asking for trouble. His only fear now is the guns of Rumeli Hissar."
The Sea Witch was now running fast before the wind and it was clear that she was not only managing to maintain her lead over her adversaries but was actually lengthening it appreciably. Of course, she still had to run the gauntlet of the old fortress which guarded the narrows…