They were less than twenty miles south of Charlestown with the American continent a black line on the horizon. The three ships rolled on a slow, heavy swell and such that even hardened seamen felt the motion, and the Patanq warriors hung groaning over the rail, heaving up their guts to King Neptune.
Selena, now in her boots, breeches and shirt, with pistols in her belt and a scarf round her hair, stood beside Flint, who was looking back towards Charlestown.
"Let's see," he said, "we've just struck two bells of the first dog watch. That's about twelve hours from the turn of the tide we came out on, and the next tide is on the ebb in Charlestown harbour. That means — if Mr Pimenta's kept his word — they should be bellowing like bulls aboard Scott- Owen's squadron, and the bosun's mates laying on with rope ends. Then, once they've cleared the harbour, they'll stop every ship they meet to enquire after our course."
"But we've escaped," she said. "They can't catch us now."
"D'you think so, my chickie? You don't know the navy."
Nothing happened for hours. The day passed. Dinner was served. The Patanq were too sick to eat but got drunk on the grog. The seamen waved and shouted from one ship to another. Night came. Men slept. And then the dawn came up with just the present Flint didn't want.
"There they are, Cap'n," said the lookout, a Cornishman named Penrose.
Flint, having made the climb to the maintop, braced himself on the swaying, heaving platform high above the deck, and let go with both hands for a good look through his telescope.
"Damnation," he said. There were two… three… no… four of them, under every stitch they could set, and the sails hanging slack and barely filling. But they had a bit of wind and were still moving. Scott-Owen's squadron was coming after Joe Flint.
"I'd say they're ten mile astern of us, Cap'n," said the lookout, "makin' a couple o' knots at most. If you ask me, Cap'n…"
"Penrose, would you prefer the deck or the sea?" said Flint, not taking the telescope from his eye.
"What?" said the lookout.
"Shall I throw you to the deck or into the sea?"
Penrose gulped. This was the old Flint, all right. Penrose took care to say nothing more and was exceedingly wise to do so. Flint ignored him, then went swiftly down the shrouds to give his orders. But he was intercepted.
"Flint," said Dreamer, coming on to the quarterdeck with Dark Hand at his side and many of his men behind him.
"Not now," said Flint.
"Now," said Dreamer. Flint looked at the tall, stern figures. Like Captain Foster of Lucy May, he was no longer master of his ship.
"What is it?" snapped Flint.
"What is happening?" said Dreamer. "You are afraid."
"Damned if I am!"
"Then why do you look back in fear?"
"It's the blasted Royal Navy, that never blasted gives up."
"So they follow us?"
"Yes."
"Will they catch us?"
Flint blinked and thought of pistolling the savage, or cutting him down.
"Dreamer," he said, barely in control of himself, "there are things I must do, ship's things. I have no time to talk. You must trust me."
Dreamer looked at him, considered the words, remembered where he was, and nodded and stood aside.
Flint instantly set to work. Walrus's two boats were swung out to warn Hercules and Sweet Anne of what must be done. The ships would have to be taken in tow by their boats. Thus, on their return, Walrus's boats were packed with round-shot to give them weight, and double-manned. Then a towline was passed from the ship's bowsprit to the cutter, and another from the cutter to the launch. Then the launch pulled ahead of the cutter and the cutter pulled ahead of the launch… till boats and ship were nicely in line and the towlines tightened.
"Now, my boys, my jolly boys," said Allardyce in the cutter, "give way together — now! Heave, me buckos, heave away! Heave, me buckos, heave away!"
Hercules and Sweet Anne likewise rigged for towing. Soon there were dozens of men swaying under a hot sun in six boats, sweating rivers, cracking muscles and succeeding — on the uttermost limit of what human strength could achieve — in hauling a combined burden of three ships and nearly seven hundred tons, at a pitiful crawl across a flat sea. But at least they were moving.
"How long can they keep that up?" said Selena.
"Till they drop," said Flint. "Then I'll change the crews. All hands must take their part, and God help him that doesn't!"
It went on for hours. The boats' crews did indeed pull till they dropped. They had to, and they knew it. There was a hanging looming for every man aboard if the navy caught them, so they pulled to exhaustion. Then more crews took their places and they pulled until they dropped. And so on.
But it didn't stop the pursuit. The squadron still had a breath of wind and came up over the horizon: first white canvas, then as black hulls, and finally whole fighting ships in all their complexity of rigging and gear.
So it continued for hours, with the men-o-war steadily closing and all those not undergoing torture in the boats crowding the sterns of the fleeing ships, measuring distance, guessing times and calling on seaman's lore to send a wind. One tried a little too hard: Penrose the Cornishman, an expert on such matters.
"Don't worry lads," he said, "I've stuck me knife in the mainmast, which is sure to fetch a wind."
"Shouldn't we whistle for one?" said one of his mates.
"No!" said Penrose, with profound seriousness. "On'y the boys must whistle, not the men, and never a landman — " he looked uneasily at the Indians "- like them buggers" he whispered. "Don't want none o' them doin' it, or we'll get a soddin' hurricane!"
"What about throwin' a coin overboard?"
"Aye," said Penrose, "that's good!"
"Mr Penrose," said Flint, "will you be so good as to keep your thoughts private?"
He said it quietly. He didn't shout. But those that knew him should have taken heed, for Flint was under tremendous stress: the frigate alone could pulverise Walrus and her companions, never mind the sloops.
"Aye-aye, sir!" said Penrose, but his mates were around him and encouraging him, and Penrose had never been one of the sharpest hands aboard, so the talk continued in hissing whispers.
"What about an' old broom? I've heard that if we throws one over…"
"No," said Penrose, "only the head, you lubber. You throws the head in the direction you wants the wind to come from. Only the head."
Flint punched through the crowd. He ran to the mainmast arms rack. He snatched a boarding axe. He ran back. He grabbed Penrose by the hair, kicked his legs away, threw him over, and swung the axe thumping down on his neck. The axe was blunt. It took many blows, and finally the bone wouldn't part except by Flint dropping the axe and twisting two-handed to a sharp, nauseous… snap! Then he stood up, blooded to the elbows. He raised the dripping horror for all to see, and hurled it over the side.
"Is there any other man," he cried, "that wishes to summon the wind?"
There was not. Indeed there was not. The crew, like Selena, were sickened and terrified, and none dared meet Flint's eyes. But the Patanq were tremendously impressed. They were even more impressed when the sacrifice, while not bringing wind upon Flint's ships, took it away from the pursuers, who had to launch boats and begin their own long tow.