‘Where’s our petty officer?’ asked Jezreel.
‘He went below ten minutes ago,’ answered Dan.
‘Probably seeking his bottled comfort.’ The petty officer in charge of the watch, an elderly Dane by the name of Jens Iversen, was a notorious tippler. His clothes reeked of alcohol and tobacco.
‘Jacques will lose a day’s pay over this,’ observed Dan. Iversen was a very zealous employee of the Company. He would consider it worth reporting Jacques’ lateness to the Carlsborg’s captain so that even the paltry sum of a deckhand’s daily wage could be trimmed from the vessel’s operating costs.
Dan cocked his head on one side. He had heard something. ‘Sounds like the Revenge is lowering a boat. Maybe that’s Jacques on his way back now.’ He went to the starboard rail and leaned out so that he could see more easily down the length of the ship. The squeal of blocks came clearly over the water. A few moments later there were shouted orders, then several blasts on a whistle.
‘That’s odd,’ observed Hector. ‘It’s more like a ship getting under way. Dan, can you make out what’s happening?’
A shift of wind caught the Carlsborg so that the Danish vessel swung on her cable, obscuring Dan’s view. He crossed the deck and looked aft again towards the Revenge. Now there was enough daylight to see considerable activity on the other ship. Men were aloft on her spars, others were climbing to join them, and a larger group of seamen was clustered on her main deck. They were bent over and moving slowly in a circle.
‘They’re raising anchor,’ Dan exclaimed.
‘Then where’s Jacques?’ Hector asked, a note of alarm in his voice.
‘Maybe they’re just shifting their anchorage,’ said Jezreel. He was also at the rail, eyes fixed on the smaller vessel.
‘They are setting too much sail for that.’
As they watched, the Revenge’s anchor emerged dripping from the water. The men on her yards unloosed the sails, the canvas flapped and filled.
Hector was struck by how clumsily Cook and his crew handled their ship. There was a muddle on the foredeck. One corner of the lower forecourse had wrapped around itself, and the sail was being untwisted. Also the mizzen spar was canted at the wrong angle and needed to be lowered and rehoisted into position. Instead of forging ahead, the Revenge began to fall back, partially out of control and crabbing sideways through the water. It was all very unseamanlike and in sharp contrast to the skill shown by her launch crew when they’d come ashore through the surf the previous day.
Hector was more and more agitated by Jacques’ absence. He feared the Frenchman might be below deck on the Revenge sleeping off a hangover, completely unaware the ship was getting under way. Or perhaps he’d decided to join the buccaneer crew? Cook had seemed keen to recruit him. But, Hector told himself, Jacques would never accept Cook’s offer without first consulting his friends. Besides, Jacques had left his favourite cooking utensils, his batterie de cuisine, aboard the Carlsborg. He would not leave the ship without taking his simmering pans and skimmers, the bake kettle in which he made excellent loaves, even at sea, and the splendid collection of spices he had acquired on his travels and jealously hoarded in a locked box, its interior neatly compartmented like an apothecary’s chest.
‘What a foul-up,’ said Jezreel, watching the disarray aboard the Revenge. ‘Can’t imagine how they think they can sail her through Magellan’s channel.’ Earlier Hector had told him of Cook’s proposed journey.
Slowly the crew of the Revenge got their vessel under some degree of control. She began to move forward, and a ripple appeared under her bow. Hector watched the two masts swing into line, then open up again as her helmsman set her on course. He saw that the Revenge was intending to pass close to windward of the anchored Danish ship and this, he thought despairingly, might give Jacques a final chance to return to the Carlsborg. He might be able to jump overboard and swim.
Hector left the foredeck and hurried down to the waist of the slave ship. This was where the Carlsborg’s smallest tender, the little cockboat, was stowed. He was going to ask Iversen for permission to launch it. Jacques was a weak swimmer at best.
The petty officer had reappeared on deck. Now he was standing at the taffrail with the two Danish sailors and watching the Revenge get under way. The scornful expression on his face left little doubt what he thought of the incompetence of the Revenge’s crew.
Perched on the bowsprit of Cook’s ship, two deckhands were trying to throw a loop of rope around an anchor fluke so that it could be hauled up and made fast. But they were making a mess of it. Twice they cast the rope, and twice they missed. The third time the rope passed under the anchor, but the man who was meant to catch the free end mistimed his snatch. He lost his grip, swivelled around the bowsprit and hung perilously at arm’s length, feet kicking in thin air, until he heaved himself back up. The rope splashed uselessly into the sea. His clumsiness drew a mocking guffaw from the Danish spectators, their laughter loud enough to be heard by the hapless sailor.
Hector looked anxiously for Jacques. But he was nowhere to be seen. The Revenge was gathering pace, setting out on her voyage.
A sudden shout from the Carlsborg’s stern deck made Hector look in that direction. Iversen had his hands cupped around his mouth and was calling out. He waved an arm. For a moment Hector thought he was bidding a farewell. But then the Dane gesticulated again, more urgently, and it was clear he was signalling to the other ship that she was coming too close and must stand clear.
Neither the captain nor the helmsman aboard the Revenge appeared to have heard the warning cry, nor were they conscious of the danger. Their vessel maintained course.
The Danish petty officer shouted again, more loudly this time, roaring at the top of his lungs.
‘Maybe they’ll skim by us so close that Jacques can jump across and rejoin us,’ said Jezreel hopefully. He had appeared at Hector’s elbow.
‘I don’t think so. No one handles a ship that neatly.’
The shouts and yells had brought the Carlsborg’s first mate on deck. He was tousled and dishevelled and still wearing a nightshirt. The moment he saw the danger, he turned and ran back down to his cabin and reappeared with a speaking trumpet in his hand. Putting it to his lips, he bellowed another warning to the Revenge.
By now Cook’s ship was fifty paces astern and steadily closing the gap. It was also obvious that the wind and current would not allow her to pass the Carlsborg on her windward side. The Revenge had to change her original course and pass downwind.
The first mate shouted again, red in the face with anger. This time the captain of the Revenge must have heard him, for Hector saw Cook wave acknowledgement. Then he turned towards his helmsman and Hector heard him shout clearly, ‘Hard to starboard, you fool.’