Hoare clapped the pilfered telescope to with a snap and returned it to its nonplussed owner with an unctuous, apologetic smile. He beckoned to his two men and set off again at a run across the dockyard. By the time he reached Inconceivable, Marie Claire would have thirty minutes' lead on him. On a broad reach, the schooner would be at her best. Nonetheless, Hoare thought as he panted along, it was over ninety miles to Weymouth by sea. With the low sea and the favorable breeze, Inconceivable had a fair chance. Morrow-or his yacht, at least- would have his race after all, it seemed. But there was not a moment to be lost.
With the very possibility in mind that he would have other naval men aboard her, Hoare had rigged Inconceivable Navy fashion throughout. In pitch dark, any able seaman could find any of the lines cleated to her tiny pin rail without fumbling. His two men turned to as though they had been aboard her for a month. Within minutes, with the aid of the docker-watchman Guilford, they had all shore lines inboard and had turned her end for end. Inconceivables tall triangular mainsail gave his new crew pause for a moment. But since the whole rig could have been grasped by an eight-year-old-let alone men like these-in no time, Inconceivable was under way, her bow wave beginning to chuckle softly as if she were confident of her race's outcome.
By the time Inconceivable had reached the Solent proper, Marie Claire was well on her way to Cowes. Hoare saw her change course to larboard, ease her sheets, and straighten up slightly. She had a good three miles on Inconceivable. This would be the schooner's best point of sailing, so it would be a long, stern chase, devoid of maneuvers unless-as seemed unlikely-the wind veered westerly.
Hoare eyed his scratch crew unobtrusively. Though one was ruddy and the other black, the two were cut from the same human cloth, tough, horny-handed, pigtailed men in clean frocks. Both had kicked off their heavy buckled shoes immediately on coming aboard, showing big, almost prehensile feet as horny as their hands. As soon as her two simple sails were drawing to Hoare's satisfaction, both had turned to and begun priddying Inconceivable's already-spotless deck. Hoare beckoned them to join him beside the tiller.
"My name's Hoare," he whispered. "Don't trouble to laugh, either of you. I've been known to wipe the laugh off a man, together with the rest of his head." He smiled to show that he was not wholly serious, and the two men relaxed visibly. "We're too small a ship for formality, men, so make yourselves at home. I can't talk in more than a whisper, so you'll want to keep one eye on me and one on Inconceivable here."
He stopped to catch his breath, and went on.
"And one eye on that flash schooner up ahead. I want to take her if I can, sink her if I can't. She's carrying at least three Frenchmen, maybe more. I think they are the ones that have been blowing up so many of His Majesty's ships. At least, I believe so, and the Admiral thinks so, too, so that's all you really need to know. But I want to tell you a bit more. Bear with me if I must stop to wet my whistle once in a while."
With this, Hoare began to expound his suspicions. When he had brought the two up-to-date with his discovery of the listening device, he asked them about themselves.
"Now, tell me who you are, and your ratings."
"I'm Bold, sir," said the black man. "Cox'n of Sir George's barge. Bold's me name, and hold's me nature. Har har har. An' this smart lad Stone here, 'e's just been named stroke oar. We knows who you are. You're the gentleman what found all of Amazon's mids."
"Yes," Stone said. "An' you 'auled me aboard thicky little barky of your yerself, zur, when Vantage blew up t'other day. For which I says 'thanky,' zur."
"Which one of you should I rate as 'sailing master,' for now, and which as 'gunner'?"
"Well, sir, Stone was capting of one of Vantage's carronades."
"Then that's that. Bold, you're master, and Stone, you're gunner. Take turns at her tiller for a bit, and get used to her. I'd have you both take her 'round the compass, but we haven't time now, if we're to catch Marie Claire up there."
When Stone had had his turn, Hoare left Bold at Inconceivable's tiller and took the gunner below. He wanted the craft's odd armory overhauled.
"First, Stone," he said, "draw the charges in all the weapons. Here's a worm. They must have all been wet when she took on water awhile back. Reload the lot from this barrel."
Stone rolled up his sleeves and set to. Hoare returned on deck.
After a bit, Stone's head looked up at him from below. He was carrying the powder keg.
"No good, zur. She be started in the 'ead. Soaked through, she be."
"Clear through?" Hoare's whisper was filled with dismay.
"To the very core, zur. All twanty pounds of 'er. Look 'ere. This lump, she be from the very center of the keg."
"The pistols? The swivel?" Hoare asked piteously. "The crossbow?"
"Dunno about the crossbow, zur. Never seen one of 'em before. But like you said, the powder in the other weppings was all damp."
"The grenades?"
"Can't tell, zur. Un be all sealed up, you know. But the fuses …"
Stone went below, where Hoare heard him rummaging about.
"No good, zur. Fuses be all wet!" he called at last.
Hoare could gladly have beaten his head against Inconceivable's mast. As soon as possible after bringing his waterlogged vessel home the other morning and drying her out, he had replenished her fully. He had replaced hardtack and soft tack. He had made certain that the coal for his galley stove was dry, and likewise the kindling and tinder. He had also been quite confident that his little keg of red large-grain powder and his flask of priming powder were secure. He had failed to make sure. He had not kept his powder dry. Without firearms, how were Inconceivable's three men to take Marie Claire? There could be no question. There were at least as many "Frenchmen" aboard her, and they would be well armed-with pistols, if nothing else.
For a long instant, Hoare contemplated temporarily abandoning the chase and returning to Portsmouth, there to resume it in some more conventional manner. He would certainly not actually abandon it. He looked ahead to the schooner. Even if the fugitives were only Morrow's minions, he wanted at least one of them. If Morrow himself was aboard, all the better.
From the respectful tones one, and only one, of his two midnight boarders had used on that misty night-just about here, Hoare realized-he was certain the other boarder had been Morrow. That put Morrow in his debt. Hoare thought no more about turning back.
He had seen how Marie Claire gave the Cowes headland a wide berth, so as to clear the nasty heap of submerged rocks just offshore of it. Marie Claire's sails gleamed ivory in the sun of late morning, until she disappeared behind the minor cape on which Cowes lay. She had not dodged south into the Newport estuary. The odds were, then, that she would make a straight run for Weymouth.
So Morrow, or whoever was conning Hoare's chase, knew the local waters. He himself would hoist Inconceivable's sliding keel halfway and shave the rocks, accepting the additional leeway this would give her in exchange for the cable-length he would gain. The tide was just past full.
The rocks now behind her, Marie Claire hove into sight again, making for the Needles, heeling slightly less than before and slicing scornfully through the light offshore chop. She had set her gaff topsails. Little good that will do her, Hoare thought; Inconceivable's plain mainsail overtopped the schooner's main topmast by a good two feet.
Morrow might be a traitor, but nonetheless he had chosen his yacht with an expert eye. With every rag set and gleaming golden in the afternoon sun, throwing an occasional rainbow of spray across her long bowsprit, Marie Claire was beautiful. And since the wind held steady, it promised to be a straight run to Durlston Head-clear in the distance-thence to St. Alban s Head and Weymouth Bay. There was little likelihood that, even if Morrow were not in command, the crew of "Frenchmen" would commit any blunders that would bring Marie Claire within reach of Inconceivable's jaws. And in any case, to Hoare's shame, those jaws were all but toothless.
"I think we're over'aulin' the chase, sir," Bol
d said behind him. "I can see her crew-some of 'em, anyhow."
In the glass Hoare thought to see four figures. He handed it to Bold for confirmation.
"Looks like four of 'em to me, sir," Bold said. "And we're 'aulin' up on 'em good and pretty, like I said. Thicky crazy rig of yourn…"
"Just the same," Hoare said, "it may well be dark before we come up on her. And there are only three of us. Shall we see if it's true that one true British tar can whip any three Frogs?"
"Har har har," Bold said.
His comrade was more forthcoming. "Lost 'most all my shipmates in Vantage," Stone said. "If it's true, that idee of yourn, I wouldn't mind payin' the bugger off for that."
"Well, then," Hoare said, "here's what we'll do."
Marie Claire had passed the Needles and had been briefly silhouetted by the setting sun when Hoare and his crew learned that they had come up within pistol shot of her. The ball thumped harmlessly against Inconceivable's mast, just above her toy pin rail, dropped to the deck, and rolled into the scuppers. Hoare suggested that his men take shelter behind Inconceivable's narrow cabin trunk.
"They won't 'ave that much ammunition, zur, will they?" Stone asked. "Mebbe if we annoys 'em enough, they'll shoot it all off afore we gets within killin' range." So saying, he rose to his feet, flourished his hat, and delivered a terrible yell. There was another shot from the chase. Stone's hat flew from his hand, and he joined his companions behind the cabin trunk.
"Har har har," Bold said beside him.
Hoare felt unfairly treated, whether by himself or by the fates. Foot by foot, in slow motion, Inconceivable was drawing up on Marie Claire-and his teeth were drawn. The chase became silhouetted in the westering sun. Her stern was ample enough that four Frenchmen lining her taffrail, side by side, could deliver a steady, slow harassing fusillade. A fifth man stood boldly at her wheel. The enemy must have long since guessed that since she had yet to open fire, Inconceivable had no means of doing so.
The tapping of pistol bullets on her hull and the pop they made when tearing through her canvas was a constant thing. As the gap between the two vessels narrowed, the taps grew sharper. Hoare and his crew stayed crouched in the shelter of Inconceivable's cabin trunk.
Slowly, slowly, the sun reached for the horizon beyond Marie Claire. Slowly, it began to drown itself. A last rare green flash, and it was gone. At the water's surface, the wind all but died except for an infinitesimal cat's-paw every now and then. The two craft lay all but idle on the gently heaving water, commencing to box the compass as they lost steerage way. Splat, as a ball struck the water beside Bold and threw up a trivial spray. Rap, as another stuck the front of Inconceivable's cabin trunk. Tang. That would have been her anchor. By now, Hoare thought, Eleanor Graves and her sling could have brought down every man in Marie Claire. But Hoare had no sling, and if he had, he would not know how to use it.
The Frenchman must have fired a hundred rounds by now in this futile target practice. Surely, as Stone had said hours ago, they would have begun to run short of ammunition.
Apparently the French skipper had the same idea.
"Cease firing, Fortier," came a quiet voice in French over the water. "You haven't hit anything but the water and the wind in all this time."
Hoare recognized the voice instantly. Edward Morrow was aboard, in command of his own yacht.
"Give me your pistols. You can load for the rest of us," Morrow added. The other Frenchman whined.
Time passed, interminable minutes while the gap between the two vessels barely narrowed. If we don't catch them soon, Hoare told himself, we'll lose them in the dark.
"We'll sweep up on 'em," he whispered.
Stone blanched at the idea of standing erect under fire to work Inconceivable's sweeps; Hoare suspected that Bold did as well, though he could not be sure, given the growing darkness and the coxswain's natural hue.
"Jest as ye say, sir," Bold said. "Odds are ye'll lose one of the two of us though. There goes half yer boardin' party."
Hoare was silent, at a stand. At last he said, "Here's what we'll do."
Hoare and Stone ducked below to put Hoare's plan into effect, leaving Bold at the tiller in the growing dusk.
A hammering and banging began below decks. Only seconds apart, the two amateur carpenters broke through Inconceivable's thin strakes. The blades of her sweeps thrust out from these jury-rigged scuttles. Hoare doffed his uniform coat and laid it neatly on his cot; the two carpenters turned galley slaves and began to heave.
The firing from Marie Claire had fallen off as the darkness gathered. Now it redoubled, and the pistol flashes were near enough to reflect off Inconceivable's sails.
"Mr. Hoare wants to know: are we showing a wake yet?" Stone grunted from below.
"Tell him 'just,'Jacob," Bold replied in an undertone. "We might be makin' half a knot. The chase, she might as well be swingin' at anchor."
"She's put out sweeps of her own now, sir!" Bold called below after another minute.
"Mr. 'Oare says, 'They can't row and shoot at the same time, any'ow,'" Stone answered.
Now, Inconceivable's taller mast began to tell, for somewhere above the lesser reach of Marie Claire's main topsail, a breath stirred.
"She's answerin' 'er helm again, sir," Bold said.
"Good. Head about two points to windward of her, and we'll bear down as soon as we come abreast. Meet her now. Dyce."
Shortly, Inconceivable's sweeps stopped and lifted, dripping audibly, into the quiet air. Then they withdrew into their crude ports. Hoare stuck his head out of the companionway and crawled into the cockpit, keeping low. He reached back, pulled his sweep out of the hatch, and handed it to Bold. Bold made the tiller fast, thrust the sweep into its socket dead aft, and began sculling, slowly and strongly. Under her own sweeps, Marie Claire seemed to make no headway. She would have rated double Inconceivable's tonnage, so this could be no surprise to Morrow.
Hoare leaned down into the cabin and said in his loudest whisper, "Bring up the crossbow and the quarrels, Stone."
" 'Quarrels,' zur?"
"Arrows, Stone. They're alongside the crossbow. They look like bolts."
More rummaging sounds followed.
"Got 'em, zur." Stone handed up the weapons and hoisted himself out of the cabin with a single thrust of his powerful shoulders, disdaining the ladder. "You orta been mannin' that there oar, Loveable, not Mr. Hoare," he said.
"I does what my orficers tell me to, Jacob."
"You be a lazy bugger, that's what you be," Stone said. He hauled a grapnel up from below and began to splice it to the bitter end of a lanyard.
Under a steady, slow, harassing fire, Hoare and his crew blacked their faces and hands with soot from Inconceivable's galley stove. Cradling the cocked crossbow in his arms and dragging the bag of quarrels behind him, Hoare crawled forward in the dusk, under cover of Inconceivable's rail, into her very bows.
He had procured the crossbow only last year, when he happened to stop at an inn outside the ruins of Corfe Castle. The weapon had to be centuries old. Although he had bought it on a whim, he felt obliged to try it out. He had chosen a meadow outside Portsmouth, where he at least had had a chance to retrieve the bolts.
Hoare had found at once that the crossbow worked. In fact, it was surprisingly powerful. While his first shot went into the blue somewhere to the north of the tree at which he was aiming, his second, fired from a hundred yards, buried itself so deep in the trunk that he could not withdraw it. He would not have cared to be one of the steel-clad men-at-arms who had faced the thing, and he understood why crossbows had been outlawed by chivalry and Church alike.
He had also learned that the crossbow was extremely slow to load-slower, even, than his lost Kentucky rifle, which, in turn, had taken him twice as long as one of his pistols or a smooth-bore musket. To cock the bow, he would have to stand upright, press his foot into a combination stock and stirrup, and heave mightily on a steel lever. The notion of doing this under fire from
Marie Claire-sporadic though it was-gave him a grue. And his accuracy would be laughable.
Sheltering behind Inconceivable's jib, Hoare shouldered the awkward weapon, making sure that it cleared her forestay. By now, the chase was less than a hundred yards ahead, a few points off Inconceivable's larboard bow. Hoare had ordered Bold to come up on her from windward, so as to take her wind with Inconceivable's towering mainsail. He leveled the crossbow and waited for a target to show itself.
He did not have long to wait. The silence of Inconceivable s pursuit would certainly have convinced the other vessel's crew by now that she was without firearms-as, indeed, she was. By now, they were close enough to distinguish one from another, even in the dusk. Now he could see five of them, no fewer. Short of extreme heroism and the most extraordinary luck, any attempt at boarding her was doomed. And so, in all likelihood, was Bartholomew Hoare.
Two of Marie Claire's crew were standing on her taffrail now, one reloading his pistols and the other taking aim. Hoare too took careful aim, held his breath, and squeezed the crossbow's strange long trigger.
With a sharp, soft snap, the crossbow kicked back against Hoare's shoulder. His target uttered a croaking cry, clutched at his leg, and fell backward against the helmsman, knocking him away from the schooner's wheel. Marie Claire drifted gracefully into the negligible wind, athwart Inconceivable's bows, where- had she been armed with cannon-she could have murdered Inconceivable with a raking fire.
Now! Hoare cried to himself. He whistled an ascending banshee note. In response, Stone raced forward to stand beside Hoare. He twirled his grapnel as though he were swinging a dipsey lead-or a sling, flashed through Hoare's mind. The three Inconceivables braced for the impact, grasping any shroud or timber within reach.
Stone let fly with his grapnel. Instead of catching in Marie Claire's rigging, it caught in the clothing of a second Frenchman, who jerked like a jigged salmon. Stone heaved at the grapnel line. The jigged man clutched at a shroud, missed, fell forward into the Channel. Stone's grapnel tore away.
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