The ship was pitching slightly now in the increasing swell of the outer roads. Harry trimmed the yards, and brought her round so that the wind was more on her quarter. He could feel her through the wheel, as he spun it over to hold his course. The ship was vibrating ever so slightly, not an indication of any danger, more a sign of life flowing freely. He handed the wheel to Lubeck.

  "Would you care to take the wheel, Count Toraglia?"

  The man positively leapt up, and his servant led him over. Harry wanted to give him the wheel, for they were sailing easy, with not much set, and courtesy demanded he offer some time. Later, if this wind stayed true, they would have a whole suit of sails aloft, and the Principessa would be racing along, her deck canted like a pitched roof, with more than one man needed on the wheel to hold her course.

  Toraglia was delighted. Harry stood behind him, issuing the odd quiet instruction to take them round some of the shipping still waiting in the outer roads. Lubeck, without waiting for Harry's instructions, yelled at the hands to trim the yards as necessary, pushing those suffering from sea-sickness to their stations, despite their feeble protests.

  They were clear now, with only the odd fishing boat to bar their way. The sun shone, the wind held, a steady topgallants breeze, and the land, with its smells, was fading behind them. The tang of the sea filled their nostrils, and it seemed to Harry, just by looking at Toraglia's face, that a few more trips like this would return him to health in no time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  With land out of sight, Harry detailed two of the more willing hands to steer, while he, trumpet in hand, called the orders to make more sail. Nothing sudden, for he wanted to see the effect of each addition on the ship's performance. And what he saw he liked. Every new sail gave a little something extra. He shook the reefs out of his courses and topsails, set his staysail, and brought the Principessa round a touch more so the wind was coming in slightly further forward. The yards were braced round, sheets and tacks adjusted to take the best advantage of the steady breeze.

  Then it was topgallants yards aloft and the sails bent on, while the outer and flying jibs were made ready. Stamp and go came the order, and these too were up. Harry watched the masts carefully, for they had been out when the ship had been refitted. If they were not properly seated in the kelson, this was the moment he was going to find out. The wind was singing through the taut backstays, music to his ears.

  It would have been wonderful to send the royals yards aloft, and rig extra booms from the yards to carry studding sails. But this was not the day for such things. Not that it mattered, for she flew along. Harry took the wheel again, and felt that she was jibbing a bit. The hurried stowing of the hold was to blame, since that, affecting her trim, manifested itself more at speed. And speed it was, though Toraglia was not impressed by the nine knots that they read off on the log. Harry sailed on through the morning, mixing the combination of sails and logging in his mind how the ship behaved. The glass turned for the umpteenth time, and the hands were looking to their new captain to be fed, so he brought her up into the wind and hove to.

  The brand-new cutter was over the side and he had himself rowed round with Lubeck as the hands ate their dinner. The German had discussed re stowing the hold with Toraglia, and was keen to take his advice. Harry agreed, for that would trim her more by the stern. Back aboard he gave instructions for the officers meal to be prepared, keeping just enough sail on the Principessa to control her drift. He made sure he had a man aloft as a lookout, for if a warship came on the scene he would not wait about to see its flag. Harry Ludlow would be off like a shot, heading back to Genoa and safety.

  He set her under easy sail again once the hands were fed, and handing the deck over to the captain of the after guard so that he too could get to know the ship, he took the Count below to the main cabin. Toraglia's nose twitched, for it still reeked of fresh varnish. To a sighted man the new bulkhead would have stood out like a sore thumb, but the blind Alfonso was content to accept Harry's explanation, made out of earshot of his mute servant, that some dolt had tipped over some shellac that his brother used for his canvas.

  Brown's cook had prepared a wonderful spread. Toraglia's servant tasted everything before his master, obviously a matter of long habit since Toraglia made no effort to explain, leaving Harry to wonder at the incidence of poisoning in this part of the world. The wines had been selected without tasting, and also without agreement on price, so Brown, a businessman before anything, had chosen to load him with some rare and expensive vintages. Harry looked at the list which had come aboard with his personal stores, and reflected that haste was proving expensive. The talk, convivial, was all of the Principessa, though not of the price, and Harry wondered if this atmosphere of cameraderie would still exist after they'd enjoyed a good haggle. Toraglia retired to the sleeping cabin after lunch.

  Harry returned to the deck to see how she handled now that they'd shifted some of the water. The improvement would have seemed slight, or even non-existent, to a landsman, for the addition of half a knot on her speed was hard to spot. But Harry could feel that she moved through the water with much greater ease. She also answered her helm more readily and he knew that in stronger airs that would mean the difference between twelve knots and the fourteen claimed by its present owner, plus the ability to out sail most vessels afloat. Most important of all, it meant that he could run if he needed to, and more telling, catch whatever he fancied, given a wind.

  He changed course in mid-afternoon, and headed for home, sailing right into the wind. Now the yards were braced hard round, to an angle of twenty degrees to the keel. Harry pushed her head round as far as he could, pleased to see that she still answered a shade over six points free. They sailed on tack upon tack, the working of the crew improving with each operation, sighting land as the sun dipped below the horizon.

  He gave instructions to Lubeck to bring her back to the quay side there to load the remaining stores, and to take her out of the harbour once that was completed. The cutter was over the side waiting to take them ashore, for conning the Principessa through the busy harbour once more would take an age. Sutton was nowhere to be seen when he called for the hands needed to carry the sedan chair, and he could not waste time searching for him. He had Toraglia lowered over the side in a chair, and they rowed ashore in darkness.

  Harry would have preferred to talk about the price elsewhere, but Toraglia had asked that they do so at his house, insisting that since his wife was his true partner she too must be involved. Now that they had reached the point of discussing terms, Toraglia seemed more willing to talk of his reasons for selling the ship, putting himself at some disadvantage as he did so, for he admitted to certain financial constraints. Then he tugged with great force at Harry's capacity for sympathy by alluding to his death, pushing aside the dismissive responses, insisting it could not be long delayed.

  He wanted whatever he got from the sale to go to his wife. It seemed there were rapacious nephews in the offing, waiting to inherit his property. And it had become clear at the start of his illness that these nephews cared little for the future comfort of his wife, going so far as to hint that she vacate the property at the height of his illness. Harry blushed unseen when the Count assured him that she would readily find another husband. But her case would be enhanced with a dowry. Since he'd recovered sufficiently to transact business on his own, they had been busy converting what assets they could, lodging the money with Guistiani's in his wife's name, against the day when she would be on her own, very likely turfed out of the marital home on the very day he died.

  "Yet what right have I to burden you with all this, which is surely none of your concern? Odd how I have come to esteem you on such a short acquaintance, said the Count, leaning forward again to touch Harry's knee with a degree of intimate familiarity.

  Harry felt tears prick the back of his eyes. Would that I had the power to make you well, Count Toraglia. Should what you say come to pass, I feel I will be losing a friend."

  Toraglia laughed. And all this before we contest a ducat. I fear we are poor merchants, Captain Ludlow. A minute pause, before he continued. But I would ask you one thing. If it is in your power to do my poor wife a good turn after I'm gone, it would reassure me to know that you would oblige."

  "Of course, Harry croaked. If he then wondered at Harry's immediate and vociferous objection to staying the night, it didn't show. Soon they were back in the sedan chair and heading for the Toraglia villa, and to Harry's mind an encounter he would rather avoid.

  His fears that there would be some kind of awkwardness were proved groundless. The Countess had returned to her previous impeccable demeanour. Neither by look nor gesture did she refer to the events of the previous night. She was attentive to her husband and polite to Harry, with no trace of tension in her voice as she asked him about the events of the day. Once more they retired to the courtyard, there to drink wine and eat. And this time, after the food, to haggle. Yet it was good-humoured affair, for even Toraglia's wife gasped at his opening price. He was not angry with her for letting him down, treating it as a jest himself. He soon named a more realistic figure.

  Harry offered a hundred ducats less. The Count, throwing up his hands, would not budge, singing the praises of the Principessa. Harry offered a shade more. Still he wouldn't be shifted. The argument went back and forth, with Harry conceding little and the Count refusing to budge. Time was passing and Toraglia was tiring. Deep in the pit of his stomach Harry feared that he might be forced to sleep here, with all the attendant risks that included. He, trying to emulate the Latin gesture of his host, threw up his arms and conceded the price, comforting himself with the thought that he was paying for it out of profits he'd already managed in another ship.

  Toraglia was plainly disappointed, for his face showed the first trace of real anger that Harry had seen. I do hope that my disability is not affecting your judgement, Captain."

  Harry was aware his quick surrender looked like condescension, but he really didn't think he had any choice. Perhaps, in his haste, he answered the Count a shade more pointedly than was necessary. It has not, sir. But she is a fine vessel, and if I think her worth every penny of that amount. I cannot see why you should seek to dissuade me.

  "He will not do that, Signor. You may take my word on it, said the Countess.

  Her husband frowned at that interruption. But he must have realized the game was over, for his shoulders drooped slightly. Toragha had been looking forward to the cut and thrust of continued barter, which would complete the pleasure of the last two days. But it was not to be.

  His wife produced ink, a quill, and paper so that the contract could be drawn up. Harry wrote a letter instructing the Guistianis to transfer the required funds. The business was complete, with Toraglia near collapse, though he stayed manfully awake till Harry made his hurried apologies and prepared to leave. Despite his protestations, the Countess walked with him to the hallway, stopping underneath her husband's portrait. The old bent servant stood by the door, waiting to escort him to the postern gate. They were out of her husband's hearing when she spoke.

  "Do I take it that I was included in the price?"

  James would have said something gallant. Not Harry, he didn't know how. Yet he knew he made a hash of the truth, his voice harsh. It was to avoid a repetition of the events of last night that it was so high."

  He saw a flash of anger, and hurt in her eyes. Then, in a gesture that he meant kindly, but somehow performed insultingly, he bent down, kissed her hand, and left.

  He came out of the gate to find his three escorts gone. Harry cursed under his breath, and for a moment contemplated knocking at the door and begging re-admittance. But after what he'd just said that was impossible. Perhaps the men had spied somewhere to get a drink on the way. Hard to say, since he didn't know them very well. Lubeck was the one who had picked them. He had no way of knowing if they were reliable or not.

  Having little choice he set off through the now darkened and deserted streets. At some point he would have to turn down towards the harbour. He tried hard to recall the route he'd taken yesterday in the company of Guistiani's messenger, but quickly realized he'd have to rely on pure instinct. How could he recognize any of the things he'd seen in daylight in this stygian darkness?

  It was neatly done. The cold steel of the pistol was at his temple before he could open his mouth. Hands held him from behind, and a voice he vaguely recognized spoke. Someone wants to see you, Ludlow."

  Harry, expecting a French voice and certain death, was surprised. The man had spoken in English. They threw a blindfold round his eyes and tied it tight. He had the absurd thought, as they bustled him away, that it was unnecessary to blindfold a man on such a night. Sounds echoed off the walls of the narrow alleyways as they pushed him along. The creak of a door, again familiar, and suddenly Harry knew where he was, and who had spoken. It was the voice of the rat-catcher, Beldeau. And by that distinctive creak of the door he knew he was in the rear warehouse of Ma Thomas~ s inn.

  Was it just Beldeau, taking revenge for the humiliation Harry had meted out to him in the tap-room? If it was, that would mean a beating. But why fetch him here? Something like that could be done in the streets, and in a town like Genoa the chances of anyone taking any notice were slim. Then Bartholomew spoke, his voice harsh, as though he was straining to control it. Take off the blindfold, Beldeau. I need to look this bastard in the eye.

  Harry blinked in the candlelight, before looking round to see his captors. All three of the men he'd knocked down were there, plus two others, their faces vaguely familiar. Both Beldeau's eyes were black and his nose was swollen to twice its normal size. Then he turned back, and found himself looking into Bartholomew's eyes. There was none of that amused air about the man now. His eyes were as hard as stone, and directed at him. Suddenly Bartholomew stepped forward and fetched him a slap with all the force he could muster. Harry spun away, too late to take the sting out of it. Habit had him half-way to returning the blow but Beldeau and the man called Tinker grabbed him.

  There was a slight taste of blood in Harry's mouth, and a numbness in his jaw as he spoke. Is that how you fight, Bartholomew?"

  "I dare say you'd prefer my men to let you go?"

  "I promise you a bout if you do."

  Bartholomew snorted derisively. A bout, Ludlow? What are you, a prizefighter?"

  "Ask your friends."

  He heard Beldeau growl, right by his ear, as Bartholomew responded. What a sporting fellow you are. Odd that I asked my friends what to do with you, since my first instinct was to string you up. No, said Beldeau, for he too has a score to settle. He reckons to have some sport with you, and he has persuaded me that I shall enjoy it."

  "You will, Bart, take my word on it. An so will I, said Beldeau.

  Harry was searching his mind, trying to think what he could have done to cause such a reaction. Surely sailing as a privateer, purloining a number of hands, or making insulting references to the syndicate didn't warrant all this. Had he heard of Harry's attempt to question Crosby? Or had Crosby come straight back here and told him everything, plus a bit more for he was given to exaggeration. Beldeau taking revenge he could see, for the way Harry had knocked him out must have rankled. But that was meat for a thrashing, perhaps a severe one if Beldeau was as mad as Crosby said. But to string him up. What for?

  "I am at a loss to know what I've done to offend you."

  Bartholomew stepped forward and hit him again. Are you, by damn? Shall I tell you what we have decided?"

  Harry didn't reply, since there didn't seem any point.

  "It's Beldeau's notion, and I have to say when he told me, I was impressed. I dare say you have spied his hat, and had a good look at his face, so you will know what he does."

  "Rats, Ludlow. This was said by Beldeau, softly, almost cares singly in his ear. I rear em as well as fight them."

  Bartholomew continued, his voice carrying an almost jesting tone. He catches his own, you know, and breeds them special. Feeds them up, and crosses the ones that grow the most. So what he ends up with are the biggest rats he can manage. But to make them fight, that's hard. You have to feed them, then starve them. You know when they're hungry, for you put one of the little ones in with them. When they eat it, you know they're ready. It was his rats that the negro was fighting the other night, so you can see how successful he is in making them big."

  "I seem to remember the negro finished well within the time."

  "He did too. Beldeau was upset. But the man is a champion at the sport.

  "We should have made him fight ten instead of six, with a reputation like his, growled Beldeau.

  "One a minute. I think I would have backed your rats at that, Beldeau. What do you reckon a novice could handle?"

  Harry felt his blood chill, for he knew what was coming. Not more'n two, Captain."

  Bartholomew smiled now. Let's show him what's in store, shall we?"

  Harry was pushed towards one of the larger barrels. Tinker opened a door half-way up, then pushed Harry's head through. He'd heard the sound of scrabbling rats all his naval life, but even before Tinker shoved the lantern into the barrel, he knew that he was going to see more rats in one place than he'd ever seen before. And he was right. He looked down into a sea of gleaming eyes, as the rats froze for just a second. Then they panicked and tried to get away, but in the confines of the barrel there was nowhere to go, so they just ran in circles, climbing over each other, biting and scratching, squeaking in their high-pitched way. Some tried to climb the walls, but Beldeau had lined it with a circle of grease so they fell back amongst their mates. The larger rats started to attack the smaller ones, and in one corner some of them had gone into a frenzy, literally ripping a half grown creature apart.