It wouldn't stop them. Nor did Harry really want to. But if he sat and did nothing he would die of frustration, and having handed the wheel to Lubeck, he took to aiming the guns himself, concentrating on the Daedalus. Not that he wanted to hit Bartholomew. Killing him was something he needed to do at close quarters. Eventually they got the mizzen yard back up and new sails, blocks, pulleys, and ropes in place. Harry could see that they were about to make sail, and with the sun dipping on the horizon, he watched them drop their courses and head out to sea, away from the land which had provided them with such poor security.

  There was no line ahead now, more a sort of star formation which afforded some mutual protection, with Bartholomew in the middle so that he could personally co-ordinate the actions of all the ships. If anything they were slower than they had been this morning, making no attempt to leave Harry behind. Were they trying to lure him on, hoping to ensnare him in a trap? He brought the Principessa in closer as night fell, though the moon, now full, made it seem like blue-coloured day.

  Harry sent the hands for a hot meal, and then with half a watch on deck he had the men sling their hammocks and get some sleep. He realized that, successful as the day had been, he'd failed in his primary task. He still didn't know where they were headed, and by tomorrow night there might be no moon by which to observe them. If it was at all cloudy Bartholomew would have a chance to slip away. While Harry had a shrewd idea he was making for the Straits of Messina and points east of the toe of Italy, he couldn't be positive. Tonight, or to be more precise, in the small hours of the morning, before daybreak, he must go

  in and cut out one of those ships.

  Attacking at night was tricky at any time. With this star formation Bartholomew had placed all his ships within easy reach of each other, and there being no attempt at speed, the minimum amount of manoeuvre could bring Harry into battle with three ships in minutes. He pondered what to do. Ideas of dropping off the cutter, full of men, as he sailed by, so as to take one of his enemies by boarding while he engaged, wouldn't be possible. He simply didn't have the resources. Whatever way he sought to tackle them would mean he would be facing three ships. Then he had an idea. It wasn't much of one, but he had a good notion of what they expected him to do, so doing the opposite seemed an appropriate choice.

  They'd kept a sharp lookout, for as soon as Harry increased sail he heard the cries that brought the crews tumbling up on to the decks of all five ships. He kept his bowsprit pointed towards them, and saw in the moonlight that the two rear ships, Cromer and Bella, had swung round to present themselves broadside on. Bartholomew backed his topsails and the Daedalus dropped back into the gap between them, while Ariel took up station on the larboard flank, and Mercury did the same on the starboard. Again a defensive manoeuvre, underlining once again the point that they needed their ships more than they needed the defeat of this single attacker.

  What Harry should have done was either shear off out of danger, or if he was desperate to indulge in a fight swing round to make his way down the line, taking on each enemy in turn. But that would expose him to grave danger, for the flanking ships could then come round and trap him. What Harry actually did was to keep his bows pointed firmly in the direction of Daedalus. He'd loaded his guns on both sides before he'd increased sail, opened his gun ports, and heaved his guns round to aim forward. Harry intended to go through the line, having fired his guns only to spoil his enemies aim. Once through, he would again eschew the obvious, for they would expect him to come round to assault them on their unguarded side. He intended to confound them by going after the Mercury again. After that, it would be down to the sailing qualities of the other ships. If he was left alone long enough he would board her. If not, tomorrow was another day.

  Bartholomew must have thought that Harry was after him again, for the Principessa's bowsprit was aimed directly at his quarter-deck. He increased sail, which opened up a slight gap between him and Cromer astern. Harry put his helm down, fired off a broadside at Daedalus, and headed straight for Pilton in the Cromer. Pilton did the opposite of Bartholomew, reducing speed and increasing the gap considerably. Harry spun the wheel again and headed straight for it. His starboard guns now raked Pilton's ship. True to his salt, the Cromer's captain put his helm down to turn away.

  It was a pity to sail by Bartholomew without giving him a hammering. Especially since Harry had stolen his wind, and was right athwart his hawse. Once through the line they would have the weather gauge, something he'd enjoyed most of the previous day. But he could outrun them all so he was not really concerned. Pilton, having sheered away, kept coming round, his larboard guns firing erratically and ineffectually at the Principessa. Harry held his fire, even though his guns were reloaded, and sped past him, put his helm hard down, and headed straight for the Mercury.

  Chittenden, who'd suffered a great deal earlier in the day, was not in the mood to try a contest. He'd taken a real pounding in the afternoon, and watched while his fellows did nothing to help him. He turned the Mercury to get the wind on her quarter and make a getaway. Harry literally whooped with joy. He could not have hoped for more. And behind him Pilton was causing chaos, for he'd cut across Harry's stern, making it impossible for the others to come round in pursuit.

  Still aimed forward, Harry's guns opened fire much sooner than Chittenden expected. He sheared away from the fire, for the carronades had hit his hull again. The gap between Mercury and his consorts was increasing by the minute. Harry was coming alongside, his guns firing in a regular rolling broadside that seemed almost leisurely. And he was inflicting damage, which was more than could be said for Chittenden's reply. His guns were going off individuaJly, aimed wildly, doing no harm at all.

  Harry touched the helm to shorten the range. Chittenden tried to edge away, but in so doing cut his speed. He was forced back on to his original course. Bartholomew was still trying to get round Cromer, and the only ships that had even a hope of coming to Chittenden's aid were the fire-damaged Bella and Frome in the Ariel. But Frome was the most distant, and though he was round, he showed no sign of coming on, no doubt obeying Bartholomew's rigid orders to keep his station.

  Harry edged closer and closer, his guns firing without hindrance. He could see Chittenden, standing by his wheel, issuing instructions to the man at the helm. The forward carronade went off again, and they were quite simply no more. There was no wheel, no helmsman, and no ship's captain. The Mercury, with no one to steer her, and no pressure on the rudder, simply spun round broadside on to the wind. There was panic aboard, as the hands, now leaderless, rushed in all directions. Harry took the way of the Principessa and glided alongside, his every gun now aimed at his opponent. One of the men, with perhaps more sense than the others, took an axe and cut away the ship's Genoese colours.

  Harry grabbed the speaking trumpet and shouted for all the hands to go below. His men were throwing grappling irons to bring the two ships together. Dispirited, outnumbered, and outgunned, they were only too happy to oblige, and they headed for the companionways. Lubeck and a party of men jumped aboard as soon as they touched, muskets at the

  ready, willing to shoot anyone who'd had a change of heart. More men were hauling a cable up from the bowels of the Principessa and a line was passed over the shattered bulwarks of the Mercury and led forward. The line was nipped on to the cable, and that was passed over to be attached to the Mercury's bows.

  Harry looked anxiously over his shoulder, but the four ships were a mile away. He gave the orders and the Principessa got under way again, pulling the Mercury's bows round and heading due south. Lubeck organized some of his prisoners to man relieving tackles so that the ship could steer, and it wasn't long before Harry cast off his tow. Now under, their own sails, both ships opened the distance between Bartholomew and the others. Their pursuit, which had been half-hearted anyway, soon petered out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Harry sat in the Mercury's sleeping cabin, studying the charts he'd found in Chittenden's sea-chest. The main cabin was wrecked, with the stern lights in tatters and great gashes in the bulkhead where his carronades had smashed through. He also had a list of courses and he was busy figuring out Bartholomew's destination. He was truly surprised to find that it was just a couple of landfalls. The first one was an island off Southern Dalmatia, the other on the coast of Asia Minor. He'd expected their rendezvous to be somewhere out at sea, on one of the trading routes from the east. The kind of profit they enjoyed could only be achieved if they took a large convoy. He was at a loss to know how they made any money where they were going.

  Questioning the hands produced nothing. Harry didn't expect them to know any details, for Chittenden would not have bothered to tell them their destination. But he was not prepared for their total silence. They clammed up to a man, behaving as if he was a King's officer intent on hauling them into a man-of-war. He had never encountered such a surly bunch anyway. They were less communicative than any sailors he'd ever known. And now he had to decide what to do with them. He could give Lubeck the Mercury to command, but could he rely on these men if they got into a fight with their late compatriots? They could just take over the ship again and either surrender or attack him. He could mix the crews, but he was loath to do that, since his men had performed well, and were likely to become the kind of working unit that every captain dreamed of.

  Harry didn't think it was worth the risk, and he called Lubeck in from the quarter-deck.

  "We'll continue south, Lubeck. At the first suitable inlet, preferably one with some rocks close inshore, we'll run this ship aground and burn her."

  "The men? asked Lubeck.

  "Can walk ashore. Where they go from there is not my business."

  The German nodded and followed Harry out into the dawn. Harry went over the side and was rowed back to the Principessa. Half-way across the water he could hear Fairhairn's screaming. His agony seemed to come in waves, receding for several hours, then coming back worse than before, like a woman in labour. Harry had no idea how long this would go on, but he was determined to rescue the man from himselg and at least give him the chance of leading a full and satisfying life again.

  Daylight found them off a suitable cove, with a reef near the sandy beach, and a small fishing village behind. Harry raided the Mercury to replace his powder, then ordered Lubeck to proceed. The German set his sails, and ran the Mercury into the bay at full speed. As she struck the reef, her main and mizzen masts toppled over the forepeak, taking all the ship's rigging down with them. Chittenden's hands were hustled into the water, forced to wade ashore chest high. Smoke appeared from the hatches, and by the time Lubeck was pulling back to the Principessa, the ship was ablaze from bows to stern.

  Harry was still troubled by the references on those charts, so he sailed north looking for Bartholomew. By noon he knew that he'd missed him. The man had changed course to avoid contact. It didn't matter, for he knew his destination, and there was no reason to suppose that he wasn't still making for it. He couldn't know that Chittenden had been killed before he had a chance to dispose of his charts. So Harry put the Principessa about and headed south again. With luck he'd fall in with them before they got there. But it would need to be luck, for Bartholomew, having changed course once, could do so again. The chances of two ships meeting in the vast expanse of the open sea were remote.

  The weather going south was blissful, warm and dry with steady winds that rarely troubled them. Harry had time to relax and time to reflect on the events of the last four or five days. A chance to talk to the men he'd taken command of about matters other than sailing and fighting the ship, though they exercised the guns and their sail drill daily and nursing Fairhairn was an on-going duty. But he realized that chasing Bartholomew had diverted him from his initial intention. That French ship would still be sitting in the harbour at Genoa, free to murder whoever they wished while he was sailing without exemptions. If he came across an English warship now, in circumstances that precluded

  flight, he'd lose every man jack aboard. Bartholomew first, but as soon as he'd dealt with him, Harry would need to return to Genoa and cut out that sloop.

  Having weathered the Straits of Otranto and entered the Adriatic they had a few periods when the wind turned foul, requiring them to beat up into it, tack upon tack. Delay was compensated for by the pleasure Harry took in the increasing competence of his crew, with the operations gradually improved to the point where Lubeck's speaking trumpet became an accessory, rather than a necessity. Despite this, it was more like a cruise for pleasure than anything else, attended by fine weather, with the exception of one day when the slate-coloured sky, with the choppy vicious cross-sea, was more reminiscent of the English Channel than the Mediterranean. The sun shone, the wind was fair, and they reeled off the miles at a pleasing rate, leaving Harry plenty of time to quiz the hands.

  His enquiries served a dual purpose, for he became acquainted with his men as well, turning them from mere faces into individual personalities. Pender was quick to sort out those who might be able to help, the kind of men that kept a sharp eye out for everything going on around them, as distinct from the mass of the crew, who knew nothing and cared less, content to fight or sail, as long as they were fed. Harry was interested to begin with, but by the time he had questioned the crew he was wildly curious. It was plain that Broadbridge's moods had veered from fear to euphoria around the time of Howlett's murder. And the more he heard about Broadbridge the less he liked the sound of him.

  He had terrible trouble with Lubeck, who got confused between the names Bartholomew and Broadbridge with dizzying regularity. He'd had high words with both Bartholomew and Broadbridge that day. The former, taxed to provide better food for the crew of the

  Dido, had told Lubeck to save his strictures for his captain. Broad-bridge had blustered as best he could, then assured the big German that he was going ashore to sort the matter out this very second, that their needs would be met by King George himself, and food would be plentiful from now on.

  "King George? asked Harry, wondering if Lubeck had made an error in the language again.

  Lubeck thumped the desk again, this time to prove he knew what he had said. King George feed us, and no mistake. Those words he used."

  Harry was at a loss to see where this led him, so he changed the direction of his questions. Lubeck knew all about the murder of Captain Howlett, which had been the talk of all those who could speak even a modicum of English in the harbour. And it did appear that Broadbridge might have seen something that night. He'd come aboard in the morning smelling of more than drink, with his eyes full of fear as well as the pain of a hangover. Broadbridge had brushed aside Lubeck's questions about victuals. But he'd then asked the German to tell anyone who enquired that he'd come aboard hours ago.

  Harry questioned the other men closely to confirm this, particularly those he'd put in positions of authority, since they were the ones with the sharpest eyes. Their stories tallied, for Broadbridge, desperate to communicate with Lubeck, had been forced to repeat himself several times, and in his anxiety, had forgotten to keep his voice down. Sutton had been ashore too but had returned well before Broadbridge, stone-cold sober and in a foul temper. The captain, coming back just before dawn, had the odour about him of a man who'd lost control of his bowels. Yes, he'd had a look of fear in his eyes and had, in the following days, reacted angrily to any mention of Howlett's body swinging on a gibbet. The whole of that day and the next had been spent skulking in his little cabin, with a warning that he was at home to no one.

  He'd gone ashore on the third day, answering an instruction to attend upon Bartholomew and the other captain and explain himself, again taking Sutton with him. They'd been gone all day and half the night. On his return Broadbridge exuded a new air of confidence, assuring all about him that their troubles were over, and that sailing with Captain Broadbridge would be as good a berth as Fiddler's Green itself. Sutton, pressed by the others to tell what had caused this change of mood, declined to let on.

  "Fiddler's Green, scoffed Pender, having heard the name for the umpteenth time. There ain't no such place."

  "Allow a sailor his vision of a personal heaven, Pender. I for one will not have a word said against it. A land of milk and honey, where a tar is never short of money, rum, or female companions, is just the thing to sustain him when things are looking bad."

  "Life is better looked straight in the eye, Captain. You knows that as well as I do."

  "Time to look Sutton straight in the eye, I think, said Harry. Pender nodded and went off to fetch the man. Sutton had avoided Harry Ludlow like the plague, no small feat in a compact ship. If he couldn't quite duck Harry's physical presence, he'd certainly seen to it that their eyes never met. Harry had let him be until he'd finished questioning the others. Sutton knew a great deal about Broadbridge, certainly more than the others aboard. But did he know anything about Howlett and the naval captain's death?

  "The night Captain Howlett was murdered, Sutton. Where were you.

  "Howlett? said Sutton. Who's he?"

  Harry looked at the man before him, slouched in the chair with an insolent air. You must be the only man aboard that doesn't know that name.

  "Perhaps my nose is a mite shorter than most. I don't go poking it where it's none of my business."

  "Why did you murder Captain Howlett?"

  That made him sit up. Who says I did?"

  Harry was no tipstaff or magistrate, but he was sharp enough to see an opening when it presented itself. You're not well liked, that is obvious. Mind, I'm not sure I believe everything that I've been told about you."

  "That bastard Lubeck..

  Harry smiled. There's not a man aboard that hasn't put you ashore on the night of Captain Howlett's murder."

  "What does that prove? I never went near the poor bastard."