They had scarcely cleared the Straits, leaving the glow of Tangier on the larboard quarter, before the rain stopped and the wind lessened, though it was still capable of a powerful gust from the same direction. ‘Mr Woodbine,’ said Jack to the master, ‘I believe we may send up the topgallantmasts and spread a little more canvas.’
This, with the help of a clearing sky over the main ocean, the light of a splendid moon and a more regular sea, was soon done; and the squadron, well in hand, at the proper cable’s length apart, ran down the Moroccan coast under courses and full topsails with an easier following sea and the wind on their larboard quarter; they were still in the order of their leaving, Ringle lying under Surprise’s lee, as became a tender.
This was pure sailing, with a fine regular heave and lift, an urgency of the water along the side, and sea-harping in the taut sheets and windward shrouds, the moon and the stars making their even journey across the clearer sky from bow to quarter, pause and back again.
At eight bells in the first watch the log was heaved and a very small and sleepy boy reported, ‘Twelve knots and one fathom, sir, if you please.’
‘Thank you, Mr Wells,’ said Jack. ‘You may turn in now.’
‘Thank you very much, sir: good night, sir,’ said the child, and staggered off to get four hours’ sleep.
Beautiful sailing, and it was with some reluctance that Jack, having re-arranged his line by signal, so that they sailed Surprise, Pomone, Dover, Ganymede, Rainbow, Briseis, left the deck: he had an overwhelming desire to read his letters again, thoroughly digesting every detail.
The cabin had not yet been fully cleared for action and Stephen was sitting there with the light of an Argand lamp focused by a concave mirror on to the dark purple of that terrible hand, now stretched out by clamps on a board; and he was making an extraordinarily exact drawing of a particular tendon, in spite of the frigate’s motion.
‘What a sea-dog you are become,’ said Jack.
‘I flatter myself that a whole pack of sea-dogs could not have improved upon the forward starboard aspect of this aponeurosis,’ said Stephen. ‘I do it by pressing the underneath of the table with my knees and the top of it with my elbows so that we all, paper, object, table and draughtsman,
move together with very little discontinuity – one substance, as it were. To be sure, a fairly regular motion of the vessel is required; and for regularity this slow, even swing could hardly be bettered; though the amplitude calls for such tension that I believe I shall now take a spell.’
They both returned to their heaps of letters – small heaps, since William Reade had kept nagging at the writers about his tide, and since they had had so little notice that many things of the first importance flew out of their heads. Clarissa Oakes wrote by far the best, least flustered account of the household and its return towards something like a normal existence, much helped by the unchanging ritual of the countryside – of Jack’s estate and his plantations in particular – and by the children’s steadily continuing education. Sophie’s two hurried, tear-blotted pages did her heart more credit than her head, but it was clear that the company of Mrs Oakes was a great relief to her; though of course their neighbours far and near were very kind: she asked Jack’s advice about the wording of her mother’s epitaph – the stone was ready and the mason eager to begin – and she referred to the window-tax.
‘Sophie and the children send their love,’ he said, when Stephen laid down the letter he was reading. ‘George tells me that the keeper showed him a sett with young badgers in it.’
‘That is kind of them,’ said Stephen. ‘And Brigid sends you hers, together with a long passage from Padeen that I cannot make out entirely. He told it her in Irish, do you see
– they generally speak Irish together – but although she is perfectly fluent in the language she has no notion at all of its orthography, so she writes as it might sound, spoken by an English person. In time I shall find out the meaning, I am sure, by murmuring it aloud.’
He fell to his murmuring, and Jack to a closer study of Sophie’s hurried, distracted words: both were interrupted by the sound of seven bells in the middle watch. Jack tidied his papers, reached for his sextant and stood up. ‘Is anything afoot?’ asked Stephen.
‘I must look at the coast, take our latitude and have a word with William: we should be quite near the height of Laraish by now.’
On deck he found the sky clearer still, with the outline of the shore plain against it.
Both wind and sea had been diminishing steadily, and if it had not been for his doubt
about the solidity of Dover’s mainmast he would have increased sail some time ago: he glanced down the line – all present and correct – and to leeward, where the schooner was running goose-winged on a course exactly parallel with his, well within hail for a powerful voice. Jack had a powerful voice, strengthened by many, many years of practice; but for the moment he contented himself with looking at the logboard, with all its entries of course and speed, doing some mental arithmetic, and taking the exact, double-checked height of Mizar, a star for which he had a particular affection.
‘Mr Whewell,’ he asked the officer of the watch, ‘what do you make our position?’
‘Just at seven bells, sir, I had a very good observation and found 350 17′ and perhaps twelve seconds.’
‘Very good,’ said Jack with satisfaction. ‘Let us signal Squadron diminish lights, reduce sail.’ Then, leaning over the rail, ‘Ringle?’
‘Sir?’
‘Close to speak pennant.’
‘William,’ said Jack in conversational tone, some minutes later, looking down at the young man who stood there, smiling up, his steel hook gleaming in the foremast ratlines.
‘William, you have been in and out of Laraish pretty often, I believe?’
‘Oh, a score of times at least, sir. There was a young person – that is to say, quite frequently, sir.’
‘And are we near enough for you to recognize the shore-line?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then be so good as to look into the harbour, and if you see more than two or three corsairs – big xebec-rigged corsairs and galleys – stand half a mile offshore and send up three blue lights, if less, then red lights and rejoin without the loss of a moment.’
‘Aye-aye, sir. More than three, stand off half a mile: three blue lights. Less, then red lights and rejoin without the loss of a moment.’
‘Make it so, Mr Reade. Mr Whewell: Reduce sail in conformity with pennant.’ And directing his voice upwards, ‘Look afore, there!’
Eight bells: all round Surprise the sentinels called ‘All’s well’ and prepared to go below, but without much conviction, they knowing the general situation and their captain’s tone of voice. How right they were. As soon as the muffled thunder of the watch below hurrying up on deck had died away, Jack said, loud and clear, to Somers, the relieving officer, ‘Mr Somers, we may pipe to breakfast at two bells or earlier, and then clear. It is not worth going below. Look out afore, there.’
He swung over the rail to the larboard ratlines and ran up to the maintop. ‘Good morning, Wilson,’ he said to the lookout, and stood gazing away eastward, gazing, gazing.
Two bells, and almost at once three red lights appeared, spreading like crimson flowers one after another, fading and drifting away fast downwind. Before the second had reached its full Jack called down, ‘Pipe to breakfast.’
On the quarterdeck he gave orders to increase sail, to steer south by south-south-west, and to prepare for action: these of course were signals, but by word of mouth he sent to tell the cook to use a bucket of slush to get the galley stove right hot right quick.
‘Stephen,’ he said, walking into the cabin, ‘I am afraid we must disturb you. William has just let us know that Laraish has no corsairs: since the wind has been dropping this last
watch and more, the likelihood is that the Indiamen will very soon leave their shelter under the lee of the Sugar Loaf, sailing for home, and that the corsairs mean to cut them off. So we are pelting down to stop their capers – we shall be setting close-reefed topgallants presently – and quite soon we shall have to turn you out to clear for action. But at least there is this consolation: we shall have an uncovenanted pot of coffee. It is always far better for the people to have something in their belly before a fight, even if it is only hot burgoo; and since the fires are lit, we may as well profit by the situation.’