So be it. Only that I lived well and strongly before that time came and left my sons to walk the trails my foot would never tread. For it is given that no man can do it all, that each must carry the future forward a few years and then pass the message on to him who follows.
There must be fine strong boys and goodly women to do what remained to be done, and Diana? Who else to be the mother of them? And the woman to walk beside me on the hills where the rhododendron grew?
Soon.
The dark shore lay off there, somewhere beyond the black wings of night; it lay there, that long white beach upon which I played as a boy. And somewhere, not far from here, was that place of which I had heard, that place upon the open sea where may lie the gates to another world. My father in his time had seen them, or was it a trick of the sun upon the sea? A mirage, perhaps? Who could know. For now we sailed off the Carolina coast. Bermuda lay off to the northeast.
When my eyes opened again, there was a shaft of sunlight falling across the deck, a shaft of sunlight that moved slowly and easily with a gentle roll of the ship. The storm had gone.
Rising from my bed, I looked out—a fair day and a fine breeze blowing.
John Tilly was on the quarterdeck when I went out to get a smell of the wind. He seemed preoccupied, so I asked no questions. Several times he glanced aloft as if expecting some signal from the lookout at the masthead.
A cabin boy came up the ladder to the quarterdeck. “The lady, maister,” he said, “she asks if you would break fast wi’ her?”
“I will be along at once.” I turned to Tilly. “Captain? Will you join us?”
He threw me a quick, impatient glance. “No, eat without me. I shall be busy here.”
Diana was at the table when I came into the cabin, and I had never seen her look more lovely. John Tilly had gone into his stores and found some captured clothing taken in one of the constant sea battles. Attacked by pirates, they had proved too stiff a foe and had taken the pirate ship as prize.
There was sunlight through the stern light, and we sat long over our food, talking of many things. The cabin boy served us chocolate, the drink from Mexico of which we had heard much. Yet even as we talked, I was disturbed by Tilly’s manner. Usually the most gracious of men, he had been abrupt and obviously worried.
The weather was fine. Did he sense a change? And the lookout aloft? What would he—
An enemy ship? Pirates?
Joseph Pittingel had ships, several of them. And we had evidence enough of his hatred. Had that lookout seen something? Or had John Tilly himself?
When our meal was finished, I got up. “Diana, change into something—anything—I do not think our troubles are over.”
She wasted no time asking for explanations. Too often in emergencies had I seen people who took the time to ask “Why” not live long enough to receive an answer.
As for myself, I went to my chest and took my two pistols and charged them anew. Then I laid out my sword and thrust a knife into my waistband. What was happening I knew not, but it was best to be prepared, to stand ready for whatever.
Off to the westward would be the Virginia or Maryland coast, how far I did not know and had best learn. Ours was a good vessel, manned by sturdy men, but the best vessel and the best men can meet their match.
When I appeared on deck, the lookout was talking to Captain Tilly. Avoiding them, I walked to the rail and looked all about. I was perfectly aware that the distance one can see from a ship’s deck was limited indeed, not nearly so far as one would believe. At fifteen feet above the water I could see perhaps four and a half miles, and the lookout from the topmast could see no more than ten.
John Tilly left the lookout to return aloft and walked across the deck to me. He noted the arms. “You do well to go armed,” he said quietly. “I believe we shall have trouble.”
“The lookout has seen a ship?”
“No, and that worries me, for there was one close to us in the night.”
“You are sure? What could have become of him?”
“Ah, that is what bothers me, Master Kin. What, indeed? And why? It lacked but an hour or so of dawn when I was awakened. I came on deck, and Tom Carboy—he is my mate—pointed out to me a black shadow of something against the sea. It was some distance off, and by the time I reached the deck, indistinct. I could not make her out, only that there was something.
“Carboy is a good, steady man. He had been watching ahead, for the gale was still blowing, although it had begun to ease somewhat, and some bad cross-seas were running. This is the devil’s own stretch of water, you know, and there are currents that create a very mixed-up sea in some storms. He was alert to what happened, to see her ease into those big seas and not take them on the beam.
“He had his eyes glued to those big ones, and his helmsman was ready to meet them across the bow when he happened to turn around and look astern. It seemed it had been only minutes since he had done so, but there was a ship coming up, overhauling him rapidly, a ship without lights.
“He called me, but something must have alarmed the dark vessel because it seemed to fall back, and by the time I reached the deck, it could not be identified.”
“I do not believe in ghost ships,” I said, “although in these waters—”
“I do not believe in them, either. Yet why a ship showing no lights? Why did she fall back?”
“Where is she now?”
“My lookout can see nothing. Once, when he went aloft for the first time and just after daylight, he thought he glimpsed a topm’st.”
“Then if it is a ship, she may be following us? Hanging back, over the horizon, waiting?”
“That is what I fear. She waits until the darkness of another night, then overtakes us for a sudden surprise attack.”
“A pirate?”
“It may be, or your old friend Pittingel following you still. The Abigail is a good sailer and by most accounts a fast ship, but she is nowhere near as speedy as some of the pirate vessels. Joseph Pittingel has one—the Vestal—that is very fast.”
Again I glanced astern. If she lay back there, twelve or thirteen miles off, she would need three hours to close in, perhaps four. Yet as soon as it became dark, she could begin to move closer, and we would not see her until she was just a short distance off, within cannon shot or nearly so. I liked it not and said so.
“Is there no way we can evade her? Sail toward shore, for example?”
He shrugged. “It might be, but we draw too close in, and we might get caught against a lee shore, and no sailor wishes to sail too close in because of the hazards.”
We stood silent then, each busy with what thoughts he had. Suddenly the bright sea had become a menacing place where danger lurked just beyond the horizon.
“We shall try,” Tilly said at last, “but ’tis a bad shore yonder, and many a fair ship has been trapped there. He would not fall back unless he was sure of his speed.”
“Why did he not attack this morning?”
Tilly shrugged. “It was late. By the time he overtook us, day would be breaking, for as he moved toward us, we were moving away. His chance for surprise was gone.”
Throughout the day we sailed, yet we did more. We cleared the deck for action and made ready the guns. She had fewer guns than in my father’s time, for the weight of them deprived her of cargo.
Tilly kept a man aloft, but he saw nothing, reported nothing. Dusk came, and we made ready. Darkness came at last, and Tilly sent word forward to extinguish all lights. I went below. “Diana? Trouble comes. The light must go out.”
“It is a bother,” she protested. “I was remaking a dress.” She put out the light and in the darkness said, “I shall fix the curtains, then mayhap a little light?”
“None,” I warned her. “None at all. There is a dark ship yonder that will attack, we think, this night. We will move in toward shore, and anything may happen, so be ready.”