Chase the Morning

‘There is against Wolves,’ objected Jyp. ‘When they’ve been handling them since their cradles, or whatever they have instead.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Got it! A boarding axe. That’ll help with the climb, too. And I’ve some duds for you.’

‘Won’t these do?’ I was wearing a lightweight windcheater, silk-lined, and activity trousers, expensive and tough.

‘Sure, if you want your pretty patch pockets hanging off every nail and splinter on their hull, and yourself arriving stark naked. No, what’s best is heavy canvas like the lads wear, or merhorse hide like me an’ Mall; pricey but strong. You and I are close on the same size; you can have my spares.’

Merhorse hide? I peered suspiciously at what Pierce’s servant brought. It was blacker than the night, felt softer than it looked, and faintly furry, like moleskin only less so. It had a faint but disturbing smell, oily and bitter.

‘Try it,’ Mall suggested, looking inscrutable.

Evidently there wasn’t much point in being coy around here, so I slid out of my clothes on the spot and tugged on the strange breeches and shirt. They turned out to be slightly elastic, so they made a very good fit, especially when topped off with a broad belt and the light running boots I’d been wearing. The sleeveless shirt left me shivering slightly in the keen night air, but I had an uncomfortable idea I’d be warming up soon. At least the boarding axe I was given turned out to be much the size and weight of an ice-axe, with the same long spike behind the head; Jyp explained this could be hooked into planks and other holds for climbing, while the blade would cut the netting strung along the rails to hinder boarding. Pierce lent me a long knife and the promised pistol, a little two-barreled flintlock affair he showed me how to cock – gingerly, because it was already loaded; it felt nothing like the pistols I’d fired on a range, and it unnerved me. Mall chipped in then, fastening an ornate brocade headband like her own round my brows.

‘Thanks!’ I said, thinking how I must look and beginning to feel incredibly piratical. ‘Some sweatband!’

‘It’s a little more, maybe. You’ll need what –’

‘Deck! Deck!’ Our heads shot up like chicks in a nest. ‘She’s a Wolf! A howlin’ bloody Wolf!’

‘Be you sure, man?’ bellowed Pierce. ‘What’s her flag?’

‘No flag! But I see her lanterns!’

Pierce snapped the trumpet back in its rack with a satisfied click, and leaned over the rail. ‘Mr Mate! Clear for action! Hands to their stations!’

‘Her lanterns?’ I asked Jyp, peering at the distant dot that was all I could make out – no more than her mastheads, probably.

‘You’ll see!’ he said tersely, as the decks drummed under the impact of running feet. We drew back from the rail a moment as sailors came streaming up to man the quarterdeck guns.

Pierce was glaring aggrievedly through his huge brass telescope. ‘What the devil’s the matter with ’em ahead there? You’d think they’d be running out their guns the moment we hove in sight, but damme if they’re so much as astir!’

‘Maybe they’re trying to look innocent,’ I suggested.

Pierce rumbled his dissent. ‘I fear not, sir. If I spied any sail so hot on my slot, I’d run out my guns as a mere caution – and my conscience is less burdened than any Wolf’s, I’ll warrant. And see how they’ve shortened sail for the night! I’ll wager the rascals never dreamed they’d be pursued, and they’ve set no more than a deck watch – not one mastheader, the idle bastards. What say you, sailing master?’

‘That’s it! And the lookouts half asleep by this hour, and with the lanterns in their eyes!’ Jyp pounded the taffrail excitedly. ‘Hell, that’s the chance we need! All we’ve got to do is wait for the moonset before closing. If they haven’t spotted us already, they won’t now!’

‘Very well!’ said Pierce. ‘But we’ll leave naught to chance. Mr Mate! You may give the order to load!’

The whole ship quivered suddenly with a muted thunder. On the decks and down below the massive guns were being run in for loading, great lumps of iron or bronze a tonne or more in weight on wheeled wooden carriages festooned with ropes and chains to restrain them. Their crews skipped around them in a controlled flurry, moving with the ease of long experience, while the Master Gunner, a limping, sallow little man with a shock of black hair and dark malign eyes, ran from each to each inspecting them. ‘Loaded an’ ready, sir!’ he shouted back.

‘Very good, Mr Hands!’ Pierce drummed his fingers on his thighs a moment. ‘Stand ready, but don’t run ’em out yet! We’ll save our fire till we close, eh, sailing master?’

‘Don’t want to waste that first salvo!’ agreed Jyp, and explained: ‘While the guns are properly loaded and we’ve time to aim. Things get kind of sloppier when you’re under fire.’

‘I can imagine!’ I said fervently. ‘But – firing – won’t that put Clare in danger?’