Read Chapter 13: The Spanish Pursuit

The wind had shifted to the northeast, and Hartley tasted salt and rain on his tongue as he stood at the Swan's weather rail, watching the horizon astern. For an hour there had been nothing but grey water and the distant smudge of the French coast. He had allowed himself to believe they might slip away.

Then Redmund's voice cracked from the crow's nest like a whip. "Sails! Two of them, off the larboard quarter!"

Hartley snatched the glass from his eye and climbed into the rigging himself, ignoring the protest in his shoulder from the last fight. He braced against the ratlines and trained the lens on the specks. They were hull-down, still distant, but the shape of them was unmistakable—high forecastles, lateen mizzen sails, the lean predatory lines of Spanish warships. Not galleons, something faster. Pataches, likely, sent ahead of the main fleet to retrieve their precious Don.

He dropped back to the deck. "How far?"

"Four leagues, maybe five," Redmund called down. "Gaining on us."

Hartley did the math in his head. The Swan was a merchantman built for cargo, not speed, and she was already wounded below the waterline. The pumps had been going in shifts since they left the Golden Hind's hulk behind, and she was taking on water faster than the crew could bail. If the Spanish pataches closed, they would be outrun and outgunned in an hour.

He turned to Dower, who was standing at the helm. "Bring her up two points. I want every inch of canvas we own."

"We'll tear the masts out."

"Then we'll tear them out. We'll pole the wreck home if we have to. All hands on deck!"

The crew swarmed up the rigging, releasing reefs, hauling sheets. The Swan heeled hard to starboard as the wind bit into her increased sail area, and water sluiced across the deck. The pumps groaned in the hold.

Hartley stood at the rail, watching the Spanish grow against the horizon. They were patient, dogged, using the same wind to run them down. He could see the flash of a signal flag from the lead ship.

"Mr. Redmund, get below. Throw every dead weight over the side—the spare anchors, the spare cordage, the casks. Anything not nailed down."

Redmund's face went sour. "And the men's chests?"

Hartley met his eyes for a hard moment. He had sailed long enough to know what a sailor's chest meant to him—his spare clothes, his tobacco, his small collection of treasures from a dozen ports. Throw a man's chest overboard and you bought his hatred for a month.

But a Spanish prison hulk bought you forever.

"Throw them over. Every man gets a tally of what was lost. I will pay it back out of Plymouth prize money."

"You're buying them cheap twice," Redmund muttered, but he turned and shouted the order down the hatch. A rumble of protest rose from the crew, but Hartley ignored it. He could hear the thunk of chests being dragged up the companionway, then the splash of them going over the side.

The Swan lightened with each splash, rising in the water. He felt her respond, the bow lifting, the stern beginning to ride over the waves instead of plowing through them. The gap to the Spanish grew, but slowly. Too slowly.

He was still watching when Isabel emerged from the main hatch, breathless and pale.

"Cap'n," she said, and her voice was too careful. "There's a problem in the hold."

He did not turn around. "What kind of problem?"

"One of the prisoners. He's gone."

Hartley turned then. The Spanish officers—three of them, including Don Alvaro de Castilla—had been secured in the forward hold, wrists bound, under guard. Hartley had posted a man at the hatch with a pistol and orders to shoot if the prisoners tried anything short of drowning.

"Which one?"

"The young one. The ensign. He got his ropes loose, and there was a moment when the guards were hauling cargo. He slipped out the opening they'd made for the ballast."

"Slipped out," Hartley repeated. "Past two guards."

Isabel's face was a mask. "He's in the water now, I think. He jumped."

Hartley crossed to her with three quick strides, so fast that a few of the crew turned to watch. He towered over her, his voice low and hard. "A man with his hands bound, in a hold full of armed sailors, slips out and throws himself into the sea rather than face delivery to Plymouth as a prisoner?"

"Isabel raised her chin. "He was afraid."

"He was afraid enough to die," he said, and something in her eyes flickered. He had seen it before—that moment when a woman decided to hide something precious behind an unblinking gaze. "Why would he do that, Isabel? Why would he choose the water over a noose he believes is waiting for him?"

"He was my friend," she said. "We grew up in the same village. I knew his family—"

"You grew up in England." Hartley stepped in closer. "I read the manifest of that ship before we cut it loose. The Golden Hind took on her officers at Vigo. How does a girl from Plymouth know an ensign from Vigo?"

Isabel looked away, and the line of her jaw tightened. For a moment Hartley thought she might lie again. But instead, she said, "His mother was English. He grew up in London until he was twelve."

"They use boys like that," Hartley said, "because they know the language. They send them to English ports to learn where the sentries stand, how the tides run."

She did not answer that.

"And you let him go."

"He was my friend, Thomas." It was the first time she had used his first name, and she meant it to soften him. He did not soften. The Spanish sails were still swelling on the horizon.

"Your friend has escaped to warn them of what we carry," Hartley said. "He's swimming to one of those ships, or he's already been picked up. He knows our course, our speed, and the state of our hull. By nightfall the Spanish will know exactly where to find us."

"He will not tell them anything," she said. "I swear it."

"How can you be certain?"

She met his eyes then, and there was something cold at the bottom of her own gaze that he had not seen before. "Because I promised him his life. And I do not break promises."

Hartley stood very still. The wind blew her hair across her face, and she did not push it aside. Behind them, the crew continued to tip cargo over the rail—casks, bundled rope, a broken spar. The Swan moved faster now, but not fast enough.

He thought about Ned, dying on the deck of this very ship, whispering about Spanish spies and hidden maps. He thought about Alvaro's calm face as they had marched him below, and the way he had looked not at Hartley but at Isabel. There had been recognition there, he realized now. A mutual acknowledgment.

"I don't trust you," Hartley said quietly.

"That is wise," she replied. "I would not trust me either."

She turned and walked back toward the hatch, and Hartley watched her go. He wanted to believe she had acted out of sentiment—a childhood friendship, a soft heart for a helpless boy. But the coldness he had seen in her eyes belonged to a woman who had learned to make hard choices long before she ever stepped aboard his ship.

He raised his glass again to the horizon. The Spanish had gained during the exchange. They were close enough now that he could distinguish the crew moving on their decks. He could see the gunports on the lead ship, hatch covers open, cannons run out.

"Mr. Dower," Hartley said, without lowering the glass. "Secure the don's cabin. Double the guard."

A pause came to Dower's voice when he asked, "And the girl?"

Hartley watched the Spanish grow. He was still watching her, too—her shape moving below deck, disappearing into the darker hold where the map lay in its leather satchel.

"Her too," he said.