4

The water of the harbor was warm as milk, but where the river ran in, it turned cold. At the chill, Jan lost his breath; he let go of Pieter’s belt, in front of him. The old man stopped at once to let him catch up.

“Keep close!” The words came in a breathy hiss over the water. “The channel begins here; we have to swim.”

Jan nodded. His chest felt tight and he was shivering. The bottom dropped off under his feet. A tug on the back of his belt yanked him sideways. In front of him Pieter was swimming. They were all swimming. Only Jan’s height kept his feet on the ground and his head above the water; now he missed his footing altogether and the water lapped his chin and he struck out with his arms after his uncle.

They could not hold belts now, but they kept together, so close Jan’s kicking legs brushed the men behind him. He kept his eyes on Pieter’s head, cleaving the dark water ten feet ahead of him.

There were eight men altogether, friends of his uncle; he scarcely knew some of them by name. They didn’t matter to him anyway. All that mattered was the water, the ship lying in the dark ahead of them, and his uncle leading him to it. That and the desire churning in his belly like another soul, which quickened at the thought of blood.

They were coming to the anchorage. The wind ruffled the surface of the water and ran cold as a dead hand over Jan’s hair. A white light bobbed on the shore, a cable length away, but nothing else showed of the town except a clutter of roofs and the church steeple pointing up into the sky. Ahead of the men in the water, the first ships loomed, their masts towering up toward the stars.

The wind was rising. Pieter waved them all into the shelter of the nearest hull.

“Well, boys,” he said, when he had them all together and had counted them, “this is the sticking point. Once we go up on deck, we’re in it to the teeth. If the Spaniards catch us they’ll hang the lot—if they let us live that long. If anybody wants to back out now I don’t blame him, or any with him.”

Nobody said anything. Jan was treading water close by the hull where they had taken shelter; the smell of the ship’s wood, the creak of her anchor cable as she backed off before the wind, laid their impress unforgettably on his fine-tuned nerves. He raised his eyes. High overhead, the vessel’s mainmast yardarms cut the sky into open squares. The main braces bellied out on the wind.

“All right,” Pieter said. “Let’s go. God’s with us: we’re fighting Spaniards.”

He put out his hand to Red Aart. “You keep an eye on that boy, hear?”

“I have him,” the tavern keeper said. Behind him Mouse was paddling like a dog in the water.

They all shook hands. In the dark Jan saw only pale shapes where their faces were. They swam away down the side of the hull and below her overhanging stern.

Ahead of them the Wayward Girl lay at her mooring, quartered away from them, a lantern on her stern showing the merest bead of light. Pieter swam with his head poked up out of the water, his vigorous arms and legs never breaking the surface, and for an old man he swam fast. Jan strained to keep up. Reaching out with his arms at the top of the stroke, he splashed one hand into the air and his uncle hissed at him in reproof, without slackening his pace. The heads of the other men bobbed like corks after him. They were coming into the lee of the ship. Pieter reached her side. Then on the deck above them something moved.

All around Jan there was a sharp gasp; with that deep breath the others sank down under the water, out of sight. Jan lunged for the shelter of the ship’s side, next to his uncle. His hands flat to the fresh smooth paint, he looked straight up and saw a guard, leaning over the rail ten feet above his head, a musket in his hands.

Jan held his breath, thinking of the men out there, under the water. The guard was looking straight at them. If one of them surfaced … An instant later, softly, a dripping head rose from the sea beside him, against the ship’s side.

The musketeer saw nothing. He walked off. They could hear his footstep through the wooden hull inches from their ears.

Pieter yanked on Jan’s sleeve, and the boy slipped away down the side of the ship, toward the bow. The anchor there held the Wayward Girl’s bow into the wind; the ruffled water broke in a steady slap-slap of little waves against her hull. Sliding under the anchor cable, Jan reached up over his head as high as he could, gripped the thick new rope, and climbed hand over hand up toward the bow rail.

With one hand he held the rail; inch by inch he raised his head above the level of the deck and looked around.

There in front of him on the foredeck was one of the new guns, drawn back on its carriage and lashed down to cleats on the deck. Her brass shone through the dark like an angel’s wing; he could smell the new rope of her tackles. He swept a look across the foredeck and the waist of the ship. The sterncastle was three steps up from the main deck. Directly in front of the steps, by the wheel, was the sentry, leaning on his musket.

Jan’s guts tightened. He slipped back down from the rail to the anchor rope and down the anchor rope to the water, where his uncle and the others were waiting.

“I see him,” he said. “Give me the knife.”

Pieter scrubbed his hand over his face. “Where is he?”

“Give me the knife!”

The old man looked up, startled at his tone. After a moment, his face drawn long, he put the knife into Jan’s hand.

Jan hung it carefully on his belt by the thong around its haft and climbed back up the anchor cable; just below the deck the angle of the cable took him within reach of the bottom of the bowsprit, and he scrambled up across it into the space beside the brass gun.

He had never seen a weapon this size. One hand stroked the long barrel. The metal was much smoother than skin.

The sentry was coming forward, his musket in the crook of his arm. Jan crouched beside the long gun and watched him. He was a short, stout man, the sentry, maybe not even Spanish. He stopped in the waist near the mast and turned to look over the side. Jan ran one finger along the blade of the knife at his belt; he unhitched the thong and with the knife low in one hand he moved bent-legged down the deck to the mast.

Only a few feet away the sentry was relieving himself over the side of the ship. Jan tapped on the mast with the haft of his knife.

The soldier wheeled around, the musket flat in his hands. “Who’s—” Jan grabbed the barrel of the gun and yanked it out of his grasp. For an instant, still with fear, the sentry looked stupidly into his face. Jan smiled at him. When the sentry’s mouth fell open in a shout, Jan plunged the knife up to the hilt in his chest.

Pieter was already hauling himself up over the bow rail; puffing, his eyes narrow with suspicion, he trotted up the deck toward Jan. “What the hell are you doing, boy-o?” Leaning over the rail, he beckoned the others up.

Jan took the knife out of the sentry’s chest. Liking the musket, he unbuckled the dead man’s belt to get the fittings for it and took the sword as well. Pieter and the others were wandering around the ship, looking over the rigging and the guns and opening up the hatches. Jan threw the sentry’s body over the rail and went looking for his uncle.

“Call them together. We have to work fast.”

Pieter stuck his fists on his hips. “This is my ship, boy-o.”

Jan shifted the musket and the sentry’s belt into his left hand. “Yes, sir.”

“You remember that.” The old man stuck his chin out. In an undertone, he said, “I saw you take that guard. You and I will do very well together, but I intend to give the orders. You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Jan said.

“Now, let’s get out of here.” Pieter tramped away toward the stern.

Jan stowed the musket and his other trophies against a bulkhead and went to inspect the amidships guns. He felt wonderful; no matter what happened now, he knew he would triumph. He leaned against one of the portside guns, his hand cupped over a brass turning, and waited for the next thing to happen.

“All hands,” Pieter shouted, from the stern deck.

The other men were scattered around the ship. At his yell, they looked around, startled and curious, but nobody moved. Like his nephew they needed some discipline. He filled his lungs with breath and began to bellow orders.

“Marten, Willem—man the mainsail halyards. Flippo, Mark, the jib halyards—”

Instead of doing as he bid they were rushing toward him, in a mass, their mouths full of argument. Only Jan stood silent and watched and waited.

“Pieter!” Marten Lamsbrok ran at him, his finger jabbing the air. “The wind’s dead foul! Why spread sail? Let’s hull her and go home. We can’t—”

“Jan,” Pieter called. “Bring that musket.”

The others watched with their eyes popping as Jan climbed the poop steps, the long gun over his shoulder like an ax.

“Ah, well,” Pieter said, setting his fists on his hips. He glanced at his oversized nephew, who came to stand at his shoulder. “I’ll start over again, boys, and this time you’ll do it, or, by Cock, the fellow here with the bang stick will see you never do anything else.” His voice swelled to a roar. “Marten! Willem! Man the mainsail halyards!”

They jumped. Marten and Willem van Zook had sailed before on the Wayward Girl under Pieter and their good turn of foot gave the others an example. Pieter sent a man to the anchor; he looked quickly all around the harbor. There were men sleeping on deck on the galleon, and several lights on the shore, and, more alarming, there was a light at the mouth of the harbor, where the shore battery was mounted. Against his cheek the wind was backing around to the north. He pursed his lips. By now the tide would be sliding back down the river mouth into the sea.

“Up anchor!” He glanced at Jan, beside him, engrossed in the musket. “Can you work that Devil’s poker?”

“I can’t tell if it’s loaded.”

Pieter laughed, short. “Well, boy-o, we’ll find out soon enough.” He laid one hand on the big young man’s shoulder. “Soon enough.” The anchor was coming up; the tension on the cable had pulled the ship forward a little, her bow aimed deeper into the harbor, past the galleon.

“Up the jib,” Pieter shouted.

“Pieter, you old fool,” someone shouted, and Pieter gripped his nephew’s arm.

“Shoot over their heads.”

Without hesitation Jan brought the musket to his shoulder and fired. The blast resounded across the deck and over the water. The muzzle flame licked out into the dark like a fiery tongue. Down in the bow the men wailed; the three-cornered jib sail went shrilling up the mast.

“There, now,” Pieter said.

The sail filled and drew, as the men tugged the braces in to keep the canvas face to the wind, and sweetly the Wayward Girl answered the urging. Pieter cast a quick look around them. The galleon still lay between them and the channel; it looked dark and inert, but deeper in the anchorage a small boat was rowing through the lesser ships, and lights moved and people shouted on the deck of a galley only a cable length from Pieter.

He shouted, “Shake out the mainsail!”

Jan was bent over the musket, trying to fit a patch into the muzzle, but he wasn’t needed now; the men leapt to the halyards, and the huge new mainsail cracked open, falling wide from the jack yard on the mast. Pieter let out his breath, exhilarated.

On the galley there was a shout, and a drumbeat.

“Man the sheets!” Pieter went to the edge of the stern deck, above the wheel. “Jan, take the helm.” He looked up the harbor, toward the distant sea. The wind blew full in his face. More than the wind against him, he feared the three big cannon mounted on the shore. He gripped the rail, looking down at his nephew’s head as the young man took the wheel.

The ship was moving handily through the water now, headed dead away from the mouth of the harbor; she would pass astern of the dark galleon. The mainsail was luffing a little, which surprised old Pieter, until he remembered that the weight of the new cannon had the ship out of trim. He licked his lips. Ahead the river poured into the harbor.

“Luff off all sail!”

They jumped to the braces and let the sheets fly, spilling the wind out of the canvas. With the wind off her the ship lost her liveliness. She seemed to die slowly, or fall asleep. On the last of her forward momentum, she glided into the onrushing river current, and the forceful water bore her away down toward the sea.

Now they understood, Pieter’s crew, and a rough cheer went up.

“Hands to the braces,” Pieter roared.

Jan looked up at him, his face solemn. “Here comes that other ship.”

The old man was watching the far shore slip by, judging the ship’s speed downriver. The tide was ebbing strongly. The ship was swinging slowly around in the broad tug of the current, and he called an order to trim the jib. When the wind turned the ship broadside to the current again, he spared a look over his shoulder at the galley.

The harbor master’s ship was putting out her oars. In a ragged line the blades rose dripping into the air, flashing and sparkling in the light of the lanterns at her poop and forecastle. Slowly she moved out of her anchorage. Free of the wind, she could pass the galleon on the bow side, cutting in half the margin between her and the Wayward Girl. Pieter bit his lips. He drummed his fists on his thighs. Abruptly, one hand on the rail of the poop deck, he vaulted down to the waist beside Jan.

“Get that musket ready. I’ll take the wheel.”

Jan reached down at his feet for the gun. “What do you suppose the range is with this thing?”

“You see that culverin in the galley’s bow?” Pieter hung his arms over the wheel spokes, keeping the ship steady as he could. He squinted to see forward through the bustle on the deck. “Just don’t let them fire on us with that culverin.”

“Yes, sir,” Jan said.

The Wayward Girl was slowly losing speed. The current nudged her off to the side. Pieter’s legs tingled, as they often did when he was frightened. What an ass he was, to give up his house and his jug of liquor for this wretched life again. He yelled to his crew to trim the jib.

While he was bringing the ship up into the current again, someone on the foredeck saw the galley.

“They’re chasing us!”

All the men but two dropped their work and ran to the rail to see. Pieter roared, “Luff off. Luff off, damn you! Jan—”

The men rushed back to their work. Pieter cast a quick look over his shoulder. Jan had gone up onto the stern deck; he was laying out the powder flask, the sack of musket balls, the patches, and kneeling began to load the musket. Pieter’s gaze changed its angle. The galley was coming on, her oars rising and falling like wings. Within minutes she would have the Wayward Girl within range of her bow gun.

Pieter gave a yell of rage. His men had finally taken the wind out of the ship’s jib, but too late; her way would carry her upriver a little now, closer to the galley, while the rowed ship like an arrow coursed down the tideway at their flank.

“Jan,” he shouted. “Keep watch!” Despairing, he flung a look ahead of them, at the narrow mouth of the harbor, where the shore guns hid in the dark.

“She’s firing,” Jan called.

There was a boom from the galley. A moment later the ball whisked through the air and a fountaining splash shot up from the black water to starboard.

“Don’t let them fire on us!” Pieter danced on the deck, spitting with rage as he shouted. “One good shot and we’re hulled!”

“She’s too far away still.” Jan stood calmly looking over the rail at the oncoming galley.

The galley was sweeping down on them. With the Wayward Girl nearly broadside to her, she had an enormous target to fire on. Pieter gritted his teeth. He longed for his little fire and his gin. In the light of the galley’s forecastle lantern he could see the men working around the big culverin, loading, running her forward, standing up with the slow match—

“Jan,” he shrieked.

The culverin thundered smoke and flame. Pieter’s whole body tensed, waiting, waiting for the blow. The hiss in the air sounded almost overhead. He whirled; the white eruption of the water where the shot hit burst up on the far side of the ship, a scant two fathoms off. They had fired completely over the ship. They were aiming high, trying to disable the Wayward Girl so that they could recapture her.

“Jan!”

The boy raised the musket to his shoulder. The Wayward Girl was nearly to the mouth of the harbor, now, still turned broadside to the current and to the pursuing galley. The stink of sulfur crossed the water to Pieter’s nose. In the forecastle of the galley the men bent over the cannon, so close he could see the gleam of sweat on their naked shoulders. The bore of the culverin like a preacher’s mouth was round with fulminations.

“Jan—”

The boy lifted one hand to him to wait.

Farther away, in another direction, there was another low boom, like summer thunder. Pieter wheeled, his hair standing on end. They had come under the shore battery’s fire. He peered toward the dark hilly headland between the harbor and the sea. Where that shot went, he could not tell, and he saw nothing; his back tingled in expectation of the next.

On the galley they ran the gun forward into firing position, and the man with the slow match stepped forward. Jan raised the musket neatly to his shoulder and shot the gunner through the chest.

Pieter emptied his lungs in a yell. His nephew grabbed the ramrod. On the galley’s forecastle the gun crew was milling around; someone shouted angry orders in Spanish, and then in Dutch. “Shoot! Shoot!” Jan flung down the ramrod and poured gunpowder into the musket.

From the shore battery came another dull thump. Pieter held his breath. He flung a wild look around him, looking for the ball that could come from anywhere, and saw to his surprise that they were in the mouth of the harbor now, the open sea only yards away.

“Hands to the braces!”

The galley’s gun banged, so close that the smoke from the culverin rolled across the water and enveloped the stern of the Wayward Girl. Pieter coughed, blinking his fogged eyes; Jan loomed through the smoke, the musket to his shoulder, unmoving, and fired.

There was a shriek from the galley. The Spanish officer fell in a long dive over the rail into the sea.

There was another low boom from the shore battery. Pieter ducked; he heard the whistle of the shot passing close beside his ship. Between him and the galley, the water suddenly burst upward into a volcano of white spray. Jan yelled in triumph and delight, dancing on the poop deck. The white water subsided. Behind it the galley rolled helpless in the thrashing wave, half its bow gone.

“Mainsail,” Pieter cried, his voice hoarse with relief. “Trim her down!”

The crew hauled in the mainsail sheets; into the taut belly of the sail the wind poured its strength, and the ship grew light and quick in the water. The shore battery boomed again, but, perhaps distracted by the calamity it had brought upon its own galley, it sent its shot way wide. On the foredeck of the Wayward Girl the men were dancing and hugging one another and cheering. Pieter cranked the wheel over.

“Prepare to wear ship!”

Jan sprang down to his side. “Are we out? Are we free?”

Pieter was looking forward, past the wild celebrations on the deck, toward the broad flat horizon of water unbroken by any land. “Yes,” he said.

Jan clapped him on the back, and Pieter put out his hand and gripped the boy’s arm in rough proud affection. They brought the ship around on a broad reach and sailed away into the masterless sea.