A DASH OF A PENCIL LAID DOWN A COURSE IN THE MASTER’S CABIN, THE ship was put about briskly, but the winds were not so easily put in train. Through the middle watch, Enterprise piled on all the sail she could carry—topgallants, royals, and even topgallant studdingsails—but when dawn came, she still had no great way on. As the day broadened, the lookouts strained their eyes, but the horizon revealed only thunderclouds and Venus fading in the western darkness.
Eight bells, loud and clear; the crew came on deck and stowed hammocks, most peering up at the masthead lookouts. Judging by their calm silence it was quickly known that the horizon was empty of ships. A half-hearted thunderstorm came up, and Nolan sat with Beazee under the companionway, watching the water run off the luffing sails.
The air about the ship seemed charged, not so much with impatience but with a general sort of cheerfulness. All hands knew that Enterprise was on the hunt, and breakfast was punctuated with gusts of laughter. It was Thursday, make-and-mend day, and by the time the sun came fully up the spar deck was crowded with sailors carrying bundles of slops, ditty bags, pea jackets, and laundry. Some hands mended, others washed. Younger hands gathered about the old salts, learning basic stitches and the fine embroidery required for the bowls, legs, and serifs of letters to be embroidered on hat ribbons.
Almost all the officers were in their oldest working uniforms, some even wearing red liberty caps. The captain himself came on deck in trousers and shirtsleeves, taking his turn on the holy windward side of the quarterdeck. Pelles leaned over the hammock netting, sipping coffee and glancing from the horizon to the lookouts with a calculating expression. Laundry hung about on lines put up between the masts. This naturally gave the ship a slovenly, disordered appearance, and though it was a necessary part of shipboard life, there wasn’t a hand on board who cared for his frigate to be seen with drawers, nightshirts, and stockings festooning her decks.
Pelles’ eyes narrowed as he watched the general milling about. During a second cup of coffee he gestured for the officer of the deck, Mister Leslie, and said something quietly. Wainwright, overhearing, grinned with frank delight then bounded down the quarterdeck ladder. Scooting around piles of clothing, Wainwright ran down the main hatchway and at once into the sailmaker’s cabin. Sailors looked up and grinned as the boy loped by, his excited happiness passing from man to man like kindling taking light.
Curran came up the main hatchway fresh from a collision with the highvelocity midshipman.
“I have never seen Wainwright move so quickly,” said Nolan. “Has he been threatened with death?”
“He ploughed into me on the ladder way, the creature,” said Curran. He had been belowdecks and had heard Wainwright squeak to the sailmaker, “The Old Mogul says we are going to ship the mirkins!”
There was laughter aloft from the lookouts, a rare breach of discipline that was quickly corrected by Mister Leslie.
“The crew is very much amused,” Nolan said.
Curran smiled. “I think we will soon be amusing the enemy.”
Nolan and Curran watched as mending and making were gradually forsaken and every man of the first division went forward and helped carry a series of large, folded sheets of canvas up from the hold. The word spilled up on deck, bringing more laughter and winks with it. There was a good deal of merriment and a rude comment about cookie dusters and the bo’sun’s daughter’s whiskers.
Nolan, at a loss, said finally, “If ‘mirkin’ is a nautical word, I am not sure I’ve heard it before.”
“It is a word, to be sure. But it’s not nautical. Not in its usual usage. It’s fairly apt in this case, though, and the crew obviously is delighted in pronouncing it.”
“Pray, what does it mean?”
“I am almost embarrassed to say, Mister Nolan. A mirkin is a wig, a sort of distaff toupee that is used to . . . I am not sure I know how to put it.”
“I was a soldier once, Mister Curran. You need not be delicate.”
“Well, then, it is a hairpiece, used to adorn a woman’s pudendum.”
Nolan raised his eyebrows. “A wig, sir?”
“Exactly. Hussar’s whiskers, as it were.”
“Are you practicing on me, sir?”
“I am not. Have you not heard the crew tittering the ridiculous word?”
Captain Pelles called from the quarterdeck rail: “Mister Erskine, we will strike topgallants and stun’sails, and secure the booms. Then furl everything but topsails and fore staysails. But I want it done in a lubberly manner. Gaskets like a rat’s nest, and a loose bunt.”
“Aye, sir, a mess it is.”
On a man o’war, deliberate squalor was unthinkable, but the order was carried out with delighted zeal. Set among the yards and tops, the crewmen who scrambled aloft were eager with a sort of conspiratorial glee.
“Shipping the mirkin is a bit of seagoing wit,” said Curran, “and one, I believe, that is peculiar to the crew of Enterprise. I would not have known what it meant had I not been run over by Mister Wainwright as he went forward.”
Nolan stood with his arms crossed, looking forward in a noncommittal way. Aloft, the yards were set conspicuously askew, and port and starboard men set about hanging the strips of canvas over the side and lacing them into place.
“Pray go on,” said Nolan.
Curran continued, “I believe that a mirkin was used to make a certain body part appear more . . . shall we say, eligible. I was told belowdecks that this evolution is one of a number of stratagems, or even pranks, the captain plays upon his adversaries.”
“Am I to think this is all some sort of ruse de guerre?”
“It is. They are rigging the cloth over the side to cover the gun ports. Merchant ships often hang painted canvas on their sides so that they might be mistaken for men-of-war—or at least vessels more heavily armed than themselves. See the folded bundles of sailcloth they are rigging forward? They have been painted to almost exactly match the color of the hull. I say ‘almost exactly’ because the bo’suns have taken great care to mix the paint so that it does not quite match. See it is of a lighter shade, actually gray-blue, using indigo instead of black to match the hull . . . ”
“Why would we assume such an obviously transparent disguise?”
“That is the point. They are being hung slightly off the plumb. It is meant to be obviously . . . well, fraudulent.”
Nolan looked about. Now that topgallant booms were stowed and the cloth pulled almost neatly across the gun ports, Enterprise had taken on a casual, slovenly air. Laundry and scuttlebutts were scattered about the deck, and the sagging clotheslines completed the transformation of a warship into a fat, lazy merchantman.
“Then our disguise is that of a merchant pretending to be a frigate?”
“Just so. That is why the colors of the canvas are so obviously wrong—within reason, but not quite the thing. Faded, mind you. It is not likely we would meet a pirate who would willingly take on Enterprise, at least not in single-ship combat. But a China ship—especially one homebound—well, for a pirate I reckon that would be almost irresistible.”
“I am astonished.”
“Mister Nolan, I am too.”
In her tattered camouflage Enterprise continued north by west. Though her yards were askew she was conned with the greatest attention, her sails trimmed exactly, and aside from the circus on deck, the ship continued to function with exact naval precision. At noon the crewmembers mustered by divisions, presented their clothing and persons to be inspected—freshly scrubbed and in good order—and then were piped to dinner. The watch changed; the midshipmen sweated over their noon plots, and supper came at six bells.
In a saffron-colored dusk the lookouts and even a few volunteers went aloft, but the sea around the ship remained stubbornly and most emphatically empty.
AN UNEVENTFUL NIGHT, THEN DAY, AND NEVER A SAIL ON THE HORIZON. THE watches were called and changed and night came on again. The sun slipped under as a red gibbous moon rose in the east. Enterprise ghosted along under all plain sail, the wind having veered in the first dogwatch. To the south, lightning grumbled and crashed below a glowering thunderhead. The ship was quiet. Belowdecks the starboard watch snored away, and above the rigging whispered softly. The ship sailed on, glass after glass, the watch touching neither sheet nor brace.
Curran walked the quarterdeck, scanning to windward with his night glass. It was a hazy darkness, very black under the storm clouds and mottled where the moon shone through. Now and again a streak of lightning went through the gloom, pricking the eyes of the watch and revealing Mister Wainwright dozing on one of the aft carronades, his hands deep in his pockets and his chin on his chest.
In the yellow-orange light of the binnacle, one of the Bannon brothers steered the ship. Beside him, a Marine stood as still and silent as a bollard. At four bells, Curran roused Wainwright and had him toss the log: three knots and two fathoms; steerageway and not much more. Curran considered setting more sail, but with a squall booming away to the south it did not seem worth putting men aloft just to send them up again twenty minutes later to reef. Water whispered down the side, and Wainwright returned to his spot on the gun carriage. Curran resumed his steady pace to and fro, and when he had gone three times from taffrail to helm he stopped.
Stephen Bannon noticed the officer’s short halt at once, and while the Marine remained stationary, the quartermaster inclined his head. Curran glanced to windward and then walked to the empty larboard hammock nets. The wind came in short, irregular puffs, occasionally west of north. Curran turned and his eyes found Bannon’s. He said nothing but his expression formed a question mark.
Curran looked aft and said, “Mister Wainwright.” And then again: “Midshipman Wainwright.” A shadow stirred on the carronade slide, mumbling something that sounded like a girl’s name. The Marine of the watch stepped out of the darkness and came back toward the wheel, propelling the midshipman as respectfully as possible by his collar.
“I was just coming over, sir,” Wainwright yawned. His face was pink in the binnacle’s light.
“Mister Wainwright. Please give the captain my compliments and ask him if it would be convenient to join us on the quarterdeck.”
Wainwright’s eyes and mouth became a perfect set of Os. “What for?” he sputtered. Curran gave the boy a withering look. Wainwright quickly assembled his sleep-numbed wits. “I mean, is there anything wrong?”
“If there was something wrong, Midshipman Wainwright, I am certain that you would be the last person aboard this ship to apprehend it.”
“Why do you want to wake the skipper?”
Curran was scanning the horizon again with his glass. The Marine made a warning face at the midshipman, but Wainwright was too sleepy to see it. “Mister Curran, I don’t see why—”
“Mister Wainwright, would you care to spend the rest of the watch towed behind the ship on a hatch cover?”
Wainwright scooted down the companionway three steps at a time. At the wheel, Stephen Bannon stole a glance out to windward. Lightning bloomed, illuminating the sea almost to the horizon. Then all returned to black and gray. Curran held his glass on a point to windward.
“What is it, sir?”
“I don’t know, Bannon.”
In a moment Captain Pelles came onto the quarterdeck, barefoot and dressed in a nightshirt. The left arm of his gown flapped in the breeze, making him look like a specter. The captain went immediately toward the binnacle, peered into the compass dome and then ran his eyes over the log board.
“Who is the officer of the deck?” he asked.
“I am, Captain.” Curran stepped forward, touching his hat. “Good morning, sir. I am sorry to have disturbed you. I know this may sound unusual. I have not made a sighting, but I am pretty sure there is another vessel about.”
“Are you clairvoyant, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir,” Curran paused. “I think I smell something.”
Standing behind the Marine, Wainwright’s face went gray.
“When I was a boy with my father in the Levant, off Smyrna—I never forgot it. I never will forget it,” Curran said. “A blackbirder, sir. A slave ship.”
All of them could sense it now. What before had been an unknown, slightly unpleasant impression was suddenly, very plainly, an odor. Shit, sweat, and misery wafting toward them from somewhere in the dark. Pelles turned to windward and stood for a few moments, his steel gray hair flowing around his head. Off to starboard, thunder made a guttural rattle out in the dark. Pelles called for his night glass and had the running lights extinguished.
Above Enterprise the sky was pitch, but ahead the moon poked through the clouds, thrusting down shafts of weak, colorless light. The captain laid his telescope over the empty hammock netting and scanned the horizon, concentrating on the dark sweep of sea to windward. Lightning tore the skies again, branch and bough, and the sea around the ship jumped up emerald green.
In the tops, the lookouts had kept a keen watch and a voice came out of the wind: “On deck, there is a light on the larboard bow.”
The captain’s voice easily reached the lookout. “Where away?”
“Three points forward of the larboard beam, sir,” said the disembodied voice. “Now there’s topsails, sir. I can just see them on the rise.”
Curran stood beside the captain, straining his own eyes, and in a dull, far-off flicker of lightning he caught sight of a pyramid of silver—a ship-rigged vessel under plain sail. The stranger’s stern lights winked white and yellow as she ploughed on, dead north. Enterprise was approaching from her starboard quarter. Curran knew, as Pelles did, that on this dirty night Enterprise might get very close indeed before she was ever seen.
“Orders, Captain?” Curran said.
Pelles rubbed his face then snatched up the flapping, empty arm of his nightgown. “Rouse the starboard watch, Mister Curran. We’ll come to quarters. Have the gun cloths removed, but quietly, no drums.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Pelles handed his night glass to Wainwright. “Be so kind as to wake my steward, Mister Wainwright. I think I’ll be wanting some trousers.”
Within five minutes the starbolines were turned out of their hammocks, some still frowzy with sleep, but all of them willing. Now Pelles’ firm leadership showed its splendid power. The hammocks went into the nettings and the guns were quickly manned. Puddenings and dolphins were sent aloft. The master assumed the conn, the decks were damped and sanded, shot garlands and splinter netting were laid just so, and canvas screens were placed over the magazine hatches. It was a marvel to Curran how efficiently the frigate went from slumber to readiness for battle; in the span of a few minutes Enterprise had gone to general quarters in near perfect darkness, with no fuss and almost no noise. The captain’s steward helped Pelles into his second-best uniform coat, the one the crew called his “fightin’ duds.” Erskine came onto the quarterdeck, found the captain in the light of the binnacle, and said, “All guns manned and ready, Captain.”
“Very well, Mister Erskine. You may go forward and see to your division. We may have some excitement yet.”
“One can hope, sir,” the executive officer said. With a bow to Curran, Erskine tromped down the ladder and below.
Above the maintop, Saturn showed briefly through the murk. Around the smudged glow of the planet the sky was thick; to the north, a lump of moon hovered above within a hand’s breadth of the horizon. Enterprise went on under courses and staysails.
Lightning struck the top of a far-away crest, framing the chase in silver. Curran could see that the stranger was nearly the size of a frigate, with a pale, yellow hull and a crimson band along her gun ports. As Enterprise passed downwind, her decks were swept with the reek of the distant ship. Sometimes the smell that came to them was like that of a barn—sometimes it was the more pungent reek of human filth. In the gloom, it was possible for a few of the keener noses to tell the bearing of the chase by the power of the stink.
A rain squall descended, hissing and smoothing the swell. Standing from them on a larboard tack, the stranger was close-hauled and made changes to neither sail nor course as the rain came down. Her gun ports remained closed, marking her as supremely confident, or utterly foolish. When the squall lifted, a pair of gilded stern lights and a gaudy top light loomed out of a lifting curtain, not six hundred yards to windward.
Leaning over the rail at number fourteen, Billy Vanhall smirked, “And she looks like a Baltimore whorehouse.” Two or three of his shipmates thought, You should know, but only one said it aloud, judging his volume so the crack did not reach the quarterdeck.
“Mister Pybus,” Pelles said, “wear, clew up topsails, and we shall catch her wake. Lay me within pistol shot.”
The sail trimmers sprang from their guns; courses, topsails, and jibs were quickly put right, and the frigate went about in a smooth, sure arc. The few visible stars turned overhead as Enterprise crossed the stranger’s wake, her bow surging deep and coming up sharply as Pybus put the helm over. Tack after tack, Pybus pointed her up as far as she would go, nursing every inch to windward. Willed on by four hundred predatory souls, the frigate closed on her prey, pouncing from cloud shadow to squall line, sure and silent.
“Stand by the clew lines,” Pelles said. “Gunners, prime your pieces.”
The order was repeated in hoarse whispers. Enterprise continued to close: a hundred yards, and then fifty—still no hail.
“Let fall!” Pelles called out. The topsails bloomed, the frigate surged deep into the furrow of the stranger’s wake and closed hard on the stranger’s quarter. By the time Mister Pybus eased the helm Enterprise was within fifty yards, and finally she was seen.
Aboard the chase, there was consternation; one of the stern lights went out, and then the other. The chase made to hoist some sort of flag—it went halfway up and fouled in the halyard. Curran could see the ship’s gun ports opening in ones and twos, some darkened, some lit, and there was a disorganized waggling of lanterns on deck. Trying to signal was a fool’s errand; Enterprise was ranging fast on the starboard quarter, now only twenty yards away.
As Enterprise crossed the ship’s wake, the frigate’s towering sails ate the wind out of the stranger’s canvas—the mains and courses of the chase flapped and luffed, suddenly slack and dismayed.
Pelles pulled himself onto the quarterdeck rail and threaded his right arm through the mizzen shrouds. Aiming the speaking trumpet he bawled: “What ship is that?”
An answer came back, “What ship is that?”
Pelles jerked the speaking trumpet. “Enterprise! What ship is that?” There was no response.
Gloomy shapes flitted across the stranger’s decks. Curran could make out a circle of men gathered in the glow of a binnacle; the shadows seemed to be arguing. The ships continued parallel, twenty yards apart. Spray flew on board from waves redoubled between the hulls.
Pelles snarled into the trumpet, “If you do not give me a proper answer, I shall put a shot into you.”
Again the voice came out of the darkness: “If you fire, we will return a broadside.”
Atop the hammock netting, Pelles went rigid with fury. He roared, “For the last time. What bloody fucking ship is that?”
“His Britannic Majesty’s ship Donegal. Send your boat aboard . . . ”
Curran could now plainly detect an accent—English was not the speaker’s mother tongue.
Pelles jerked his head toward the conn. “Mister Leslie, give them a rocket.”
The flint clinked, and tinder caught under the fuse. With a screaming howl a flare ripped out of the signal rack and tore into the darkness. Dragging a trail of sparks, the cone ignited and came down smoking under a scrap of linen.
What the flare revealed was no British frigate. Two-thirds the length of Enterprise, the yellow-hulled ship looked like a slattern—cargo strewn about, guns half-manned, confusion in the rigging aloft. Looking down on her decks, Curran could see crewmen frozen in postures of duty or panic—bewildered as the flare light pinched their eyes.
“Run them out, Mister Erskine!” Pelles barked.
Enterprise’s gun ports flashed open; the frigate’s entire larboard battery thrust out and thumped against the side. The muzzles of fourteen 29-pound cannon scowled down at the squalid foreigner.
Pelles took aim with the speaking trumpet. “This is the United States frigate Enterprise, Captain Arthur Pelles commanding, and I will be goddamned before I send a boat aboard any piss-pot blackbirder.” The flare hissed scorn, and Enterprise threw rectangular shadows over the twitching sea. “Send a boat and your papers aboard me at once, or I will blow you out of the water.”
THE YELLOW SHIP WAS NAMED AZÓLA, A SHIP-SLOOP BELONGING TO KING JOÃO VI of the United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil, and the Algarves. Her appearance and readiness did not do His Christian Majesty any credit, but Azóla managed to put a boat over without delay after she had heaved to under the frigate’s lee.
An officer came up the gangway briskly, and MacQuarrie’s Marines presented arms with precisely measured insolence. Curran was surprised when the officer removed his chapeau; though he had come up the side like a boy, he was a gray, wizened man of sixty. On his red coat he wore a pair of heavily embroidered epaulets and the blue-and-white star of the Military Order of St. John. Pelles did not return the officer’s salute, deeming the Marines’ courtesy sufficient. Looking about with somber, intelligent eyes, the officer bowed and said in a melancholy voice, “Je m’appelle Don Diego Paulo Sula, capitaine de la frigate Azóla. Votre servant, capitaine.”
“Don, is it?” Pelles muttered.
Captain Paulo Sula replaced his hat and touched a sailcloth envelope tucked under his thin arm. The old man went on a bit in lisping, accented French. Pelles understood only English and enough Italian to support a love of opera. He was never impressed by flattery, and looked at Curran impatiently for a translation.
Between the accent and the man’s wheezing, scratchy voice, Curran could understand only a few pleasantries and the word “papiers.” “Captain Paulo Sula regrets that his English is poor. He expresses his compliments and asks if he might present his ship’s papers.”
Pelles inclined his head as though considering a fly in his soup. “You may speak to him below, Mister Curran. I am to be told at once if there is the least irregularity in his documents.”
Don Paulo Sula bowed, apparently not comprehending, and Pelles returned a tight-lipped frown. The Portuguese officer was led down the main companion-way, not to the great cabin as he expected but into the wardroom. As the door was opened, Captain Paulo Sula saw the dining table and realized at once that the captain would not receive him. It was an offense to both personal and national pride that he would be quizzed by a junior officer—but there was nothing to be done. He placed his envelope on the baize-covered table and stood until Curran bade him sit.
In the glow of the wardroom lanterns Paulo Sula looked even older. His uniform was long past glory, and the old man did not fill even half of a wardroom chair. From behind one of the cabin doors, Darby snored and farted in his sleep. The captain folded his hands and looked at Curran with what little dignity he could cling to.
Curran poked his head into the pantry and whispered, “Chick, some sherry and cookies. Make it snappy, and put out word I need a hand who speaks Portuguese.”
“I thought you talked foreign, sir?”
“Sherry and cookies, and find me a Portuguese speaker. On the double.” The wine came in and was apologized for—it had traveled the width of the Atlantic and back—but the shortbread was fresh and made with Irish butter. Curran made small talk, careful to steer the captain into ordinary phrases that he could understand, and after a few pleasantries Sergeant Lachat tapped on the door.
“Enter,” Curran said.
“Beggin’ pardon, sir. The only hand aboard that can speak good Portagee is Guapo di Silva sir, larboard watch—and he ain’t so easy on the eye.” The sailor in question had lost most of his lower jaw to a British musketball and had a truly menacing appearance. Lachat continued, “Mister Nolan heard us puttin’ out the word and said he spoke the language. He asks if he might be of some help.”
“Send him in,” Curran said. A moment later, Curran stood as Nolan entered. Captain Paulo Sula sized up Nolan’s coat and figured him to be some sort of soldier in undress uniform. He would have been depressed further if he knew Nolan was not an officer but a prisoner.
“Mister Nolan, thank you for coming. Captain Paulo Sula is the master of the ship to leeward.”
“Just so,” Nolan said. Like everyone else aboard Enterprise, Nolan had smelled the yellow ship and knew she trafficked in misery. “Do you wish to examine his commission?” In his cabin, Darby continued to rattle, and Nolan was at once aware of the captain’s embarrassment.
“That is the captain’s wish,” said Curran. “And as he has declined to join us, I hope you will make our guest feel . . . ”
“Of course.” Nolan made a civil bow and said in excellent Portuguese, “Captain, my name is Philip Nolan. Lieutenant Curran has asked me to assist as interpreter.”
Nolan’s Portuguese was perfect, without a trace of the grammarless honk of a Verdean or Brazilian colonial, and some of the gray went out of the captain’s face.
“It is my pleasure to meet you, senhor.” The little captain bowed.
THE PORTUGUESE OFFICER EMERGED ON DECK, FOLLOWED BY CURRAN AND Nolan. Enterprise still had her weapons manned, and gun crews remained poised near their pieces. Pelles was standing by the quarterdeck break next to Lieutenant Varney and a party of Marines. Their bayonets glittered in the moonlight; had the interview gone badly, three squads of leathernecks were prepared to board.
“Are the ship’s papers in order, Mister Curran?”
“They are, sir. Captain Paulo Sula holds a regular commission.”
“Does he not carry slaves?”
“There are none aboard now, sir. He has come from Senegal, and he did transport one hundred slaves to the port of Madeira. He has shown me his Portuguese license and the bill of sale.”
“An officer with the king’s commission was trafficking in slaves?” Pelles huffed.
“I believe it was a bit of a private venture,” Curran said. Pelles clenched his jaw and Curran added quickly, “Mister Nolan was good enough to help me make conversation, sir.”
“What else have you learned, Mister Nolan?”
“The captain informed me that he saw a corsair ship this morning,” Nolan said, “an Algerine. It was sailing in the company of two smaller vessels.”
“Was one a whale ship?”
“I asked, sir,” Nolan answered. “He said he only saw the others from a great distance. The corsair sailed close but went away when Azóla showed Portuguese colors.”
There was an arrangement between His Christian Majesty and the Barbary pirates. If Azóla had been spared, it was more out of regard for tribute money than respect for the force of Portuguese arms.
“What course was the pirate steering?”
“North sir; north by east.”
The two commanders were separated by language but were perfectly fluent in the expression of authority. Paulo Sula slumped in his overlarge uniform and Pelles stood in remote formality. Obviously disgusted, Pelles said coldly, “Mister Curran, he may go.”
Captain Paulo Sula touched his hat. He started for the quarterdeck ladder but turned. The words he put together in English were heavily accented, slow, and considered. “Captain Pelles,” he said, “you must be aware that we did not see you until you were close aboard.” If Pelles was surprised that the man had suddenly learned English, he did not show it. Paulo Sula continued: “We did not answer your hail so we might gain time to man our guns. When you came upon us, I thought you were the corsair come back to attack us.”
Pelles said nothing.
Paulo Sula’s voice was respectful but unapologetic. “And although, sir, you might find my transportation of Africans to be distasteful, I am permitted by international treaty to engage in the trade. My license is recognized by your government, and it is your own country that is the principal market for enslaved Negroes.”
Pelles answered coldly, “I will thank you to leave my ship.”
Curran cleared his throat, but Paulo Sula was already walking to the ladder. The Marines presented arms, again with calculated derision, and the small man dropped into his waiting boat.
The Portuguese had left behind him an awkward and lengthening silence. Pelles watched without expression as the captain’s gig pulled back to his ship.
“Mister Nolan,” Pelles said at last, “I am obliged for your help.”
“You’re very welcome, Captain.”
“I believe that you are still officer of the deck, Mister Curran?”
“I am, sir.”
“After we have put about you will please double the lookouts. When we are away from this despicable son of a bitch have the gun crews stand down and replace the canvas over the gun ports.” Pelles looked up, considered the rigging, and said, “You may set topgallants while we have both watches on deck. And get us out of this vile stench.”