A now-familiar voice cut through the buzz of conversation among the throng on the docks, casting aspersions on Sheffield’s parentage amid other insults. Ruford, with his companion beside him, was heading for a dock on the far side of the harbor.
“We going to race them all the way to Porto, Cap’n?”
Sheffield strode up the gangboard, oblivious to the slight bouncing of the wood that made Harriet dearly wish for handrails. “If need be.”
All hands were on deck, working in controlled chaos that she didn’t get to see when they had left London. Now she joined in where she could, hauling on a line, wishing she were brave enough to climb the ratline and help unfurl a sail. She listened to Smitty the purser engage in final negotiations with a dock merchant in American-accented Spanish, until the crew started another work song. “Heave away, haul away,” she joined in the chorus. Tucker led the verse, singing about the charms of a merchant’s daughter spilling over her tops’l.
Dieter had not had time to complete repairs on the hastily patched starboard gunwale where the cannon had crashed through, and there were still crates and barrels on the deck to be stowed below. But just moments after coming on board, Sheffield gave the signal to depart. Smitty and Flynn untied the lines on the bollards, and as soon as they were back on deck the gangboard was pulled up and stowed.
Harriet ducked when she heard a loud snap. Ruford obviously had no love for Sheffield, but he wouldn’t actually shoot at him, would he?
But it was just canvas filling with wind.
The ship began moving faster, picking up speed as more canvas unfurled and filled. Another ship, a cutter, was moving toward the same narrow channel out of the bay.
“Aye, there be the Polly Ann,” Jonesy said from his stance on the quarterdeck near the tiller, pointing his chin at the other ship. Ruford’s crew was also scrambling aloft, unfurling more of their sails before they cleared the mouth of the bay, traveling at a speed the harbor master would no doubt frown upon. But so was Sheffield’s crew. Clearly both had experience at making hasty departures.
Instead of making straight for the harbor mouth, the Polly Ann took a port tack, heading directly at Wind Dancer. Sheffield and Jonesy steered closer to the cliffs, close enough Harriet saw bird nests snuggled in the crags. Surely Ruford wouldn’t run them aground?
At a signal from Sheffield, Chang left the line he was helping to pull and climbed the quarterdeck steps to the starboard rail. With exaggerated movements, he loaded the swivel gun and aimed for the cutter’s single mast.
“Ruford!” Sheffield shouted, his booming baritone voice echoing off the cliff. “Change course or we’ll blast your mast into toothpicks!”
Just as Harriet feared they’d need to get the oars out of the longboats to push the Wind Dancer away from the cliffs, the Polly Ann veered north, toward the mouth of the harbor. As Ruford’s ship gained speed, Sheffield gave chase, steering directly behind the cutter as both ships exited the harbor. By the time they were out in the Atlantic, Ruford’s ship had slowed to almost nothing, its sails hanging slack.
Having stolen Ruford’s wind, the Wind Dancer veered hard to port, the tip of the jib boom on the bow missing the Polly Ann’s stern by mere inches, and Wind Dancer sped past, her sails all unfurled and filled.
Ruford shouted more invectives, which Harriet couldn’t make out over the sound of Wind Dancer’s crew singing another work song as they adjusted the sails.
Instead of heading farther out to sea, Sheffield continued to steer Wind Dancer hard to port, angling between the mainland and the archipelago sitting just offshore, the craggy islands much too close for Harriet’s comfort. Maybe they’d need the oars after all to avoid being dashed on the rocks. She climbed to the quarterdeck where Sheffield was conferring with Jonesy at the tiller.
“Aren’t you afraid of wrecking?” she said, gesturing at the narrow channel.
Sheffield shook his head. “We’re shallower on the draft. Polly Ann can’t get through here without tearing up her hull.”
Before long they passed the end of the chain of islands and started moving away from the rocks and farther out to sea, southwest by west. They’d just cleared the western edge of the islands when Jonesy shouted, “Ship astern!”
Sure enough, there was the Polly Ann bearing down on them. After stealing the cutter’s wind to slow it, Sheffield’s gambit on the shortcut had gained them the lead by a quarter mile. Polly Ann veered to port, coming parallel with the brig’s starboard side. Activity at Polly Ann’s starboard cannon had Sheffield changing course again, heading southwest by south. The crew scrambled to adjust the sails. Harriet jumped in to help.
She heard the boom from the cannon, whistle of the cannon ball, and crack of a yardarm breaking almost as one sound. The yard of the main topgallant fell to the deck a few feet in front of her, its descent slowed by the various halyards, sheets, and tearing of the canvas. Crew members raced to cut it loose and stow it. The swivel guns on the Wind Dancer barked a reply.
While belaying a line, Harriet tipped her head back, back, back, to watch Jack and Flynn climb to the very top to secure the remaining bits of the t’gallant sail. Her stomach lurched and she felt lightheaded as she watched them climb higher. Good Lord, how could they bring themselves to climb so high?
Chang and Dieter kept firing the swivel guns. Their small guns couldn’t cause nearly the damage that Ruford’s three-pounder cannon could inflict, but the Wind Dancer was still too close to the cliffs to turn and bring her port cannon to bear.
Another boom, and this time grapeshot spattered the mainsail and topsail. Seconds later another barrage of grapeshot blew more holes in the canvas, then another. Clearly Ruford’s crew had also practiced for speed and accuracy.
Chang and Dieter kept firing at the same spot on the single mast of the Polly Ann, until with a great groan and splintering sound the top half of the mast fell to the deck and dangled over the rail, the flag dipping into the sea, crew members darting out of the way of the wreckage.
Polly Ann’s speed slowed dramatically, but the Wind Dancer was also slowing from so much damage to the sails. Holes from the grapeshot continued to widen, ripping the canvas until the big sails were almost useless.
Sheffield called out commands to adjust the remaining sails to take advantage of the wind and minimize the damage they were taking, his powerful voice conveying urgency but not panic. She heard the exhilaration in his tone, as though he was playing a game, with him as a cat and Ruford the mouse.
The crew had been stowing cargo below and bringing up small arms. Harriet began to notice men had stuck pistols through their belts along with pouches of powder and shot. Several now wore a short sword or cutlass or—she suppressed a shudder—a boarding axe. Open crates with grappling hooks and muskets were placed at strategic spots on the deck.
She glanced at Sheffield to gauge his response to the weaponry suddenly on display, and sucked in her breath at the sight of him. His long black hair was whipped by the wind, and his greatcoat flapped about his legs, revealing a cutlass thrust through the belt at his waist. He stood tall, feet shoulder-width apart, one booted foot slightly behind the other, one hand on the tiller. Sunlight glinted off his gold hoop earring.
All her pirate lacked now was an eye patch.
