Part 39 (1/2)

”Is it land?” Murad was asking, his eyes glittering. ”Is that it? I can see nothing.”

Hawkwood ignored him and peered up at the foretop where the lookout was stationed.

”In the foretop there! What do you see?”

There was a pause.

”Nothing but haze out to six or seven leagues, sir.””Keep a good eye out, then.”

”What is happening?” Murad demanded, his face puce with anger.

”We are on a shelving sh.o.r.e, Lord Murad,” Hawkwood said calmly. ”The sea is shallowing.”

”Does that mean we are approaching landfall?”

”Possibly, yes.”

”How far away is it?” Murad scanned the horizon as though he fully expected the Western Continent to pop up over it at that very second.

”I have no way of knowing, but we're shortening sail so we don't run full-tilt on to any reefs.”

”Saints in heaven!” Murad said hoa.r.s.ely. ”It's really out there, isn't it?”

Hawkwood allowed himself to grin.

”Yes, Murad, it really is.”

O N into the evening the carrack ran smoothly with the wind on her quarter and most of the s.h.i.+p's company on deck, their faces turned towards the west. When the first stars came out in the towering blue-black vault of the night sky the pa.s.sengers retired below to eat, but Hawkwood kept both watches on deck, chewing salt pork and s.h.i.+p's biscuit. And the leadsman continued his chant from the forechains: ”Sixty fathoms. Sixty fathoms with this line.”

There was a different quality to the air. The sailors could feel it. There was something more humid and cloying about it that was entirely at odds with the usual keen nature of the open sea, and Hawkwood thought he could smell something now; that growing smell like a breath of a summer garden. It was not far away.

”White foam! White foam dead ahead two cables!” the lookout screamed.

Hawkwood bent to call down the tiller-hatch. ”Tiller there! Larboard by two points. West-sou'-west.”

”Aye, sir.”

The carrack moved smoothly round, the wind coming right aft now. The crew rushed to the braces to trim the yards. Hawkwood saw the white flicker and rush of foam breaking on black rocks off on the starboard side.

”Leadsman! What's our depth?”

There was a splash, a long waiting minute, then the leadsman declared, ”Forty fathoms, sir, and white sand!”

”Take in topsails!” Hawkwood shouted.

The crew raced up the shrouds, bent over the topsail yards and began folding in the pale expanses of canvas. The s.h.i.+p lost speed.

”Why are we slowing down, Captain?” It was Murad, coming up the quarterdeck ladder almost at a run.

”Breakers ahead!” the lookout shrieked. ”Starboard and larboard. Three cables from the bow!””G.o.d almighty!” Hawkwood exclaimed, startled. ”Let go anchor!”

A seaman knocked loose the heavy sea anchor from the bows with the blow of a mallet. There was an enormous splash that lit up the black sea and the s.h.i.+p lost way, coming gradually to a full stop. She began to yaw as the wind pushed her stern around.

”Get a bower anchor out from the stern, Velasca,” Hawkwood told his first mate. ”And pray it holds in this ground.”

He could see them himself: a broken line of white water barely visible off in the night and there was a new sound, the distant roar of surf. Hawkwood found he was trembling, his shoulder a scarlet flame of pain and the sweat sour and slick about him. But for the vigilance of the lookout, the s.h.i.+p would still be sailing towards the distant rocks.

”Is that it?” Murad asked in a breath, gazing out at the white foam which sliced open the darkness.

”Maybe. It might be a reef. We can't take any chances. I've dropped anchor. I don't like the ground, but there's no way I'm going any further in at night. We'll have to wait for daylight.”

They both listened, watched. Hard to imagine what might be out there in the night; what manner of country lay beyond the humid darkness and the line of treacherous breakers.

”Stern anchor out and holding, sir,” Velasca reported.