Free Seagulls in My Soup by Tristan Jones

with a noose at one end, out of the drawer, all the while glancing at Reynaud, who still had his back to us, peering aft into the dark, tracer-streaked night.
    I stood up straight now. It had been several minutes since the last bullet had zinged against the hull. (Tony later told me that
Aries
must have been a good two miles offshore before the firing from the harbor moles finally stopped.)
    The boat was now cutting her way through the slight, smooth swell, into the blackness, with her stern well down and her bows streaming spray aft like a firehose. The sound of the seawater now drumming on the forward bulkhead of the wheelhouse was even noisier than the scream of the engines.
    Suddenly Reynaud came to me. “I think we’re being followed. I saw a dark shape pass in front of the harbor entrance lights.”
    â€œBloody great,” said I, as I again tried to push the throttle lever even farther forward. Reynaud’s face was serious as he sidled over again toward his look-out post at the starboard door. Shortly Tony came to the wheel and told me the same thing.
    â€œThat prick has got a machine pistol onboard,” I said in a low voice.
    â€œI know,” replied Tony.
    â€œDo you know where he put it?”
    â€œNo. Do you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOh, crikey,” he muttered.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYes, oh crikey. You know what it might mean, right?”
    â€œYou don’t mean . . .”
    â€œI do indeed.”
    â€œOh, crikey!”
    â€œI don’t trust that toe-rag any farther than I can see him.”
    â€œWhat’ll we do?” asked Tony in a high, plaintive voice.
    â€œI’ll put this bugger on a course for . . .” I got no further. Reynaud, his back wet with spray, strode over to my side. Tony headed back to his post by the port door. I noticed that Reynaud, unlike either Tony or me, was as steady as a rock. You would have imagined he was out for a moonlight cruise along the Seine in a
bateau-mouche.
    â€œAll right?” he asked, almost absentmindedly.
    â€œAre you sure we’ve got enough fuel?” I asked, thinking ‘My God, what a time to ask
that
question.’” My hands still shook as I tried to hold the helm steady.
    â€œThe tanks are full,” he replied. “I told you, everything was arranged.” He peered into the compass binnacle. “Have we the right course?”
    â€œWe’re on course for Marseilles—northeast by north—but I think that’s a mistake. Those characters back there know where you’ll head for. They’ll just keep on our tail until daybreak. Then we’ll be for the high jump.”
    â€œWhat do you suggest we do?” Reynaud asked.
    â€œWell, we should aim away from the course to France. We should head due north. That’ll bring us to . . .”
    I thought for a second or two, envisioning the chart I had studied before all hell had been let loose. “ . . . to Cabrera, right on the southern tip of Majorca. By daylight, if we maintain full speed, we’ll be within visual range of Cabrera light. We’ll know by then if we’re still being chased, and if we are, we can head into Spanish territorial waters, maybe even into Palma itself. They can’t follow us in there.”
    Reynaud looked at me with his green eyes. There was a different look in them now—something of a degree of respect. Not much, but it was definitely there. He went over to the chart table, where I’d laid out the chart for the western Mediterranean. He bent over it, using the penlight I had left on the table, and studied the chart. A minute or two later he was back again. “I see what you mean,” he said, straining his voice above the noise of the engines and the drumming of the spray.
    â€œThe range of the Cabrera light—that’s a small island—is twenty-five miles. That means we’ll pick it