Free The Devil to Pay by David Donachie

worse lay in the increased feel of the wind as it swung due west then to a few points north. If it had not sang in the rigging before it was beginning to do so now, not in any great way but enough to tell Pearce that any advantage he had was rapidly diminishing. Given the top hamper HMS
Larcher
was carrying, a low-slung mainsail, this change did not amount to much in the way of speed, indeed, looking at the strain on the canvas and the effect that was having on the temporary upper mainmast it seemed it might be necessary to lessen the amount they had rigged in case the pressure caused it to carry away.
    The sight of a thin line cloud on the horizon was a blessing indeed, for that indicated land; not the shoreline but the high peaks of the mountains that covered much of Italy and trapped the moisture at high altitude. Yet set against such good news was the one plain fact; the enemywere gaining a great deal more from any alteration in the weather than the armed cutter.
    At least Dorling seemed to have set aside some of his lethargy, spending time over his charts and the slate to try to advise his captain what chance he had of making his landfall before those brigantines could close. His furrowed brow at every cast of the log was enough of a message to all that it was going to be so much nip and tuck that the lightening of the ship could no longer be delayed.
    The water long gone, next it was the supply of wine bought in Palermo, which occasioned one wry smile from Pearce; the crew seemed sad to see that go for if they pronounced it to be not much above vinegar it at least contained a measure of alcohol. Next came the last barrels of beef and pork before a derrick was rigged that would see over the side most of the cannon and their nearly as weighty trunnions, albeit the act was held in abeyance.
    The increase in speed from what had been discarded was again minimal and there was a downside too; lacking that weight
Larcher
was higher out of the water and so even more likely to yaw off course on a fluke in the current, something that could only increase the closer they got to shore: it might be, once they hit the swirling flows that were common close to land, she would actually lose speed rather than gain it.
    There was silence on deck now: no quiet conversations or murmuring, just exchanged glances intermingled with looks astern at the increasingly obvious pursuit and the clear sight of a complete suit of sails, all drawing well. It seemed whatever suspicions the men harboured had altered in its objective; no one wanted to look aloft at the manswaying on what was a less than wholly secure perch, his telescope trained mainly forward for the first sight of the shoreline, in case by doing so they dammed the chance of it ever happening.
    ‘They’re splitting up, your honour,’ came the cry, for the same fellow had the task of watching the pursuit.
    There was no need to be so elevated in order to see the truth of that; it was as plain to everyone else with eyes. Both brigantines had made only a slight alteration but it was significant; it was a message to say that the endgame was approaching. The time was coming when HMS
Larcher
would too have to alter course; that the chance of safety lying dead ahead was diminishing.
    Pearce had hoped, though with no great conviction, they might manage a change of course to the north so they could enter to Gulf of Salerno where lay two great cities, one of the same name and Amalfi, both important centres of trade and thus with harbours heavily fortified against raiding, perhaps even home to some Neapolitan warships that, seeing the danger they were in, would help to drive off the enemy. Mere proximity to such ports would be bound to make those brigantines cautious.
    Out came the charts again and with them all the information gathered over years by the men of the British Navy; written reports and drawings, details of landmarks and hazards as well as soundings taken by any number of seafarers to