Jerry Pournelle - King David's Spaceship

MacLean eyed the distance to the slowly vanishing shore, then peered through the mists ahead and astern before answering. “No, Trader. The night would not keep the pirates from seeing us, and the wind dies away then. By midday there should be a strong wind. The sea breeze and the prevailing westerlies lie together on this shore. It will take a strong wind to outrun the pirate ships.”

“If you say so,” MacKinnie said with a shrug. And if the wind doesn’t come up? He shrugged again. “It’s the only chance we have, anyway. Carry on, Captain MacLean.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” There was a note of the contempt seamen have for lubberly owners in MacLean’s voice, but Nathan saw no reason to make a point of it. He needed MacLean to reach Batav.

He went to the rail and stared overboard. Around him the dawn was already turning the dark water clear. Small fish-like creatures swam lazily near the boat, looking at it before they darted away, easily outdistancing the men at the oars in spite of Loholo’s shouted oaths. The crew master counted strokes in a tireless voice, keeping a steady rhythm not interrupted when he fell to cursing one of the men: “Sweep, step, back, back, Fool, step, back, back, Pull, you, stinking, filth, Sweep …”

MacLean left MacKinnie to stand near the tiller, his eyes on the compass mounted on the small mast just forward of the helmsman. Another mast, well forward, towered above the ship, and on both the sails were laced around the booms, their covers removed and stowed below decks. The sails were ready for instant action. MacKinnie could already feel the morning breeze coming from the south before it shifted to the west in the afternoon.

Mary Graham and Longway made their way over the slowly rolling deck to stand at the starboard rail with MacKinnie. Loholo’s calls were clear and slightly musical. “Stroke … step … back … back … Stroke …”

“Point to starboard, Mr. Todd,” MacLean said softly.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“We should see the land over there as soon as it gets light,” MacKinnie told his companions. “I understand Loholo thinks we should hug the shore. There are reefs and rocks only he knows, and he swears he can get us through them without the pirates being able to catch us.”

“Interesting,” Longway said pensively. “Then why did he not take some other ship through there? Why has the pirate blockade been so effective?”

“You’re not supposed to ask that,” Nathan replied. “But MacLean thinks it’s worth trying anyway. Add something to our chances, and the farther we get before the pirates intercept us, the better chance of coming ashore where there aren’t any barbarians.” It was getting light faster now, and the shoreline could be seen dimly ahead. Above the fog, fifty miles away, the peaks of mountains flashed whitely in the morning light.

“If we can get to those, the barbarians won’t matter,” MacKinnie said. “All we’ll have to worry about will be the pirates. We could even beach and run for it.”

“It would be a long walk,” Longway said.

“True. But what else can we do?”

Kleinst stood quietly at the rail, and MacKinnie thought he noted a slight tinge of green to the scholar’s complexion. If the young fellow couldn’t manage in the gentle swell they were experiencing, he was in for big trouble when the real wind came up. Kleinst had kept out of the way the whole time they were on Makassar, although he seemed to have developed a strange friendship with Brett. Nathan had more than once noted the scholar and the singer conversing over wine in the physicist’s quarters at the dockside inn.

“Where are these pirates, Trader?” Longway asked. “As a practical matter, should we be getting the oarsmen in their armor?”

“Not for hours,” MacKinnie replied. “They stay well out of the harbor itself, probably afraid of the Navy boys. But they’re out there, all right, just over the horizon. You’ll see them soon enough.”

“Sooner than I’d like,” Longway muttered.

It was fully light now. The Eye of the Needle had cleared the eastward land mass to send its rays slanting across the sea. The early morning mists vanished rapidly as the ship moved quietly along, and there was no sound but the commands of Loholo, who had lowered his voice until he could barely be understood on the quarterdeck. “Stroke…”

The harbor had dropped well out of sight when the sun burned off the last of the mists. The water was an incredible light blue, the bottom visible not more than three yards below the surface. Long, thin fish darted about, pursued by tentacled monsters nearly a meter in length, green eyes glaring after their prey. Larger creatures of the same general form swam into view to look intelligently at the humans on the boat before swimming lazily away. MacKinnie wondered idly what they were when MacLean shouted from his post at the mizzenmast.

“Hands make sail!” he ordered.

MacKinnie watched with interest as the Samualites gathered in the waist.

“Man the mizzen halyards,” MacLean called. He turned to the helmsman. “Turn her into the wind, Mr. Todd. Put the helm over.”

“Helm’s down, sir.”

“Stand by mizzen halyard. Get those gaskets off, there.”

Hal and one of the guards took the lacing from the sail, then seized the halyard. “Make sail,” MacLean ordered. The big gaff rose jerkily, the men on the throat halyards pulling too fast, but eventually the throat and peak rose together. “Take a turn around the winch. Haul, men. Tauten it, that’s it. Haul, you bastards! Now belay it all.” The gaff sail flapped in the wind, and the boat slowed noticeably.

“Now forward to the main,” MacLean ordered. “Get it up, smartly now.” The men ran forward, and the big main, almost twice the size of the mizzen, was hauled up almost as quickly as the smaller one had been. “Man the sheets,” MacLean ordered. “You fool, that line over there,” he added to a guard who stood looking blankly about. “Stand by to trim the sheets, Mr. Stark.”

“Yes, sir,” Hal answered. He gave MacKinnie a quizzical look and turned back to his soldiers now turned afterguard. The ship was barely moving through the water now, the men straining at the oars, and Loholo stood silent with his hands on his hips looking at MacKinnie as if to say he had told him so.

“Put the helm over, Mr. Todd. Bring her four points to starboard.”

“Aye aye, sir. Helm’s to weather.”

The boat turned, and the wind caught the big sails and pushed them off to the right. “Trim those sheets,” MacLean ordered. “More. Bring them in. Strain, you blackguards. Belay. Mr. Stark, I’ll have the starboard leeboard down.”

The boat was skidding sidewise now, moving to leeward as fast as it was going ahead. The oarsmen struggled to keep steerage way, Loholo back to counting the pace when he saw no response from his silent appeal to MacKinnie. Stark cast off the line holding up the great fan-shaped leeboard, and the heavy wood splashed into the water. An iron shoe along its lower edge sank it quickly.

“Mr. Loholo, get those oars in,” MacLean ordered. “Quickly, man, and get your crew set.” The boat heeled sharply to a gust of wind, almost tumbling the starboard crewmen over the side. “Any man can’t stay aboard gets to swim ashore,” MacLean said. “Stark, get those jibs up.”

The gust heeled the ship, and the leeboard bit into the water. The boat began pulling ahead, slowly gathering way, until it was apparent that it was rushing along, faster than the oarsmen had been able to pull it, and still it gathered speed. A white, creamy wake appeared at the bow, and two quarter waves angled off from the stern. It seemed to MacKinnie that the wind picked up noticeably, and the boat was headed into it. Subao rose gently over the waves, rushing along until Loholo stood looking over the side with amazement before making his way aft.