Bernard Cornwell - Wildtrack

It could close the gap in seconds if it wanted, but clearly Bannister, or whoever was at Wildtrack II ’s helm, did not want to make an interception in full view of the quay. The powerboat hung back.

Our engine began to run rough. The diesel fuel was old, and I suspected there was water mixed in it. I hated bloody engines. There had been many times when I had been tempted to haul the damn thing out and sink it, but Terry coaxed it and we limped on. Someone shouted at us from the quay that we had no lights.

The headlands that marked the river mouth closed on us. I could feel the wind’s uncertainty as it was confused by the masses of land.

Rain was slapping on the sails. There was white water at the bar and it would be a rough passage. The engine was missing a beat now, thumping horribly in its bearings. “Kill it!” I shouted. I didn’t want the shaft to shake the gland loose and let in sea water.

The engine died just as the bows juddered to the first sea. Sycorax was free at last, running to the ocean she was made for. Her sails were full and behind her the water whitened and spread. She took the steep, breaking seas like a thoroughbred and I whooped for the joy of the moment.

Terry grinned. “Happy, boss?”

“I should have done this bloody weeks ago!”

“And what about those bastards?” Terry nodded towards the river mouth where Wildtrack II had appeared.

“Screw them.” I gave him the tiller and set about trimming the sails. The topsail yard and jackyard were loose, the topping lift needed slackening and the foresail halliards tightening. We were heading westward, along the coast, and we were hard on the wind.

We went perilously close to the Calfstone Shoal from which a breaking wave shredded foam across our bows. The rain was slackening, and there were gaps in the southern cloud that were edged by silver moonlight. Sycorax was slicing the wind and cutting into a head sea. The waves were big enough to dip her bows low and I saw the jib’s foot come up dripping with water and there had been a time when I thought I’d never live to see that sight again. I was happy.

Except Wildtrack II still threatened us. “Bastards are closing!” Terry shouted.

I’d deliberately put Sycorax head to wind, and close to the Calfstone, in the hope that Wildtrack II , emerging at speed from the river mouth, might run aground on the shoal. It was a slender hope, and one that failed. I twisted in the cockpit to watch the slinking powerboat. I did not think they were likely to ram us. Most likely Wildtrack II had been sent to follow Sycorax and to betray our final position so the bailiffs could find us. Bannister, I thought, would be remorseless in his revenge on me, just as Kassouli was remorseless in his revenge on Bannister.

The night was not my helper. The sky was clearing. Soon we would be thrashing west under moonlight and would be in full sight of Wildtrack II without a hope of losing the powerboat. I needed time to think. I also needed to be comfortable. I was wet through and shivering. Terry was in the same discomfort and I told him to go below and find some warm clothes.

“Some proper bloody food would help, boss.” I fell off the wind slightly to put the floodtide on the starboard bow. I saw how gracefully the rebuilt Sycorax took the seas. It was a promise of what she would do with the bigger seas that waited in the years ahead. I trimmed her, belayed the sheets and pegged the tiller. She could sail herself now until we had cleared the transit of Start Point and could turn due west again. It would be a long hard thrash until the current ebbed, but we had all night.

I fetched my monocular and trained it on Wildtrack II . It was hard to hold her in sight, and harder still to see who was on board. I could see three men. No Angela. I thought I saw a man with a bandaged face, who had to be Mulder. “Could that fellow you clobbered be walking by now?” I asked Terry.

“Bloody hell, yes.” Terry tossed me up a sweater and oilskin jacket. “I only tapped the fucker.”

I wondered if Mulder had brought his shotgun, but surely they would not plan murder? Then the thought occurred that if Kassouli was right, these men had already committed one murder at sea. I stared at the powerboat. It was taking the seas badly, rearing its slick hull high on the wavecrests, then slamming down in discomfort.

Would they try and end the discomfort by sinking Sycorax? I couldn’t lose the thought of the shotgun. “Terry?”

“Boss?”

“If you feel under the engine you’ll find a wooden box screwed to a frame on the starboard side. There’s a package in it. Can you get it?”

He lifted off the companion steps and I heard him grunt as he groped in the bilge’s darkness. “Jesus,” he said as he felt the shape of the package. “Is that the bloody Colt I kept for you?”

“I don’t want to use it, not unless I have to.”

“No, boss.” He sounded disappointed.

“But unwrap it. Then get some sleep.”

Wildtrack II was still holding her distance. There were two fishing boats in sight, and I wondered if their presence was inhibiting Mulder. The beam of the Start Point light slid across the sky. I was sailing south now, aiming to go outside the tidal race at the Point.

Wildtrack II was shadowing us. The powerboat was showing a white light at the top of its radar arch, another at its stern, and the proper red and green sidelights. My pursuers were letting me know where they were, and letting me know that I could not escape them.

They kept abreast of us for the three hours it took to claw past Start Point. There was a deeper swell offshore, and Sycorax seemed to revel in the longer, higher seas. She felt hard and good, well rigged and confident. But in the morning, I thought, just as soon as I put into shelter, Bannister’s lawyers would descend on her with a writ. I had no idea how such a process was initiated, or how it was fought; only that I would be damned if Bannister took my boat from me. I had a talent, I reflected bitterly, for the making of wealthy enemies. First Kassouli, now Bannister. And all I had tried to be was truthful.

Terry slept for an hour, then came blinking up into the moonlight.

“Still there?” he asked of Wildtrack II .

“Still there.” We were on a port tack now and the powerboat was further out to sea. She was probably using her radar to follow us, but Sycorax made a small target, I had no reflector hoisted, and there were fishing boats about to give confusing echoes, and so Wildtrack II was staying well within easy visual range. A container ship, brilliant with deck lights, steamed eastwards beyond her. I was certain now that Bannister only wanted to discover my destination, but I was determined to lose him. “I think,” I said slowly, “that it’s time to scare the fuckers off. I’m going to tack.” Terry handled the foresails’ sheets. Sycorax , never graceful in a tight turn, lurched round and settled on to the starboard tack. I let her off the wind, slackening the mainsheet into a broad reach so that we were running directly at our pursuers. “He’s going to try and avoid us, Terry, but he won’t really know what we’re doing. So be ready for some smart manoeuvres. And get the gun. You’ll need a couple of extra mags.”

He gave me a surprised glance, but said nothing. He fetched the Colt, came back to the cockpit, and worked a round into the breech.

“What we’re going to do,” I said, “is scare the bugger witless.

You’re not going for the crew, but for the boat. Aim for the waterline or the engines. If you think there’s the least danger of hitting any of the crew, don’t fire. You understand?”