Ruark threw a quick look toward the village. The ports were open in the heavily timbered shed, and with menacing slowness the muzzle of a cannon appeared. A flash flared, and a cloud of smoke billowed to obscure the shed. A few seconds later a geyser of water spewed as a ball skipped past, well off the stern. A ranging shot. The others would be closer. The ebb tide was taking the Good Hound out, but far too slowly. Ruark bellowed forward.
“Get a sail up! Any sail! One of the foresheets!”
Gaitlier found the appropriate line and loosed it; Shanna and Dora joined him to lend their weight to the task. They strained heartily, and slowly the foresail began to rise. The breeze took a tenuous grip on the canvas, and the head of the ship began to swing. A ripple formed as the schooner moved forward, ever so slowly.
Ruark spun the wheel, waiting for the bite of water against the rudder so he could set her heel into the sea and head her out away from the harbor. Another gun flashed, and this time a single geyser spewed up close under the stern, wetting Ruark with its spray. The guns were set to cover the channel through the reef where an attack might be expected. There they could blast any ship out of the water, but inside the barrier of shoals one could reach the edge of the swamp then, pressing through a thin cover of brush, could enter the channel—if one knew the spot. And Gaitlier did.
The first sail was up and Gaitlier belayed the line while Shanna undid the next. With this one they could reach the deck capstan and were soon marching up its shroud.
Another boom bellowed from the cannon, and this time Ruark ducked as the rail on the quarterdeck splintered and the huge shot careened off the mizzenmast into the sea. Ruark felt a blow against his thigh but stumbled back to the spinning wheel, caught it, and leaning against the binnacle head, brought the schooner back on course.
The second sail was set, and a third was slowly spread as the small crew worked their hearts out on the main deck. A curl of foam formed beneath the prow. A cannon fired again from the shore; immediately another came, but both shots whizzed by astern. Now they were crossing the line of fire, and the heavy guns could not be handspiked around fast enough to track the schooner. A final flash and the ball spewed water far astern.
Ruark checked the course and brought the vessel around a point to the starboard. He glanced back toward the pier and saw that the pirates had left the guns. Several boats were rowing out toward the other schooners and ketches. With three sails firmly set on the Good Hound, Ruark waved to his crew, and they ceased their labors. With Dora beside him, Gaitlier stumbled forward so that he could guide their path through the channel, and Shanna worked her way aft to join Ruark.
The schooner left the bay, and Ruark warily watched the shoals speeding by on his right as he brought the ship about parallel to the shore. A too-narrow width of dark blue water stretched out ahead, and Ruark knew he must keep the ship in the middle of it until Gaitlier signaled him to turn.
As she climbed to the quarterdeck, Shanna suddenly halted, and Ruark cast a quick glance to her. Jaw agape and horror in her eyes, she stared at his leg.
Following her gaze, Ruark looked down and could not suppress a shudder, for thrust through his thigh, standing out from both sides, was a splinter of oak from the railing. It was a foot long and, though thin, over an inch across.
Shanna gasped and flew to his side, reaching to pull the splinter out. He brushed her hand away.
“Not now,” he barked. “There’s little blood and no pain. I’m all right. I must get us free before you tend it.” Even now, Gaitlier had raised his left arm and was beckoning for a slow turn in that direction. Ruark eased the wheel over, and the schooner responded lightly. They neared the shore, and Ruark could not help bracing himself as it seemed they would drive the vessel hard aground on the swamp.
Gaitlier dropped his arm and pointed hard left. Ruark spun the wheel, and the ship came about. With a loud clap the sails flapped and then billowed as the schooner caught the following breeze across her other shoulder.
No sickening lurch hindered their progress, only a gentle rasping scrape against the hull as tangled masses of dead wood and trees, covered with vines until they appeared living, parted before the prow of the Good Hound and swung slowly aside. The ship passed through and eased into a narrow canal that barely cleared her sides.
A shot from astern whizzed through the mastheads, and Ruark peered aft to see the sails of the mulatto’s sloop coming rapidly upon them, a full stand of sail filling their masts to the last inch. The Good Hound was not free yet. With a full crew to man her, the sloop could quickly overtake them. Though the two stern chasers in the captain’s cabin would hold them abaft for a while, Ruark doubted Gaitlier’s skill with the guns. It seemed only a matter of time before they would be taken.