A Ravel of Waters

'What gives down there, Peter?' he burst out. 'Is this tub dragging lead from her ass? You're only sailing seventy-five per cent of potential! You'll never make The Narrows in time for the warship! And she's running right on schedule! At this rate she'll be through before you make your approach turn! Give her the gun, man!'

Kay saw the look on my face at Paul's news. In one stride I was at Tideman's console. Six knots, I read.

'Kay! John!' I snapped. 'Something's wrong! She should be doing eight knots by now!'

Tideman indicated the wind direction indicator. "The wind's changing – it's veered ten degrees astern.'

'We've struck a flat spot in her sailing performance,' Kay added, 'The wind's too far aft for her to be at her best – it's almost dead astern now.'

'The after sails are blanketing those for'ard at this angle of wind,' said Tideman. 'The proper way to cope would be to tack downwind to increase her speed.' 'I can't tack in these confined waters,' I replied. 'Kay?' I hoped she might come up with some solution.

'She's doing the best she can under the circumstances,' she replied. 'Stealing the wind.'

Perhaps my acute anxiety threw the fragment of old clipper lore to the forefront of my mind. When the clippers found themselves in such a situation they reefed the sails aft to allow a flow of air to those in front. I couldn't vouch for the aerodynamics of such a tactic, but I knew it had worked. There was no time now to discuss the merits of such a method.

'Reef all sails on Number Five and Six masts aft!' I ordered Tideman.

As his fingers reached for the control switches, Kay protested. 'No, Peter, no! It won't work!'

I would know in a moment. 'Paul,' I said, 'give me a minute-by-minute speed read-out.'

It was impossible to tell simply by feel whether my desperation throw had come off. We waited. Then Paul's voice came through. 'Six and a half knots.' Was it working or was it purely a momentary fluctuation of wind which had won us the extra half knot? 'Where's the destroyer, Paul?' 'Abreast Tussac Point.'

'Ah!' The cork was heading for the neck of the bottle! Where she was now, the warship could still turn for a pursuit, but within the next few hundred metres the shallows would lock her in.

'She's slowing – down to about four knots. Guess she's feeling her way.'

Then he exclaimed excitedly. 'Hey! Seven knots on the log – picking up, what's more.'

After what seemed an eternity, Paul reported again. 'Eight and a half knots nearer nine. Second way-point now abeam.'

Half a kilometre now to our turn! Then the direction of the wind would switch to abeam, Jetwind's best sailing conditions. Then I would throw in the full power of the after sails as well as the royals, now reefed out of sight at her mast-heads. The time for concealment would then be over. We would be in full view of the destroyer through The Narrows entrance.

I gave Kay a knowing smile and she responded with a thumbs-up sign.

When I spoke again to Paul, my voice was hoarse with strain. 'Paul – what's happening out there?'

'Target half a kilometre, maybe a little more, north of The Narrows.'

The cork was in the bottle! The warship could no longer turn to pursue us!

The two ships converged on the narrow gap from opposite directions – the warship at four knots and Jetwind driving along now at over ten. 'Way-point three abeam,' reported Paul. The final marker!

The next crucial stage was our ninety-degree turn into the mouth of The Narrows.

I waited. The silent dark bridge waited. Grohman was drawn to the vicinity of the wheel by my terse orders. Suddenly a shore light stood out to port. Navy Point!

My heart raced as I made out beyond it a white masthead light. Silhouetting upperworks and guns, a flashing light also swept into view. The Almirante Storni! Now she could see us!

Grohman let out an oath in Spanish. 'There she is, Captain Rainier. It will be better for you to stop playing games now.' 'Set the royals! All sail! All sail!' I ordered. 'How far to our turn, Paul?' 'One hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty metres.' 'Speed?' 'Ten and a half knots – nudging eleven.'

'Stand by!' I told Jim Yell at the wheel. I felt him tense. Tideman's eyes left his instruments and he gave me a long inquiring look. What I did next was anyone's guess. 'Ready about!' I snapped. 'Turn!' It was Paxil. 'Down helm!' Jim Yell spun the spokes. 'Steer zero-zero-five!' 'Kay-quick!'

She rapid-fired our predetermined calculations; I passed them on to Tideman. ' Sail trim – thirty degrees! 'Rudder angle – thirty degrees! 'Course angle to true wind – seventy degrees! 'Angle of inflow of sail – ten degrees!'

The low loom of Engineer Point and its light – twin to Navy Point – came up out of the half light, fronted by the fatal barrier of kelp. It wasn't more than 100 metres away. We must not be pushed sideways into it. 'Drift?' I inquired peremptorily. 'Ten degrees.' Jetwind swung at right angles towards the mouth of The Narrows. The wind switched abeam. Then it happened.