He rose. “I will leave you. Come up when you’re ready.”
Laura nodded. She tidied her hair as best she could and put on her shoes. Then she went up on deck, feeling embarrassed for sleeping so long while the others worked, but the men respectfully tipped their caps or wished her a mumbled “Morning, miss.”
For a time, she watched Jackson at work with a needle, mending tears in the nets. And soon Laura was taking a turn, learning to mend “bars” and “three-ers.”
Now and again, the captain called out a port or landmark as they passed. Parranporth, Portreath, and others. As the hours lapsed, Laura began to relax and enjoy the journey, to believe they would make it. She tried not to think about the fact that war still waged, and they might encounter a warship or blockade. Treeve, however, seemed more concerned about the preventive men.
Alexander made himself useful by fishing as they went, hand-lining for hake and employing the nets to bring in herring or mackerel.
Laura had helped in the kitchen during those years when it had just been her and Uncle Matthew. So she happily peeled and sliced potatoes, fried the fish Alex caught, made tea, and poured ale. They ate in shifts, and food had rarely tasted so good.
As evening fell, they passed St. Ives, and the mood became jovial, perhaps helped along by the ale served with supper.
Behind them, a ship slipped out of the harbour and seemed to follow their course from a distance. John Dyer snapped to attention, eyes narrowed and jaw tight.
“What is it?” Treeve asked.
“A revenue cutter is stationed at the Port of St. Ives. I thought we were far enough out not to attract attention, but now I wonder.”
Treeve turned to study the distant vessel. He took up a glass. “I can’t tell for certain, but she’s bigger than we are. Probably just out cruising on patrol.”
“Let’s hope.”
They continued on, but as the breeze freshened, the cutter gradually drew nearer.
“Let’s alter our course and see what she does.”
They did so, but the other ship altered its course as well and soon began to gain on them.
“The wind is blowing a solid twenty knots straight out of the north,” the captain said, then ordered all to go about on another tack.
The cutter, running with the wind on her quarter, came up fast.
“She’s carrying a smart press of canvas—that’s for sure,” Dyer said. “She must be doing eight knots to our five.”
Treeve grimaced. “We can’t let them get close enough to order us to heave to. Or be in range of their guns.”
Dyer nodded. “Set the topsail, men,” he commanded. “And sharp-like.”
The crew hurried to oblige.
Laura gripped Alexander’s arm but asked Treeve, “Can we outrun a revenue cutter?”
“Definitely. Dyer has done so in the past, times without number.” He turned to the man. “Haven’t you?”
John Dyer nodded, but his mouth remained a tight, thin line. “A long time ago.”
“And you can do it again,” Treeve assured him. “Evade that cruiser, skipper!”
Laura lowered her voice. “And if he can’t?”
“If we can’t outsail them, we shall have to outwit them, overpower them, or . . . bribe them to avoid arrest. Sadly, I haven’t the funds required for the latter.”
The skipper called more commands. As the cutter pursued, the lugger crew strove to outpace it.
“Better go below, Miss Callaway,” Treeve said. “Don’t want the boom knocking you into the water.” He said it lightly, but she saw the tension in his face.
She acquiesced. “Very well.”
Laura climbed below but kept the hatch door open, watching the activity with anxious fascination.
Alexander stayed above, helping the crew. His years as a naval man served him well, giving him skills and experience with sails and rigging. The wind continued to build, the eight-foot waves breaking into gleaming streaks, like the manes of galloping white horses.
Treeve again studied the distant ship’s progress through his glass. “She’s still gaining on us.”
The skipper cursed. He gave the helm to the first mate and grabbed the glass. “Lemme see.” Another curse. “That’s the Dolphin all right.”
“Keep calm. We don’t have any contraband on board. Yet.”
“No? What about ’im?” The first mate lifted his chin toward Alexander.
“Would a revenue cutter have any interest in him?” Dyer asked.
“Mebbe. If the militia asked the preventive men to aid their search.”
“Or they may think we look suspicious for some other reason,” Treeve said.
Dyer scowled. “I don’t want to be fined or arrested when the only