The Rustler remained visible for most of the afternoon.
Not comfortably visible. Not reassuringly visible. But visible enough that AuntieDamsonCrumble could still see the pale shape of the yacht’s sails against the haze with her binoculars, while Batshit swung ecstatically through the ropes like an escaped maniac.
The Dreadnork was making better speed than anyone had expected. The steady southerly wind filled the square sails cleanly from astern while the long swell rolled beneath the hull.
Even so, the yacht remained faster. Every hour it edged a little further west.
“They are still following the same heading,” said Octavia from the quarterdeck. “No sign of turning towards France.”
Swashbuckled nodded once without looking round from the helm.
By late afternoon the Devon coastline had become soft and blue beneath the heat haze. Nobody had meant to remain on board this long.
At first it had still felt temporary. Follow the yacht for a while. Keep sight of it. Work out where it was heading. Now the Channel itself seemed to be slowly unfolding westward around them.
Hedgehog finally closed the chart she had been pretending not to study. “I need to return to the Bluestocking,” she said.
Gosie looked alarmed. “You’re not making Swashbuckled turn back.”
“I am absolutely not making Swashbuckled turn back.”
Far ahead, almost lost now in the bright western light, the Rustler continued west. Nobody liked how far away it had become.
“We need a way ashore without stopping the ship,” said Hedgehog.
Nobody spoke. Then Magpie stood up quietly. Several people looked at her.
“Oh,” said Angle. “Yes.”
A moment later Magpie was circling once above the mast and heading back towards the coast.
At the Bluestocking no-one had heard anything since news of Gosie’s kidnap the previous day. By early evening the gerbils were on the verge of panic. Emergency baking operations were fully underway and the swimming pool of gin and tonic was almost half empty.
“You’d think they’d have called,” said JanesLittleGirl for at least the fifth time.
“Why haven’t they called?” demanded Geranium.
“Why haven’t we called?” asked Glandular.
Marie de Gournay pointed out that a seventeenth-century galleon was somewhat limited in charging facilities. This did not improve matters.
At that moment a blur of black-and-white wings swept through the doorway and landed neatly on the back of a chair. Her coat glittered with mirrors and sequins so brightly she commanded a localised eclipse. Everyone reached for their sunglasses.
“Magpie!” shouted several voices at once.
Magpie folded her wings calmly. “Gosie’s safe,” she announced.
The relief that moved through the pub was immediate.
“She’s aboard The Dreadnork,” Magpie continued. “They’re following a yacht west through the Channel.”
“Of course they are,” said MyrtleLion.
“The yacht is ahead of them,” said Magpie. “It's fast.”
That somehow made the whole thing worse.
“Where are they heading?” asked Maud.
“West. That's all we know,” said Magpie. “They need help to work out where exactly. Supplies. Information. Swashbuckled isn’t stopping.”
Outside, something vast passed slowly across the windows. The ceiling beams creaked gently.
A few moments later Errol ducked her enormous head politely through the doorway. She smelled faintly of hot metal and sulphur.
“Oh good,” said Maud. “Transport.”
Errol departed almost immediately.
When she returned some time later she carried Angle, the Box of Distractions, and Hedgehog clutching several large bundles of damp manifests tied together with rope.
The mood of the pub shifted the moment the documents appeared.
Tables were cleared. Lamps were lit. Several shipping gerbils emerged from somewhere downstairs carrying notebooks, rulers, tiny spectacles and expressions of intense professional concentration.
Gazette immediately climbed onto three stacked books in order to reach the table properly. Gunwale produced a ruler, two pencils and a small brass compass from somewhere inside her waistcoat. Galliard peered severely over her spectacles and began sorting damp manifests into neat piles with terrifying speed.
Within minutes papers covered nearly every available surface. Hedgehog was already cross-referencing shipment dates against a harbour chart while Angle held pages flat beneath the lamps as sea damp tried to curl them shut again.
“These markings repeat,” said Gazette, flattening a page beside the fire.
“Not destinations,” muttered Gunwale. “Routes. Numbers. Dates. Weather marks. Coordinates.”
“Time zones,” said Hedgehog suddenly. “They’re crossing the Atlantic Ocean.”
Angle looked up sharply. “To where?”
The analysis continued well into the evening. Then Galliard looked up very slowly. “Oh,” she said.
The room fell quiet.
“What?” asked Angle.
Galliard adjusted her spectacles. “I think,” she said carefully, “they’re sailing to Maine.”
By the time Errol returned to The Dreadnork the western sky had deepened into gold. The yacht was still visible. Barely. Sometimes the Rustler vanished completely as the long rolling sea swelled before reappearing as a pale sliver against the horizon.
Swashbuckled had not left the helm once.
Octavia looked up as Errol’s shadow crossed the deck.
“Well?” she asked.
Hedgehog and JanesLittleGirl climbed carefully down from the dragon’s back. Jane was carrying a toolbox almost as large as herself and wore the expression of somebody entirely prepared to reverse a forklift onto a moving pirate ship if circumstances required. Hedgehog carried charts.
“The Bluestocking’s been through the manifests,” she said. “The routes match transatlantic shipping. They're heading for Maine.”
There was a stunned silence until Octavia said, “You cannot seriously intend to pursue them across the Atlantic.”
Swashbuckled looked genuinely surprised. “That is historically how most Atlantic pursuits began.”
“The Rustler 36 is specifically designed for offshore endurance,” said Octavia patiently. “That yacht was built to cross oceans efficiently. On the other hand, this… this… vessel was built to threaten Spanish treasure fleets while everyone aboard contracted scurvy.”
“And yet this ship has safely crossed the Atlantic many times,” said Swashbuckled.
“Modern yachts are safer, faster and dramatically more manoeuvrable.”
“But can they fire cannons?” asked Swashbuckled.
“No.”
“Then I fail to see the advantage.”
“We will also need supplies,” said Octavia. “A great many supplies.”
Hedgehog scoffed. “The Bluestocking has never yet failed to produce impossible quantities of food at very short notice.”
“This,” said Octavia, “is a deeply irresponsible plan.”
“Good,” said Swashbuckled. “I was worried we were becoming respectable.