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careless, off-hand fashion. Observing Mr. Brooks’ meek aspect and his surprise, I gathered my courage and replied in a tranquil, considerate tone:
    “If he knows we are after him, I believe he will hide, Captain, sir.”
    “Indeed he will, young man—my thinking exactly. Let us hope he secures a snug hiding place, then.” Hearne addressed Grimmel: “I believe you are right about this fellow, Grimmel.”
    “Thank you, sir,” returned the old pilot.
    The meeting concluded with orders that Mr. Grimmel begin to plot a new course. We would slip the convoy evening next. I was left with a conflicting impression of Greyson. Outwardly his saturnine handsomeness and aristocratic bearing were at a lower caliber than the determination that was aimed like a cannon at anyone in his way. This, if anything, was the gulf between these two cousins. Brooks’ sternness was of less tempered stuff.
    All the officers departed, as did Greyson. I collected my notes and began my report.

Chapter 4
    The Wolf Pack

    Nightfall was the most hazardous time for a convoy, particularly one of these numbers. As we were the vanguard ship, the moment darkness set in a close order signal went up the main mast. There upon, unarmed merchant vessels would fall out of rank and cluster at our stern like chicks in a brood for protection against marauding privateers. With only stern lamps for bearing, the risk of collision became very great. As many as thirty men, and in foul weather, fifty, were kept on lookout at all times. A clever foe, I was told, would use these obscure hours to slip in among the convoy disguised as one of us, then choose his unwary prize and by craft gently sheer her off to leeward and claim her.
    But it was not in the evening that our first enemy made his appearance, but midday following. The sea was pitching and restless and little could be seen of the horizon. All morning the scudding clouds would appear then vanish with the fast, shifting breezes, and the shadows of the deck shot to and fro. It was the kind of day I hated, for it shunned any commitment to honest weather, and gave only cracked lips and a windy head.
    Suddenly the alarm came down from the lookout. A squadron of ships appeared one league off the larboard bow. An order was given which sent everyone scurrying to his battle station. The chaser cannon at our stern sounded twice and signal flags went racing up the masts.
    A moment later,
The Vanguard
answered our call, followed by the
Resolution.
    The terror in my heart was as heavy as stone. Neither blood nor courage could find passage around it. Mr. Brooks ordered me to cannon number six, giving me a stout shove to carry me on my way.
    “Act as their sixth!” he shouted. “You’ll retrieve the charges.”
    Amidst all the charging chaos I made my way down the slimy companionways to number six. The cannon crews were tossing open all the gunport lids and piking the guns into position. Mr. Stempel and Mr. Hines directed the effort. Mr. Stempel had his head out the porthole to survey the scene.
    “What do ye see?” asked Mr. Hines, his number two.
    “Wolves,” returned Mr. Stempel. “One, two, four, six I count. Fifth-raters all. And showing no colors.” He eyed me. “Spread the sand and on my order follow the other powder monkeys down to the powder chamber.”
    Until now, talk of battles and bloody confrontation had been exotic perfume for a fanciful brain. These ships, however, were not vapors crashing toward us but seasoned timber, warships, fifth-raters, each with 300 fighting men. I could no more harvest my valor from those boyish dreams now than I could pluck an eye from the air about me. I stood there as empty as a clattering bucket. Mr. Stempel seemed to read my thoughts.
    “’Ave ye seen action before, lad?”
    “No, sir!” I shot back.
    “Ye’ll be fine,” said Stempel. “No one dies his first day, for the Lord protects the youngest of his flock.”
    Mr. Stempel knew the Bible as well as most men