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quarterdeck ladder and aft. He stopped in front of Biddlecomb, saluted, and without waiting for acknowledgment said as calmly as his heaving for breath would allow, ‘We sprung a plank, sir, right up by the bow, and damn me to hell if we aren’t taking on water like a son of a whore.’
    Biddlecomb nodded his head. It was what he had suspected, and it was, by any definition, a bit of extremely bad luck.

C HAPTER 2
Hell Gate
    â€˜Oh, this is marvelous, Captain,’ said Adams. ‘Tell me, which are we to do first, drown or be captured?’
    â€˜I’m not certain, Mr Adams,’ Biddlecomb said, considering the options available, two of which Adams had just mentioned, ‘but when I find out, I’ll be certain to let you know. Now …’ He turned to the carpenter.
    â€˜Clearly we must jettison the guns,’ Adams said. ‘We shall start that immediately. Rumstone—’
    â€˜Mr Adams,’ Biddlecomb said calmly in a tone that did not admit to questioning, ‘if you presume to give another order aboard my vessel, I shall have you restrained below.’
    â€˜Well, for God’s sakes, man!’ Adams searched the other faces of the quarterdeck for support and, seeing none, stamped off to the leeward side and leaned against the bulwark, arms folded across his chest.
    â€˜Mr “Rumstone”,’ Biddlecomb said, ‘please roust out the watch below and set hands to the pumps,’ and then, turning to the carpenter, continued, ‘Tell me about the leak.’
    â€˜It’s the hood-end, right up against the stem, sir, starboard side, about three foot below the waterline, and it’s coming in like a son of a whore. Don’t know if the plank’s sprung or rotten clean away or what.’
    â€˜Too big a hole to drive a plug in?’
    â€˜Lord, bless you, sir, yes. Too big even for a piece of beef.’
    â€˜Very well. Please see to the pumps. Take whatever hands you need to keep them going. Mr Sprout!’ Biddlecomb called out to the
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’s bosun. Sprout hurried aft with the odd rolling stride he used whenever he was in a hurry, the result of a large body and squat legs. ‘Mr Sprout, we’re taking on water, right up against the stem on the starboard side. We’ll have to fother a sail over it, just a spare staysail or whatever you have, we’ve no time for fancier.’
    â€˜Aye, sir,’ Sprout said, saluting and hurrying forward.
    â€˜Mr Rumstick.’ This was the order he least wished to give, but he had no choice. He had to relieve the pressure of the water on the bow. He was tempted to look over his shoulder at the frigate following astern, but he fought it down. ‘Mr Rumstick, we’ll have the studdingsails in, then clew up everything save the topsails.’
    â€˜Aye, sir,’ Rumstick said, then turning forward bellowed, ‘Hands aloft to take in studdingsails!’
    Every man aboard, Biddlecomb was certain, was aware of their situation, there being no more efficient system on earth for disseminating information than shipboard rumor. Those men not racing aloft in obediance to Rumstick’s orders were peering over the side and aft, gauging how long it would be before the frigate caught up with them. Ten minutes ago the estimate would have been four hours at least. Now, with the sails coming in as fast as they could be fisted, it would take less than half that time.
    At the larboard rail Stanton was explaining to Adams, ‘He has no choice but take in sail. The faster we go the more the water comes in through the bow and the more likely it is that we sink.’
    That was exactly right. Biddlecomb looked at the shoreline to the north and south of their position. The closest land was ten miles off. If he crowded on sail, he could probably run the
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aground before the frigate came up with them. But if he crowded on sail, then the chances were better than even that