Sailing in loose formation with the rest of the convoy under jibs and foresail, Kestrel struggled to keep pace with the heavy, wallowing merchantmen as the ships, some thirty all told and helplessly strung out over several miles, beat to windward on a northerly course. Every man in her crew knew that the swift American schooner could sail circles around the convoy, and there was much sniggering and joking amongst her company as they deliberately held her back; in fact, even Kestrel herself seemed to be laughing, perhaps remembering distant times when her captain’s own father had also practiced a wily cunning and brought glory to her name so long ago. Slowly, she dropped back, falling farther and farther astern as the merchant ships began to hang lights in their rigging and the two guard ships, Diana and the sloop-of-war Whippet, tried in vain to round up stragglers before nightfall settled in. Connor had since relinquished the helm to Bobbs, and now he began to restlessly pace the deck as the last of the light began to fade.
