a leadsman in the forechains shouted aft. “Five fathom t’this line!” “Close enough, I think, Mister Yelland?” Lewrie said to the Sailing Master. “Aye, sir,” Yelland agreed, sounding a tad eager to bring the ship no closer to the shore. But for a wee glim in the compass binnacle, HMS Sapphire showed no lights of any kind, and Yelland was deprived of a peek into the chartroom to consult the local chart. With its lanthorn unlit, and with no windows or ports, it would have been moot, anyway. All officers had committed the details of the coast to memory, along with the soundings. “Mister Westcott, fetch her to,” Lewrie ordered. “And if God’s just, we should find ourselves about a half-mile off, by sunrise.” One Bell was struck up forward at the forecastle belfry as the ship was put about to cock her up into the wind, with the jibs, staysails, and spanker driving her forward and the squares’ls laid aback to retard forward motion.
