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the helmsman, Poulden, probably the best timoneer aboard. “Does she gripe?” he demanded. He had not sensed any giveaway lurch to windward when the bows rose.
    â€œNot as who should say, sir,” the man said stolidly.
    They were making excellent speed. The seas were fine on the bow, and without the need to punch through them, there would be no slowing to their progress. However, the barque was well past and into the bay, making a fine show of it with royals now spread.
    It was time for vigorous measures. Teazer did not carry fancy sail—he could set the fore-topmast stuns’l in these conditions, but bonnets and drabblers would impede rather than assist. No, this race would be won if he tuned his ship like a violin.
    â€œI’ll have ye swift in the cat-harpings,” he told the boatswain. He considered for a moment, then turned to the master. “Take the lar-bowlines an’ see to the bracing, Mr. Dowse. Each yard to be braced in half a point more’n the one below it.” The resulting slight spiral would take into account the stronger winds to be found aloft.
    â€œAye aye, sir.”
    â€œAn’ set hands to th’ lifts, the yards to be agreeable as ye can to the horizon.” At their lively degree of heel so close-hauled, this would restore the sails’ natural aspect rather than bag the wind to the lee side.
    â€œSir.”
    There was more to think about: too great a press of sail might bury her forefoot or thrust her to leeward. Paradoxically it was often better to reduce sail to increase speed—that foretop-gallant, for instance? He gave the order to Dowse to make it so.
    It was exhilarating sailing. Never had Teazer been urged like this, the sea hissing and seething past, all sail drawing to perfection in the spanking breeze and glorious sunset.
    Kydd stood by the wheel, every nerve at full stretch, sensing the exact angle of the wind on his cheeks, listening intently to its thrum on taut rigging and the creaking, high-pitched then low, from deep within the ship as the waves passed under her keel. Any of this might change and be the first warning of sudden calamity in the straining spars and rigging.
    â€œMr. Hallum? Stations f’r staying.” This was the trickiest part: putting about to the other tack. If they fumbled it, all would be over. And they needed more than a workmanlike manoeuvre. They had to make it a lightning move that had them over on their new tack and sails fully drawing with not a second’s delay.
    Kydd snatched a glance at the barque, now significantly closer to Cherbourg and safety. He was going to play it out to the last card. “I have the ship, Mr. Dowse,” he said formally, to the sailing master.
    â€œAye, sir.” There was no resentment in his tone: he understood that it was for his own protection—any failure in timing or execution could not now be blamed on him.
    â€œStay by me, if y’ please,” Kydd added quietly.
    Hallum approached to report that stations for staying ship were now complete: lines thrown off from the belaying pins and faked along for running, every part-of-ship readied and tense—waisters, fo’c’slemen, topmen, each a part of the whole. Just one falsestep could bring them all down.
    â€œReady about!” Kydd roared, and looked over the side.
    They were slashing along as fast as he had ever seen her stretch before.
    â€œReady . . . ready . . . Ease down the helm!” Carefully, spoke by spoke, Poulden began the fateful turn. This was not the time for a sudden showy spinning of the wheel and abrupt angling of the rudder over, which would result in spectacular white foaming and a sudden slowing in impetus as the drag came on. Instead Teazer kept her speed on, allowing time for the jib sheets to be eased and, behind Kydd, the mainsail boom hauled amidships to keep the sail full until the last moment.
    â€œHelm’s a-lee!” Forward there was instant