The dark sea sucked and gurgled around the old pilings and the boats tied there groaned in their sleep. Matthew could smell a generation of fish brought up in the nets that hung on their wooden drying racks. Some of the boats at rope were nothing more than oversized barrels outfitted with rowlocks. Two of them, though, were larger than the others, about twelve feet in length with a single mast, but both of those looked to have been beaten nearly to death by a sea insulted at their presence.

“Wreckage, one and all,” said Devane. He gave a heavy sigh. “Can you sail? No matter, I can.”

“I can hold my own. What are you thinking?”

“Black gave time for Mother Deare to meet him at the tower, as they’d planned, but when she didn’t show he knew she wasn’t coming. Therefore it was time to take his book and his men and leave. South takes him away from Wales. The only thing to do is set sail and follow.”

Matthew nodded. He understood Devane’s meaning. The two Royal Navy ships would be difficult to hide. Black must have a place already set for him … a secluded cove or harbor that could only be discovered by sea. The only course possible would be to try to find it. And there again was the pressure of time and Matthew’s feeling that indeed in this gamble the cards were against both himself and Berry. But still … it had to be played out, for there was no turning back.

Devane spent a moment inspecting both of the decrepit single-masters. Matthew joined him when he returned to the group of men, who had advanced upon them but not raised their makeshift weapons. Devane walked past them and retrieved his saddlebag, and then he looked about in search of something. Seeing the village’s well he took from the bag the small clay jug he had already uncorked several times during the journey but had not offered a drop of water to his companion. He said, “Fill this up,” and tossed it to Matthew. While Matthew reeled the well’s bucket up, Devane put the saddlebag over his shoulder and, pistol still in hand, walked back to face old Eurig.

“We’re taking the boat with the mummified pig’s snout nailed to the mast,” he announced. “I assume that’s someone’s idea of a good luck charm?”

“Nossir, you ain’t takin’ my boat!” cried out a slim and wiry fisherman with close-cropped gray hair and a face as dangerous as the axe he held. “That’s my livin’!”

“Consider the trade,” Devane said. “Our—”

“To Hell with you!” His eyes fierce, the man lifted the axe and stalked forward.

At the well Matthew jumped with the blast of the double pistol shot.

The man went down, the axe lost as he was grabbing for his right thigh. Blood had exploded from the wound and spattered some of the men who stood behind. Devane stood in the roiling blue smoke watching the man writhe on the ground, his face expressionless.