Damn him. Did he somehow know? Did he steer us into a trap?
Seeming to read Hawksworth's thoughts, the pilot broke the silence between them, his Turki heavily accented with his native Gujarati.
"This is your first test. Officers of the Moghul’s army are doubtless at the shore, observing. What will you do?"
"What do you think we'll do? We'll stand the bastards. And with Malloyre's gunners I think we can . . ."
"Then permit me an observation. A modest thought, but possibly useful. Do you see, there"—he pulled erect and pointed toward the shore—"hard by the galleons, there where the seabirds swirl in a dark cloud? That is the river mouth. And on either side are many sandbars, borne there from the river's delta. Along the coast beyond these, though you cannot see them now, are channels, too shallow for the draft of a galleon but perhaps safe for these frigates. Reach them and you will be beyond range of all Portuguese ordnance save their stern demi-culverin. Then they will be forced to try boarding you by longboat, something their infantry does poorly and with great reluctance."
"Are there channels on both sides of the river mouth? To windward and to leeward?"
"Certainly, my feringhi captain." He examined Hawksworth with a puzzled stare. "But only a fool would not hold to port, to windward."
Hawksworth studied the shoreline with the glass, and an audacious gamble began to take form in his mind. Why try to keep both frigates to windward? That's what they'll expect, and any moment now they'll weigh and beat to windward also. And from their position, they'll probably gain the weather gage, forcing us to leeward, downwind where we can't maneuver. That means an open fight—when the Resolve can barely muster a watch. How can she crew the gun deck and man the sheets? But maybe she won't have to. Maybe there's another way.
"Mackintosh." The quartermaster was mounting the quarterdeck companionway. "Order the mains'l and fores'l reefed. And the tops'ls shortened. We'll heave to while we run out the guns. And signal the Resolve while I prepare orders for Kerridge."
The grizzled Scotsman stood listening in dismay, and Hawksworth read his thoughts precisely in his eyes. There's nae time to heave to. And for wha'? We strike an inch o' canvas an' the fornicatin' Portugals'll take the weather gage sure. Ha' you nae stomach for a fight? Why na just haul down colors and ha' done with it?