A Prisoner in Malta by Phillip Depoy Page A

backward urgently.
    Marlowe came up to the wheel and looked in the direction the pilot had indicated. There, in the first red sky of morning, not more than a league away, was the Spanish ship.
    Marlowe turned to the pilot.
    â€œSometimes the trick works,” the pilot said in perfect English, “and sometimes it doesn’t.”
    Marlowe took a moment to assess the man. He was made of leather and salt. His eyes were permanently rimmed in red, and his hands were more like talons than any human appendage. He was a man who had spent his life at sea.
    â€œWhat are we going to do?” Marlowe asked, trying to keep a rising panic at bay.
    â€œAsk the captain.” The man shrugged.
    Only then did Marlowe notice that Captain de Ferro was sitting on the rail in the last shadows of the night, staring down at a book. He was dressed in a purple velvet mandilion, the short, fashionable coat that some nobles wore, and black silk breeches. His boots were expensive calf-length buskins made of Spanish leather.
    Marlowe approached the captain as calmly as he could manage.
    â€œPardon, Captain de Ferro,” he said deferentially.
    The captain looked up.
    â€œAh. Marlowe.” He closed his book. “You’re on deck early.”
    â€œYour English seems to have improved greatly since last night,” Marlowe observed.
    â€œI don’t like to speak English in front of the men when there is a danger at sea,” he explained. “That makes them nervous. They want to know what’s being said by their captain at all times, you understand.”
    â€œI do.”
    Marlowe also understood that a man who pretended not to speak English might also pretend other things.
    â€œAs you can see,” de Ferro continued, “our ploy last night did not, alas, have the desired effect.”
    â€œIn that we are still being pursued by that ship,” Marlowe allowed, “yes, it does appear that your trick did not work.”
    â€œNo need for worry.” The captain held up his book. “I have this.”
    â€œAnd that is?”
    â€œA book of tides,” de Ferro answered. “I have compiled information about these waters for twenty years. I know that if we go here we find currents that will slow a ship, if we go there we risk being torn apart by mad waves. I know this part of the ocean better than any man alive.”
    â€œBetter than the Duke of Medina Sidonia?”
    â€œHe knows the wide ocean. I know the coastal waters.”
    â€œPossibly,” Marlowe allowed, “but the duke is unbeaten, and almost singularly responsible for the success of Spain’s navy.”
    â€œYes, but also,” the captain insisted, “I am Portuguese. We invented these ships. He is Spanish. They invented the guitar. If you want music, speak with him. If you want to sail this part of the ocean, speak with me.”
    â€œYou’re saying that you’re going to sail into waters where he can’t follow.”
    The captain tapped his book. “Yes.”
    Marlowe smiled. “I see.”
    â€œBut we have something worse to worry about,” the captain complained.
    â€œSpies,” Marlowe said.
    Captain de Ferro nodded. “Why else would that Spanish ship be following us?”
    Marlowe nodded and lowered his voice. “I can think of a dozen reasons, but it does appear that there may be a traitor among your crew.”
    The captain’s face lost a bit of its sunny disposition.
    â€œYou serve a Queen,” the captain answered grimly, “and you are under the protection of a man I greatly admire. Otherwise, I might be forced to see you answer for such a personal accusation.”
    Marlowe bristled, partly in defense, partly owing to lack of sleep.
    â€œI have never met a Queen,” he responded to the captain, “I need no man’s protection, and I would gladly answer to you in any manner that you see fit.”
    The smile returned to de Ferro’s