The prisoners were sent below, but to the tween-decks this time instead of the hold.
Land was in sight, the Brixham man informed Ortho. They had hit the mark off very neatly, at a town called Mehdia a few miles above Sallee, or so he understood. If they could catch the tide they should be in by evening. The admiral was lacing bonnets on. The gun ports being closed, they could not see how they were progressing, but the Arabs were in a high state of elation; cheer after cheer rang out from overhead as they picked up familiar land-marks along the coast. Even the wounded men dragged themselves to the upper deck. The afternoon drew on. Puddicombe was of the opinion that they would miss the tide and anchor outside, in which case they were in for another night’s pitching and rolling. Ortho devoutly trusted not; what with the vermin and rats in that hold he was nearly eaten alive. He was just beginning to give up hope when there came a sudden bark of orders from above, the scamper of bare feet, the chant of men hauling on braces and the creak of yards as they came over.
“She’s come up,” said he of Brixham. “They’re stowing the square sails and going in under lateens. Whoop, there she goes! Over the bar!”
“Crash-oom!” went a gun. “Crash-oom!” went a second, a third and a fourth.
Puddicombe snorted. “Aye—powder! That’s rejoicements, that is. You don’t know these Arabs; when the cow calves they fire a gun; that’s their way o’ laughing. Why, I’ve seen the corsairs come home to Algiers with all the forts blazin’ like as if there was a bombardment on. You wait, we’ll open up in a minute. Ah, there you are!”
“Crash-oom!” bellowed the flagship ahead. “Zang! Zang!” thundered their own bow-chasers. “Crash-oom!” roared the ship astern, and the forts on either hand replied with deafening volleys. “Crack-wang! Crack-wang!” sang the little swivels. “Pop-pop-pop!” snapped the muskets ashore. In the lull came the noise of far cheering and the throb of drums and then the stunning explosions of the guns again.
“They’ve dowsed the mizzen,” said Puddicombe. “Foresail next and let go. We’m most there, son; see what I mean?”
They were taken off at dusk in a ferry float. The three ships were moored head and stern in a small river with walled towns on either hand, a town built upon red cliffs to the south, a town built upon a flat shore to the north. To the east lay marshes and low hills beyond, with the full moon rising over them.