The previous night he had ordered the Indian pilot to sketch a chart of the coastline on both sides of the Tapti River delta. He did not tell him why. And on the map he had spotted a cove five leagues to the north, called Swalley, that looked to be shallow and was also shielded by hills screening it from the sea. Even if the Portuguese discovered them, the deep draft of Portuguese galleons would hold them at sea. The most they could do would be send boarding parties by pinnace, or fireships. The cove would buy time, time to replenish stores, perhaps even to set the men ashore and attend the sick. The longer the anchorage could be kept secret, the better their chances. He had already prepared sealed orders for Captain Kerridge, directing him to steer both frigates there after dark, when their movement could not be followed by the hidden eyes along the coast. He took a deep breath and flipped forward to a blank page in the log. And realized this was the moment he had been dreading, been postponing: the last entry for the voyage out. Perhaps his last ever--if events in India turned against him. He swabbed more sweat from his face and glanced one last time at the glistening face of the lute, wondering what he would be doing now, at this moment, if he still were in London, penniless but on his own. Then he wiped off the quill lying neatly alongside the leather-bound volume, inked it, and shoved back the sleeve of his doublet to write. CHAPTER TWO The events of that morning were almost too improbable to be described. After taking on the Indian pilot, Hawksworth's plan had been to make landfall immediately, then launch a pinnace for Surat, there to negotiate trade for their goods and safe conduct to the capital at Agra for himself. If things went as planned, the goods would be exchanged and he would be on his way to the Moghul capital long before word of their arrival could reach Goa and the Portuguese. The pilot's worth was never in question. A practiced seaman, he had steered them easily through the uncharted currents and hidden swallows of the bay. They had plotted a course directly east-north-east, running with topgallants on the night breeze, to make dawn anchorage at the mouth of the Tapti River. Through the night the _Resolve_ had stayed with them handily, steering by their stem lantern. When the first light broke in the east, hard and sudden, there it lay-- the coast of India, the landfall, the sight they had waited for the long seven months. Amid the cheers he had ordered their colors hoisted-- the red cross, bordered in white, on a field of blue--the first English flag ever to fly off India's coast. But as the flag snapped its way along the poop staff, and the men struck up a hornpipe on deck, their triumph suddenly was severed by a cry from the maintop. "Sails off the starboard quarter."