Cutler lowered the spyglass from his eye, his anxious fingers tingling on the ship’s wheel. “Mr. Thomas,” he called to the man behind him.

“Yes, sir?” The lanky sailor asked, glancing up from the crumpled map he was studying.

“What’s our bearing?”

“We’re two weeks from port, sir.”

Cutler groaned as he leaned on the wheel. They were making time. Good time. But they were still leagues behind the competition. He sighed once more before slamming his fist into the wheel. “We must cut that time in half. Benson!”

The clatter of cobbled steps, followed by the heavy breaths of the portly fellow, greeted his call. Benson bounded up the stairs of the deck as swiftly as his stubby legs could muster before pulling to a stop in front of the captain. “Aye sir?” he saluted with a pant.

“Full sails, Benson. Ready the men. I want all hands ready. We sail through the night.”