The clouds were breaking.
The storm had claimed four men in less than five minutes, and just like that it was over.
Hornigold balled his hands into fists and pushed himself to his feet. He wiped a hand across his wet mustache, sniffing as he took in the devastation. The sails were in tatters, and the topsail jib was dangling over the side.
Hornigold helped Bastion to his feet, setting him against the cannon that the surgeon had collided with. The blood was mostly washed away, save for a few bits of brain dribbling down the cascabel. "Are you alright?" Hornigold asked him.
"I think so, captain," Bastion rasped between a fit of coughs. "Reed?"
Hornigold shook his head.
"Him deserve better," Bastion said with a woeful shake of his head.
"It was a fast death," Hornigold said, sniffing hard. Salt went down his throat, and he struggled not to cough.
"Him deserve no death at all."
"The sea has no regard for what we deserve," Hornigold replied. Reed had told him that a long time ago, after a very young deckhand had been crushed while careening the ship. The deckhand had been scrubbing the keel when a tidal wave washed over the beach, pitching the ship in the sand.
Hornigold figured he should be used to death by now.
"Someone got to clean that up," Bastion said, staring at the bow.
Hornigold refused to look that way again. Someone else would have to worry about that mess. He patted Bastion on the shoulder. "Don't stand until you've recovered your breath, and maybe not even then. You've earned your share today. The foresail would look even worse if not for your diligence."
"Thank you, captain."
Hornigold left Bastion's side and started aft. Fat Farley and Francois Laurent were securing a cannon that had come loose. They glared at him as he passed. He noted no reverence in their manner, only blame. They started whispering to each other. He had convinced them to come along, promising riches beyond their wildest dreams. They would never need to work again, not for Woodes Rogers and not for themselves. They could disappear and live out the rest of their lives, as all pirates dreamed.
How many have actually succeeded?
Hornigold knew the percentage wasn't favorable, but he had promised his men they would be the exception to the rule. Had Jonathan Griffith promised his men the same? Those men were all dead now, and Hornigold sought to claim what was theirs.
With thirty-eight men,
Ranger
had little more than a token crew, but that was the most he could muster on short notice, and it meant more shares for everyone. He would have sailed with less if he could have, but he had needed all the help he could get, and he would have said anything to get them to come along. He had convinced himself that the ends would justify the means. He knew he might lose a few. He knew he might lose
everyone
, including himself, but he'd been presented with one last chance at freedom. He hadn't realized how much he hated what Woodes Rogers had turned him into until Kate Lindsay offered a way out.
In sync with his thoughts, she climbed from the hold. Her red hair appeared first, the very same color as the blood that swirled in the water beneath Hornigold's feet. She was drenched from head to toe, translucent shirt clinging to her breasts, stained with blood.
She chooses a fine moment to emerge from safety,
thought Hornigold.
"What happened?" she said, looking mildly concerned.
"Are you wounded?" he asked, indicating her shirt.
"It's not mine. What happened?"
"What do you
think
happened?" he muttered gratingly. "The bloody storm overtook us. My quartermaster is dead."
Lindsay flinched when she looked at the bow. "Was that him?"
"Yes," he replied, not looking.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?" he chuckled cynically. "Do you control the weather as well as a man's ambitions?"
Lindsay stared at him blankly. Was she purposely unreadable, or was there nothing there to read? Hornigold decided he didn't care and brushed past her.
The next two hours felt like days, though the sun hardly moved in the sky. The storm was small on the horizon and rapidly fading. It was suddenly very hot, and the damp wood started to stink. Before Hornigold's clothes could dry, he began to sweat profusely from the humidity.
He put several men to work on the bow, first to clean up the ruin that was Reed, and then to repair whatever damage they could. He set his best sailmakers to work on a new jib topsail, though it would be difficult to secure with a diminished bowsprit. Most of the others attended to the flooded hold, bucketing water over the side. A large crate of rum had toppled into the water, every bottle within shattering on impact, and the smell saturated the hold. "I'm drunk off the stench," Billie Dowling said, and everybody laughed.
Laughter comes so easily to them. How have they grown so accustomed to tragedy when I have not?
He wanted to scream at them, tell them this was no laughing matter and to stay focused on their tasks, but they were a democracy again, as Lindsay had been so quick to remind him, and he had no say over their conduct.
He retreated to his quarters. Most of the wine bottles had rolled out of his cupboard, broken shards twinkling in the variegated light that issued through the stained glass window. The wine collected in a large puddle about the shards, like a blood red ocean encompassing glass islands.
Hornigold fell into a chair and set a hand on the table, atop a map of the Caribbean that he had been studying earlier. His eyes fell on the bright red X where Lindsay claimed they would find the uncharted island that concealed Jonathan Griffith's vast fortune. Hornigold drew a dagger from his boot and dug it into the X. The tip hit an inch short of the center. He wrenched the dagger loose and slammed it down again, and again it came up short of the mark. He angrily hurled the dagger across the room, where it slapped the ornate headboard of his bed and tumbled down, slipping behind the mattress.
His frustration swiftly gave to exhaustion, and he slumped in the chair, closing his eyes. He knew it wasn't proper for a captain to rest while his crew was dealing with disaster, but he needed just a moment to recover his strength.
That isn't too much to ask, is it? Just a moment.
It couldn't have been more than a few seconds before he fell asleep. He dreamed of an island, lush and beautiful, with impossibly white beaches, crystal waters, and green trees bearing fat coconuts. The island was small but dense with tropical vegetation. A rainbow colored parrot flew overhead, looking down at him as it sailed toward the island. "This way," it called. "This way. This way. This way." The bird's voice faded as it disappeared into the jungle.
The breeze was cool on his face but not cold. The sun was warm on his back but not hot. He felt renewed as energy coursed through him from the legs up.
Where am I? Am I on a ship? No, I must be in the water.
He looked down and, sure enough, found himself submerged to his waist in shallow water. He could see straight through to the white sand. Colorful seashells were scattered all around, big and small. A red crab scurried away from his foot, taking shelter in one of the larger shells. He bent down and reached in, plucking the shell out of the water. He turned it over, but there was nothing inside. He looked down at the water again. The crab materialized in the hollow from which Hornigold had removed the shell. It scuttled away, staring at him with upturned, bulbous eyes that rested on long stalks.
I've been deceived by a crab.
The island looked inviting, and he was fond of coconuts. A man could live his entire life off coconuts and crab. A waterfall with a little lake at the bottom would be nice too. He was certain there had to be one in that jungle.
He took a step forward . . . and halted when something grey darted through the water before him. He scanned the water, but he couldn't see where the grey thing had gone. And then something flashed silver in his peripheral vision, rising above the water to the right of him and then sinking before he could look at it. And then another silver flash, this time from his left. He spun in place, things shuffling in the water all around. He looked down. Dozens of grey streaks were circling his legs. A fin broke the surface. A yawning mouth with two sets of razor sharp teeth lunged at his face. He recoiled in horror . . .
. . . And woke to a rap on his door. "Come in," he mumbled.
Another knock.
"Come in, I said!
The door opened, and Dumaka, very tall and very black, stuck his head in. "Captain?"
"Yes, Dumaka, what is it?" he said, wiping sweat from his brow.
Hornigold had recruited Dumaka from a slave ship two years past. Dumaka learned English in under a month, and he spoke it better than most of the crew. After complaints of leakage in the barrels, Dumaka made some barrels of his own, and Hornigold instantly promoted him to cooper. The previous cooper, a middle-aged man named Jeremiah, did not take kindly to a black man stealing his job, and he drew his pistol on Dumaka later that day. The shot missed Dumaka but hit another man in the forehead, killing him instantly. Jeremiah was marooned on the next island they came to, with nothing more than his unreliable pistol for company.
"Ship off the starboard bow," Dumaka said.
The words didn't register at first. "Merchant, navy, or pirate?" Hornigold managed.
"Merchant," Dumaka said. "They've hailed us, want to know if we need help."
Hornigold frowned. "They must think us reputable sailors."
"An unfortunate mistake," Dumaka grinned.
Hornigold followed Dumaka out onto the deck. A two-masted merchant ship, slightly larger than
Ranger
, had pulled close and was running parallel. Her crew was lined up at the rail, exchanging friendly words with Hornigold's men, who were acting the part of honest sailors. The captain, a distinguished looking man with white hair, dressed all in blue, stood at the forecastle with a profound look on his face, as though contemplating the meaning of the universe.
Copernicus Ryan moved close to Hornigold and whispered, "These simpletons don't seem to know the hazards of the Caribbean. The Lord sends a gift." Copernicus produced a crude wooden cross from within his collar and kissed it.
Hornigold seized the boatswain by the arm and drew him near. "We ask before we take, and we harm no one."
Copernicus pulled away, raising an eyebrow. "Who are you to deny the Lord's gift?"
"If that ship is a gift of the almighty, then he steals from honest merchants in the offering."
"We need their sails," said a raspy but unmistakably female voice. Hornigold turned. Kate Lindsay was smiling at him.
"They willingly offer help!" Hornigold said, a little too loud.
"Then they are fools," Lindsay replied. "I'm amazed they've made it this far."
"Maybe them not fools," Bastion said as he approached, rubbing his back. His face was racked with anguish.
"Maybe a trap." Dumaka suggested.
"We clearly outgun them," Hornigold said with a dismissive snort.
Ranger
was the most heavily gunned sloop in the Caribbean, and the merchant vessel was sporting under a dozen cannons and swivel guns combined. "I'll not deprive them of their sails and leave them stranded out here to ease our temporary misfortune."
"Every second we waste," Lindsay said, "allows Woodes Rogers to advance. Do you honestly think he hasn't already dispatched his best man to hunt you down?"
"I am his best man," Hornigold said, trying to maintain his calm.
"You
were
his best man," Lindsay corrected.
"Who are you to deny what the Lord offers?" Copernicus whispered eagerly in Hornigold's ear. Hornigold caught a whiff of the boatswain's foul breath, stinking of rotten teeth saturated in rum.
"The Lord is generous today," Lindsay said, smiling at Copernicus.
"Aye," Copernicus replied, nodding firmly at her.
Another comrade easily forged. This woman was tricky. Hornigold's fingers found his mustache, tugging at it furiously.
"We mustn't deny His offering," Copernicus insisted.
Hornigold shoved the boatswain away. He straightened his shirt. "We are not savages. Our sails are mendable."
"Lost time is not so easily mended," Lindsay insisted.
Hornigold glared at her. "I'll decide how time is best spent, thank you, Mrs. Lindsay."
She advanced on him, raising her voice so all around could hear. "Give them our sails and the tools to mend them, if your conscience worries at you so. Take theirs. Our time is far more precious, is it not?" A lock of red hair fell in front of her face, and she flicked it away with a fast hand.
"That's true, captain," Copernicus agreed.
"She's right, captain," Dumaka agreed.
"Reed would say the same," Copernicus added, "if he were here."
"Reed's not here!" Hornigold shot back, a bit of spittle pattering Copernicus' cheek. "Reed's in pieces! Puzzle him back together and you would see me dumbstruck enough to accept counsel from a dead man!"
"We can't do that, captain," chimed in Billie Dowling. "We put the pieces over the side." Not a smart boy, by any means.
Lindsay lowered her head, hair shielding her face. Her shoulders trembled slightly, and Hornigold realized she was chuckling. "What is funny about any of this?" he said.
"Many things," she squealed.
"Suspicion is mounting," Copernicus reminded them, gesturing at the opposite ship.
Lindsay slowly raised her head, recovering herself. "They won't wait much longer, captain."
Hornigold glanced over his shoulder. The captain of the merchant ship was staring at him from the quarterdeck. His men had stopped talking. They were starting to sense something was wrong.
More of Hornigold's crew were drawing near, eyeing him expectantly. "Our true prize awaits on Griffith's Isle," Hornigold said. "We do not need to inconvenience others in the taking."
The crew mumbled to one another. They didn't like that.
"I'm confused," came that annoyingly raspy female voice again. Lindsay stretched a beseeching arm to the crew. "Are you not pirates? Is inconveniencing others not what you do, when you're not murdering them?"