image [https://i.imgur.com/15eGPa6.jpg]

privateer – An armed ship owned and officered by private individuals who are given special permission by a government to attack merchant ships of enemy nations.

letter of marque – A government license that authorizes a private person to attack and capture vessels of enemy nations. Without it, one ceases to be a privateer, and becomes a pirate.

HALF A MILE away from the pirate ship Hazard, cutting quickly through the foaming black water, was another ship. The privateer Lively had beat against the storm for going on two hours. On her main deck three steadfast men held tight to the oak handles of the capstan. The ship heeled, and they sent silent prayers up to the one conducting the clouds and the wind. Thankfully, the Lively’s captain had drilled his men incessantly in weeks previous, and they had all tied themselves to the railing and readied themselves to their stations. Their grunts were lost amid thunder, as were their cries to one another. When Lively leveled out, the three men were still holding fast to the capstan, waiting on word from the captain. These three men were brothers, they had come to the Caribbean together with their parents in 1699, and after fever took both mother and father, the three brothers began sailing together, and had done so ever since, aboard merchantmen and privateers. There was more money in privateering—A full twenty shillings extra a month! the eldest brother had told the others, back when that had been true—but also a lot more risk. It was a daring life. Already they had seen numerous men die, watched them go overboard. Every sailor feared the briny deep, it was a source of constant wonder and terror. Even now, the three brothers worried they might go over. They very well could. In a storm mounting like this one, they ought to turn back.

The captain could save them. He could. He could save them all, if only he would make the right decision and turn back now.

The sun had nearly set somewhere behind those dark clouds, and all eyes looked up towards the helm, where Captain Benjamin Vhingfrith leaned against a railing, his grey silhouette just noticeable against a darkling sky. A flash of lightning framed him, his one glimmering eye piercing the darkness.

When will the call come? the three men thought as one.

Their feet slipped on the deck. A wave crashed against the port railing and they tasted seawater. “It will happen fast, gentleman,” the captain had told them four hours ago when he roused them all from sleep and gathered them in the galley to tell them they were sailing into the storm. “Quick’s the word, sharp’s the action. This Spanish gal will be good and pregnant, and should she head where I believe she will, she’ll be easy to catch.”

And the men had listened. And the men had believed. Why wouldn’t they? Aside from that one catastrophic failure escaping Guadeloupe, when had Captain Vhingfrith ever been wrong? But he had been wrong, the three men thought as one, exchanging the thought with their eyes, which shone with both excitement and dread whenever lightning lit the world. What if he’s wrong now?

Lively jolted. It was a single, sharp scrape that moved from the front of the ship to her stern. The ship had grazed another coral head. That was the third one in as many minutes.

“Full six!” cried one of the linemen from port.

Two minutes passed. Vhingfrith didn’t move. No orders were given, none at all. The three brothers holding the capstan stared at him, waiting for the order to turn back.

“Five fathoms!” cried the lineman from starboard.

All three men at the capstan looked up at Vhingfrith. Beside the wheel, the half-Negro captain remained leaning forward against the railing. He did not move. He gave no orders. Some of the men already hated him for who he was, for what he was, and it did not help that he had them in an enterprise with the Hazard, a known pirate vessel.

I’ll vote him off tomorrow, one of the brothers thought. We’ll hold an emergency vote and remove him from the captaincy. I’ll call for the bloody vote m’self if I have to.

Another of the brothers had thoughts to murder. Who would care about a murdered half-Negro who only obtained the captaincy because his white father had bequeathed him the ship? But this brother only entertained the thought.

The man beside him had the knife all picked out. His name was Lawrence Burr.

“Full four!” cried both linemen.

“Make the goddamn call,” Burr muttered to himself. “Stupid bastard, make the bloody call.”

Faces all along the deck upturned. And yet still, the half-Negro did not budge. Lightning showed his slim frame, his red coat hanging from him like a wet curtain. The two gold rings on his right hand and the silver ring on his left hand glittered, and surely all three brothers at the capstan wondered if there were any laws that somehow protected a half-Negro from theft and murder. For full-blooded Negros, almost certainly there were none. But a half-Negro? One with his own ship and a letter of marque? One who had been baptized? Many of the sailors could not even read, but there were men of letters back in Nassau and Port Royal who did their thinking for them, and most of them seemed certain half-Negros had as few rights as full-blooded ones. Some said a half-Negro ought to have even less rights, since he was the result of unclean fornication.

But ought to is different than has none, was a thought that slithered through each of their minds like a worm. Especially for Lawrence Burr.

“Three and one!” came the next call.

The men on the deck all watched the captain. Vhingfrith cast his eyes up to the crow’s nest. Miller was up there, giving hand signals, since no one could hear him above the roaring seas. Then Vhingfrith muttered something to Mr. Dawson, the man at the helm, and Dawson turned the wheel slowly to port. Deeper into the storm.

We should turn away from this, the three brothers thought, and this time they were joined by the men up in the mainmast, ready to reef the sails, eager to do it. We should be away from these islands and cays. The corals will destroy us, if we aren’t beached first. We should turn away! Damn him, why does he not turn us away?

A loud scraping noise rattled the whole ship, and the planks beneath their feet juddered.

“Four fathoms!”

“That’s it!” At last, Burr had had enough, and he left the capstan. Osterholm, the potbellied Jewish quartermaster, shouted at him, “Burr! Back to your station!”

But Lawrence Burr was determined, and he knew all eyes were on him, and he knew all the men aboard the Lively silently had his back, his two brothers especially. He climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck and stood a foot away from the lanky half-breed and shouted above the wind, “Turn us back!”

“Mr. Burr, please show some constitution towards this—” Vhingfrith began.

“Damned fool, turn us back, now!” Burr despised even hearing the half-breed’s words, so elegantly spoken, like a man of upper-class rearing. Arrogant son of a bitch, to give himself such airs. It was despicable, and unnatural.

“I believe you have your post, Mr. Burr.”

“Turn us back—”

“To your post, Mr. Burr!”

“My post! Says you! I’m more than suited to any other job but you slap me and my brothers on the capstan whenever you’re—”

“You lied to me in port when I hired you. You said you were an ‘able seaman.’ But you were false with me. You’re not much good with knots or carpentry, Mr. Burr, so I have to make use of you and your brothers somewhere—”

“I know my knots, just not by your names, you arrogant cunt! Now turn us back—”

“You have your post, Mr. Burr,” Vhingfrith said again. “I will take this outburst as a mere symptom of nerves and the fact that you’ve worked two shifts without sleep, for which I am grateful to you. Your hard work has been of great benefit to us all. Lively thanks you, too. She moves handsomely because of you all. Now, if you please.” Vhingfrith gestured benevolently towards the capstan.

Burr felt the heat rising in his chest and face, and he nearly pulled the knife out of his pocket, he very nearly did. “We—are—at—four—bloody—fathoms!”

“If we’re at four fathoms, Mr. Burr, then our quarry is likely in even more dire straits.” His accent was grating on the ears, Burr always felt, because it was so unnatural. The half-Negro ought to speak with the Negro accent, but instead his English was smooth and crisp, as proper as any Londoner Burr had ever met. The bastard spoke English with as much skill and dignity as he did Latin, French, and Spanish. An educated monster, a heathen with airs. Disgusting. “I have it on good authority that the newest Spanish naos draw three fathoms, so her keel ought to be getting a good shave right about now. She’s a bloated sow, trudging through mud. Do you understand? With any luck, I should think she’ll spring a leak.”

Burr’s upper lip twitched without him knowing. But Vhingfrith saw it, just like he saw the fingers of each of Burr’s hands curling slightly inward, contemplating fists. “Even if so, them galleons have more than one bilge pump, and they’re better than ours when—”

“They do have spare pumps, Mr. Burr, they do, you’re not wrong there. But each one requires work, manpower, and in the meantime the extra water will cause her to drag. In fact,” he added, tugging on a pair of gloves, “I suspect this has already happened, judging by the degree she heels to and then stays there for several moments.”

Vhingfrith pointed southeast, and Burr looked, but both of them knew it was now almost impossible to see the Spanish galleon in all this dark. Night had fully fallen. Even Miller up in the crow’s nest had to wait for lightning to spot anything.

Burr looked back at the captain, the ember of a challenge still sparking in his eyes. Lively suddenly heeled to one side and everyone hung on. A wall of seawater came over them and the ship groaned in protest. Burr clung to the same railing Vhingfrith held fast to, and he looked the black devil in his eye. The half-breed’s throat was bare, just within reach. It would be so easy to open it, let him gargle on his own blood and then fall dead and be washed over the side. He considered it multiple times while the ship slewed and corrected. McCullough was on the tiller, and he was watching for Miller’s hand signals. Most of the crewmen were blinded by darkness and seawater. Even Dawson was preoccupied with trying to manhandle the wheel.

I could do it now, Burr thought. His hand moved to the knife. I could do it. And no one would care.

“When we were last in Port Royal,” Burr said, his voice low enough that the wind almost stole his words, so low that no one else could hear, “you and I were in The Handsome Lady. You caught some o’ the lads an’ me playing dice. You gave us a warning. You remember that warning, Captain?”

“I do, Mr. Burr,” said Vhingfrith. The high collar of his long, red coat fluttered in the wind, concealing his lips. It was almost too dark to see his face, yet Benjamin Vhingfrith’s left eye, which shone strangely silver by some birth defect no one could identify, glimmered like a cat’s eye. “I recall the very day, in fact.”

“Then you know that I was there when the papers were put into your hand! The ones that listed all pirates at sea to be considered enemies o’ the Crown!” He nodded. Without thinking, his hand gripped the hilt of the knife. “I saw the names, Captain. I saw them all.”

“Come to the point, Mr. Burr. We are in a delicate position and my focus is better spent on—”

“We all know what a soft spot you have for the Ladyman. Some say it’s an unnatural sentiment, but I would not insult you by suggesting somethin’ so grotesque as—”

“As what, Mr. Burr? As what?” The Devil’s Son turned squarely to face him, and the cat’s-eye flashed. “Please, speak freely.”

Burr almost said it, but then he saw his dilemma. In his agitation at this unnecessarily dangerous tactic, and in his rage at this half-breed giving himself airs, he had been too rash, and had forgotten that rumour-milling was seen as a crime on a ship. Gossip could tear crews apart, and unsubstantiated claims could render one’s word forever in doubt. It could mean a lashing.

And he would not get a lashing from any half-Negro cunt.

Rain trickled down his face. It seemed the storm had suddenly eased. Burr changed tack, and spoke carefully now, yet each envenomed word showed clear his displeasure with the captain’s arrogance. “The responsibility of every captain is to the safety of his men. You’ve pushed us out into an unnecessary gambit. In a storm. ’Gainst a superior fucking ship—”

“Mr. Burr, do you aver that I have abandoned my responsibility to my men?”

Burr sneered. “I do so fucking ‘aver’! And do not presume to give yourself airs—”

“And will you get back to your post, Mr. Burr, and do your duty, as your captain has instructed?”

“Captain, beggin’ your pardon, but I have my own fucking duty! A duty to my brothers and the other men—”

“Will you return to your post?” Vhingfrith repeated.

“I will not!”

“What about the rest of the crew, Mr. Burr? Will you let them down—”

“The rest o’ the crew are bloody well on my side!”

“Say that again?”

Burr drew the knife, half unsure what he was going to do with it. In the darkness, nobody saw it, he kept it close to his side. “You’ve allied us with an enemy of the—”

It was so dark he did not see the captain draw his pistol, he only heard the snap of the hammer falling into place, and saw the momentary flash of ignited gunpowder. Burr felt like he had been punched in the chest, and in his spine, all the wind knocked out of him, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not suck in any more air. The boom turned every head on deck. He staggered backward against the leeward rail. He fell on his arse, then slumped against the railing while Dawson and the others merely glanced at him.

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Everyone kept working. That is what stunned Lawrence Burr the most as he felt darkness descending on him—astonishment that no one broke from their work. Indeed, when he looked over at Gordon and Hoyt, his two brothers that had been working the capstan with him, the two brothers that had helped raise him, had brought him into a life at sea…he saw them return their full focus to their task.

No one cares.

They’re all scared.

Scared of him.

Burr’s grip melted, and the knife fell from his hand and skittered over the rail and into the sea.

“Mr. Galbraith, get rid of him, if you please,” said Vhingfrith coldly. The second mate moved to obey. And then the captain turned and handed the pistol to Jacobson, his first mate. “Arrest me if you feel the need, Mr. Jacobson. Or wait till tomorrow and hold a vote. Or let me get back to England’s work. Until then, I ask you to recall Article Nineteen.” He returned to his command at the helm. “Mr. Dawson, how does she bear?”

“Er…” Dawson fumbled for words. “Eh…storm seems to be easing up, sir…”

Vhingfrith nodded curtly. “Going by quarters winds, I’d gauge?”

“Aye, sir.” Dawson was still in a daze from the abrupt violence.

Vhingfrith ploughed on. “Keep her loof, fall not off.”

“Aye, Cap’n. Keeping her near the wind.” He turned the wheel half a degree starboard.

Jacobson did not arrest the captain. He stood by stoically, waiting to see what the others would do. Perhaps they were all recalling Article 19, as well: “No man upon his ship shall utter any words of sedition or mutiny, under pain of death.”

When no one challenged the captain, Jacobson decided not to, either. For now.

Burr sat there gasping, hands going numb and mouth forming inarticulate noises. It felt like all sound was muffled, and coming from down a long, long tunnel. He goaded me. He goaded me to say the words of sedition. The thought had barely crossed Burr’s mind when he saw a pair of large, booted feet cross the deck to him. The rough, callused hands of Mr. Galbraith grabbed Burr underneath his armpits. Burr tried to struggle but it was no good. Blood ran up to his throat and spouted from his mouth. Someone else grabbed his feet. Please, he tried to mutter. Please no, have mercy. But only a single, plaintive utterance was noted by the wind, the faintest whimper.

And then he was over the side and in the water and gone.

____

Captain Benjamin Vhingfrith stood exactly where he had been when he killed Lawrence Burr. That the crew watched him with burning hatred from bow to stern he was lazily aware. But his thoughts were elsewhere. He had been trying to guess the Ladyman’s plan for hours, and had little luck, but now that plan finally began to come into focus. No single sloop or brig could ever have hoped to take on a ship of the line, nor could two smaller ships prove even adversarial. Not commonly. But Benjamin had trusted the Ladyman enough to follow his ship on a parallel course, and it seemed to be paying off in a most unusual way. Lively had experienced her last scrapes of coral around the time Burr made his foolish move, and that had been one turn of the glass ago—half an hour—and so Benjamin now breathed a little easier. These cays were somewhat known to him, but the Ladyman knew them best, these were his hunting grounds. He knew the Spanish ship’s heading, and he knew these cays, and he predicted exactly when the storm would transform from a squall into something else, and then back again. How?

“Think we cleared the outer reef, Cap’n,” Dawson called over a roll of thunder.

Vhingfrith only nodded. His eyes were trained on Hazard, who appeared in a flash of lightning about two hundred yards to starboard. Most islands had two reefs—a shallow inner reef and a deeper one offshore. Somehow, Captain Laurier had navigated cleanly between the two, and by following close, by trusting the Ladyman, Vhingfrith’s ship had also made it through unscathed. Well, almost. There was a small breach below that men were working to plug with oakum.

“We cleared the outer reef,” Dawson repeated. “But that galleon…looks to me like she might’ve gotten caught too close to the inner one.”

Vhingfrith nodded again. His helmsman had just stolen his very thought. “The wind carried her where she struggled not to go,” he said. “The Spaniards opened all sails to make speed but that meant fighting the gale. The galleon has likely had many breaches, she’s taking on water.” He looked up at the sky. “And now this storm begins to dissipate, giving us an opportunity. The Ladyman knew exactly how to drive these Spaniards.”

“Beg pardon, sir, but Spaniards are awful seamen, and that is at least half the reason the galleon now struggles.”

Notoriously awful, Benjamin thought. But that still doesn’t rob the Ladyman of any merits for his maneuver.

“How did you know she was out here, Cap’n? If you don’t mind me askin’.”

“The Hazard, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

Vhingfrith scratched irritably at the two-day stubble on his chin. He clapped Dawson on the back and leaned in, speaking close to his ear, so to be heard over a rough wind. “A packet ship arrived in Nassau six weeks ago. A few communiques were delivered, their contents concerning the sightings of Spanish ships in the area, pirate vessels spotted here and there.” Packet ships were fast vessels used only to carry communications. They were usually only put to use by the Royal Navy, but privateers in good standing (like Vhingfrith) could sometimes use them to send or receive messages. “There was a letter for me from the Dolphin. Her captain said he’d been tasked to deliver a message on behalf of the captain of the Hazard, who said he would be out this way.” He shrugged. “Captain Laurier knew Lively likes to hide in the cays here, and that we often strike from the coves, so he decided to invite us in on this plunder.”

Dawson’s eyes went wide. He made an adjustment to their steering, then said, “The Ladyman knows where we anchor, sir?”

“It would appear so. How else did he know where to find me?” He smiled at the helmsman’s discomfort. “Calm yourself, Mr. Dawson. Hazard’s still on England’s side. At least,” he amended, “she’s not on Phillip’s.” The ship heeled, though not as greatly as before. Now that they were clear of the coral heads the steering was less treacherous and much more manageable. He hollered above the roaring waves, “At any rate, the Ladyman’s message said he’d heard rumour of a nao moving through these waters, ferrying silk, spice, a few slaves, and possibly gold, and that we ought to keep a lookout, and that if our spotters on the island saw Hazard giving chase, we were invited to lend a hand and split the prize.”

Dawson winced. “And you trusted her—er, him, sir? You trusted the Ladyman?”

“And why not? The last time I trusted him he saved my father’s life, and gifted him the very ship you’re now steering.”

While Dawson worked that out, Vhingfrith looked back to the leeward rail. It was hard to believe, but despite all the seawater and rain there was still a sizable smear of Lawrence Burr’s blood across the planks. He hoped that it did not permanently stain the wood. He would make sure it didn’t, even if it meant scrubbing it himself. No need to leave a constant reminder for others to brood on. Most of the men hated him enough already.

Burr had been well liked, his brothers Hoyt and Gordon were still there working the capstan, and his death might just mean the crew was finally, and irrevocably, poisoned against him.

That means getting a whole new crew when we get to port. If I survive that long.

Hoyt and Gordon Burr were full brothers, and Lawrence Burr, the man Benjamin had just shot, had been adopted. Vhingfrith had included that in his calculations before shooting the man. He made it his business to know these things. Osterholm, his quartermaster, kept him apprised of the background and overall mood of each man, as well as the unique chemistry they created through their bonds. He knew Hoyt and Gordon had always hated their adopted brother, and had even tried drowning him when they were teenagers. Lawrence had gotten them into all sorts of trouble with the law, even drawing the ire of the king’s militia on St. Kitts.

But still, he was their brother. If it had been them doing the killing, it would be no matter. But I am the Negro captain who shot him, and that will not sit well for long.

And then there’s Jacobson. He’s wanted command of a ship his whole life, and felt cheated when my father bequeathed Lively to me, bypassing his seniority. Vhingfrith glanced over at the first mate. Euric Jacobson had spent many years away from Vhingfrith, looking for his own captaincy in Nassau, to no avail, and now, out of desperation, and no doubt a cask’s worth of shame, he had returned, hat in hand, and with a group of friends who now worked the Lively’s decks. Doubtless, they would feel better with Jacobson in charge. Doubtless.

So it was true, Vhingfrith would soon be in dire need of a new crew.

He hated to do it, many of these men were terrific seamen, if a little too fixated on rum and singing at times. Not only that, but Vhingfrith’s reputation and background made it difficult to find people willing to sail under him, men who would continue to vote him in as captain without extra shares tossed their way. He wasn’t just the half-Negro who spoke many languages, making them all feel inferior to his intellect, he was also the half-Negro that had utterly failed to secure the treasure at Guadeloupe and lost almost half his crew. It was getting more and more difficult to find people that had not heard of him, and were not concerned about sailing under the captaincy of a man who was the product of a white man and an African slave.

Another flash of lightning gave the lookout a clear sight of their target. High in his crow’s nest, Miller shouted something while giving hand signals.

“How does he make it?” asked Dawson, who knew the captain saw unnaturally well in the dark, and could therefore make out Miller’s signals.

“Half a mile,” Vhingfrith answered, putting his long glass to his left eye—with his left, he could see almost as clearly as daytime. He saw Miller’s assessment was correct. “Running east. She’s hard abeam.”

“It’s time, then, yes? She’s in the shoals deep enough, just like you wanted. Shall I change course?”

Vhingfrith lowered the glass, and tapped his fingers against it. “Fathoms?” he cried.

Carlson, the lineman, shouted back, “Full four, Captain!”

Vhingfrith nodded. Those shoals were awful close, and he was desirous to avoid them.

“Shall I change course, Captain?” Dawson demanded edgily. His tar-stained fingers clutched the wheel like a child afraid to let go of a parent’s hand.

Here were the tense moments of sailing. It was always uncertainty. Anything could go wrong, because it was impossible to know exactly what was beneath them. Even if they had known yesterday, the seafloor was always in flux, and sandbars could shift and change shape entirely, they could rise and fall, and it would all be invisibly done beneath the waves.

Vhingfrith reached out to touch the wheel, feeling the pressure it exerted against his palm. Something scraped the hull on the starboard side and he felt the cant of the deck beneath his feet. He watched the vibration of each piece of rigging, looked at the position of each man around his yardarm. He felt Lively drag for a moment and she slewed, and he knew the cargo had shifted. He could even sense how much water was in the bilge.

All this he sensed with a mere touch of the wheel. Before becoming a captain of anything, Benjamin had been a pilot for his father, aboard this ship and others. It had made him quite sensitive to a ship’s soul.

He again put the long glass to his left eye. Beside him, he felt the helmsman growing impatient with him—Dawson wanted an answer, or else his own faith might waver. Perhaps more men were feeling it, some of them contemplating doing what Lawrence Burr had just attempted, only in greater numbers. If they did attack him soon, he knew who would be their leader. Jacobson, who had already accepted the captain’s discarded pistol, would try his best to discredit the captain. The only question was, would he wait until after this maneuver was done, or try something before?

Lively rose and fell, rose and fell, cresting one wave and then plunging down the other side.

The storm was easy, but the waters were still in some turmoil. Rain became a drizzle.

After a twelve-foot swell passed in front of his glass, Vhingfrith saw the galleon clear by lightning flash. How does she bear, son? his father’s voice whispered on the wind. It was an instructive tone, with a fairy’s touch of challenge to it. She’s broad on the starboard abeam, Father, but she’s turning again. Ahead a point.

“Captain, the course!” Dawson yelled.

“Change course,” he said calmly, and turned to his quartermaster. “Mr. Osterholm?”

“Ready about!” the Jew screamed, only too eager to get on with it.

Men jumped to their halyards, some of them swinging from one spar to the next by use of the netting. Vhingfrith had prepared them with the routine hours ago, and here was the moment. They were hastily changing tack. Hoyt and Gordon turned the capstan, and were joined by Galbraith, who wordlessly threw his back into it. They dropped a single anchor to starboard. Club-hauling is a tactic often mentioned in officer training but rarely ever practiced, his father had taught him. There is an element of danger to it, especially in such dense corals. The anchor drags on the seafloor and helps to turn the ship heavily to that side. But only a master may attempt this. A master who knows his ship well.

Vhingfrith’s father had known this tactic well; he had performed it more than once, with the Ladyman aiding him. In fact, it was in a storm such as this where Vhingfrith first joined battle with Laurier, and knew their destinies were going to be forever intertwined.

He reached up and touched the silver locket that hung from his neck, and remembered their blood-vow. Many times, he had thought about throwing the locket away, but he could never quite bring himself to do it. He could never be rid of John Laurier.

Dawson swung the wheel first hard aport, then hard to starboard, and kept turning it. They all hung on, leaning against the turn. Waves crashed up over the side and Lively’s cut-water sliced through foaming, resistant water. Lightning split the sky once more and showed them their target, bobbing on the sea, much closer now.

In less than a minute the maneuver was over and Vhingfrith ordered the anchor drawn back up. The men working the capstan screamed as they fought with their handles. A geyser of seawater nearly knocked them all off their feet. It arced over them like a black tunnel and a man was washed overboard and lost. Hoyt and Gordon Burr glared balefully at the captain.

Their new course settled, Vhingfrith raised the glass to his cat’s-eye. There was no doctor either in the Bahamas nor in England that could diagnose his particular birth defect, nor could they explain why it made the one eye capable of seeing so well in darkness. One doctor, though, said he had heard of one such instance during his time in India, and said the fellow with the cat’s-eye affliction had eventually gone blind in the eye, and had also died suddenly one day, young and seemingly fit. It was unclear if the defect had anything to do with his mysterious death, so for all Vhingfrith knew he was living on borrowed time.

The single silvery eye, which shimmered even in the dark, and especially when it caught moonlight, had always alarmed those around Benjamin, and made his own mother believe he might be touched by devils. It had earned him the nickname “Devil’s Son” over on Nassau, though none on his crew called him that. At the moment, all Benjamin cared about the defect was its use as a tool to stalk his prey in the night. And the Ladyman is counting on the cat’s-eye, too.

Vhingfrith saw clearly the stern. Even as the Spanish galleon struggled like a shark in netting, it could neither get free of the shoals nor shake loose its two pursuers.

“God in heaven,” Dawson breathed. “It worked. It worked! We’re dead set behind her!”

Vhingfrith looked through his glass. The nao was trying a new tack. She would not make it, though, her sails were luffing. In trying to turn enough to avoid shallow waters she had lost the wind. It was the last desperate attempt of a cornered beast. And now it was time to close in. “Mr. Osterholm,” he called. “Hoist the flag.”

“Sir,” said the heavyset man, “the Hazard’s already hoisted the black.”

“Then hoist the Union Jack! Let the Spaniard captain see a pirate vessel on one side of him, and an English privateer on the other. It won’t make sense to him, but the captain might surrender, if he’s smart. And hang a lantern beside the flag—no, hang two—so he can make it out in all this dark.” He shrugged. “But if the Spaniards are stubborn it’ll be a few salvos and then boarding action. Understood?”

Osterholm was a heavy-jowled man, with a face chiseled in granite and pocked by acne scars. His forehead had a huge dent in it where someone had struck him with an axe ages ago. It gave him a permanent quizzical brow. “Sir, we are outgunned,” Osterholm said. “Maybe we ought wait till she’s been swamped or—”

“Half her gunports cannot open.”

The Jew shrugged. “That still leaves the other half.”

“Not at the moment. She’s taking on water, on my oath as captain. Many of her men will be bending their backs towards saving her. Some of those cannons will never fire, and even at the best of times those Spaniards usually miss. In a storm like this, they’ve no chance.”

“Until we get closer.”

“That’s why we’ll fire at her arse first, weaken her. Now step lively, Mr. Osterholm!”

“Aye aye, sir.” By habit, Osterholm, a former Navy man, snapped off a salute and ran off to convey the command.

Vhingfrith felt the presence of many ghosts standing behind him, watching over his shoulder, waiting for the mix-breed captain to make a mistake. He sensed Toby, the slave boy who hanged himself on his father’s plantation. He sensed Gabriel the cook, who he’d left marooned on an unnamed island. The last Vhingfrith saw of him he was gazing balefully at the Lively from the shore.

And he sensed Lawrence Burr’s ghost, having entered the spirit world just now, and leering at him, trying to coax Vhingfrith into making a single mistake that would cost him.

And why shouldn’t you want one, Mr. Burr? Any mistake made now will be compounded in the crew’s mind by the memory of your death. But if we are successful, your death will be forgotten, the men will have treasure and rum, they will see your death as a necessary evil to completing our task, your brothers will get extra shares and be fain shot of you. And your ghost will be left out here in the waters, alone.

An unseasonably chill wind blew past his ear. It brought a promise from Lawrence Burr. Perhaps. But if all goes well for me, Captain Vhingfrith, I will not be alone tonight. I’ve got a spot all picked out for you, here in the briny deep.