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

“Hang the jib.” – To frown or pout.

loblolly boys – Young seamen who aid the ship’s surgeon.

image [https://i.imgur.com/sXLpOjz.jpg]

INSIDE HIS WARD-ROOM, Benjamin fought for control of his officers. Sailors were famously superstitious and the idea that Henley claimed that Swanson was some sort of evil spirit coughed up from the seas and the Long Night was just too much for them. The barrage was unending: What are we to do about this? We cannot let Swanson stay on board this ship, can we? Shouldn’t we act as though Henley’s claims are accurate? And why should Old Charley lead you to the castaways, Captain? Do you think he knowingly sent us towards danger, or was he merely trying to help us rescue two men? Oughtn’t we turn back now, to avoid steering into the same Altered Night that the Alexandria ran afoul of?

To that last question, Vhingfrith said, “I don’t think it works like that, lads.”

“How do you know?” asked Bartlett.

“I don’t know. It is a guess. But at this point there is no evidence that I’ve read that steering into the direction of a last-known Altered Night then traps a vessel in it. When an Altered Night arrives, it does so randomly, as if it chooses the ship it wants. And when it’s over, it’s gone for a while.” He tried to steer the conversation in a direction that kept them all focused. “You fellows, you are the brains of this ship, and those men on deck, they are its blood. If you lose your heads now, we lose our quarry. Do not forget we are out here on a mission for England. The Duke is with us. We are not just some merchants like those aboard Alexandria who, God rest her souls, were unseasoned. Henley tells me it was a fresh crew, with a captain that had hardly sailed the Caribbean at all. So do not assume their fate must be ours.” That was a lie. That was not what Henley had told him. It was the opposite.

He looked each of them in the eye.

“We are men of the Long Night. Some of you sailed with me through that first journey through the firmament, and made it out alive. Those that doubted and jumped into the waters, they would be alive today had they merely had faith in Lively and themselves. Do you disagree, Mr. Osterholm?”

The Jew shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Do you disagree, Mr. Tyndall?”

“No, sir.”

“No monsters destroyed us then. It was our own lack of faith and courage that nearly undid us. God rest those men’s souls, all of them, but the only thing that killed them was despair. And as for Old Charley out there, if he wanted us dead, do you not think such a titan capable of simply smashing a ship to flinders with any of his fins or tentacles would have trouble with us? Mr. Averill?”

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Bartlett?”

“No, sir.”

“And if this Swanson is some mimic vomited up from the firmament, do you think it can be anything worse than what we endured in Port Royal those first days of the Cataclysm? Major Halleck?”

“No, sir.”

“Serjeant McCulloch?”

“No, Captain.”

“Very good.”

“But,” said Bartlett sheepishly, “it occurs to me, sir, and I would be remiss if I did not mention…” He hesitated.

“Yes?”

“The things that besieged Port Royal, did they not sometimes mimic human voices? Voices of the dead?”

“They did,” Benjamin allowed.

“And so might it not be possible that whatever creatures have spilled over from the firmament have the ability to mimic a dead man’s body?”

“It is possible, Mr. Bartlett. And you’re a wise man for catching it. Thank you for bringing it to everyone’s attention and making sure we are all on alert.” Ben looked at each of them. “Does every man here understand the importance of what Mr. Bartlett just said?”

“Aye, sir,” they intoned grimly.

“Very good. It gladdens me to know the Lively has men of strength who are not so dull to trust these Long and Altered Nights, and yet will still sail bravely with the Lively, and will bleed with her when she sinks her teeth into the León Coronado.” He was happy to see this received a few smiles and laughs. And then he ventured to open his heart to them. “I love you all.” This drew serious, almost solemn gazes. “I mean it. It may not be professional of me to say, but there it is. I love you all, I love this ship, and I love England. Without those three loves…well, I’m not sure who we all are, nor what we are doing out here in these Long Nights.”

They all nodded, but their expressions all hanged the jib, and a few of them made the sign of the cross in silence.

“We are not just privateers anymore, we are explorers, just like Columbus and Magellan, and now we must be cartographers for England and chart ourselves new courses and design new rutters to navigate the Long Night.”

He pointed to his cabin.

“If there be a mimic on board, we will survive it. Until such time that we can prove one way or another, Swanson will be moved into the cook’s quarters, with two marines standing guard just outside his door. Maxwell won’t like it but I’ll put salve on his wound by allowing him to bunk in my quarters. That is all. Ah, and now I hear the bell!” He pointed towards the sound. “Assuming we’re not in another Long Night, sunrise isn’t far off. Mr. Bartlett, prepare to wake the men of second watch.”

“Aye, sir.”

“The rest of you, get some sleep. We will need it. Because if my and Mr. Fuller’s summations are correct—and I believe they are—then our quarry is somewhere in this fog with us. We gave her a lashing last time, her crew will be tired from making repairs around the clock and I intend for us to take advantage of their haggardness by blowing a giant fucking hole through their keel and drinking wine from Spanish goblets to celebrate! What do you lot think?”

It had been a long time since Benjamin had ever heard men cheer so heartily. Probably not since his father gave a similar speech in this very room, weeks before his own doom.

____

Benjamin checked in on Swanson that night. The lad was lying down in Maxwell’s bed, back facing the door. He was snoring loudly.

When he stepped out into the corridor, Benjamin looked at the two marines guarding the door. “Let me know the minute he says anything. If either of you get sleepy, let the major know, and we’ll swap you out with some fresh fellows, so you can get some rest. There’ll be an extra ration of rum for each of you when this is all over.”

“Aye, sir,” they said smiling. “Thank you, Captain.”

____

They spotted the León Coronado at the end of the day, just as the fog was clearing and night was falling. And it was Benjamin, standing at the portside railing, who saw the ship first with his darkness-piercing sight. He spied the square-rigged sails, and identified her by her frame and shape. León Coronado was a small galleon, no more than a hundred feet in length overall and twenty feet at the beam. Unusual dimensions for a galleon in these waters. Benjamin called up to the crow’s nest, and the men there spun around and aimed their spyglasses and found their enemy.

The chase began well after sunset, and Benjamin was brimming with vim and vigour, glancing back at the Duke, wondering if Captain Rogers was prepared to honour their wager. After the Coronado escaped last time, Ben had met Rogers aboard his ship, where the latter discussed heading back to Port Royal because, as he put it, “The Coronado’s captain will not remain in these waters. Damaged as she is, she’ll sail home to Spain.”

“She’ll stay here, by God,” Benjamin had said. “Her captain and crew have grown cocky, I wager, since they’ve been in these waters for almost three years and no one has stopped them. They think they’re invincible.”

Woodes Rogers, who had carefully planned the death of John Laurier behind Vhingfrith’s back four months ago, had been sitting inside his cabin sharing goblets of rum. Neither of them had said anything about the events of that night—the night of the Cataclysm, when Laurier stepped out of Benjamin’s life forever, rumoured to be both alive and dead, both killed and unkillable, both sunk and pirating around the Colonies. But John had been in and out of Ben’s life so many times, and Ben’s eagerness to be seen as a true Englishman and become a man of quality was so severe, that he’d allowed himself to look past Rogers’s deception for the time being and shake hands on the wager. Because, for all his deceptions, Rogers was an ally in finding both the León Coronado and the Santo Domingo de Guzman, and Ben’s only means to legitimacy and even citizenship.

Benjamin dared not dream that big, not just yet. He did not the Universe stamp it out, so he refused to get his hopes up. But to be a citizen of England was a dark desire he had never even spoken to John, and yet John had guessed it was his main quest.

Presently, Benjamin told himself John Laurier was nothing. A friend who was sometimes more, a friend when his father had been alive, but was ultimately a privateer-turned-pirate and had suffered the consequences of the life he chose. Benjamin would not allow himself to end up like that. John had squandered a beautiful mind and his position of birth privilege. I shall not, he thought, fingers touching the locket. John Laurier, then, must be put out of mind. The dalliances they’d had, the companionship they’d shared, must be seen as a chapter that had closed.

It was soon clear the León Coronado had spotted them, too, for Benjamin saw all her sails suddenly bloom and puff up. She quickly disappeared over the horizon, but they had her trajectory now, because there was only one wind, and only one current, and therefore only one way the Spaniards could really go. But there was trouble ahead, a patch of sea that was darkening. Often as not, that was sign of a reef lurking just below the water. But it could also be spawning fish, he thought. It certainly wasn’t Charley, for he was swimming far behind them.

It would be daring thing to sail straight on and chance hitting a reef. Perhaps too daring.

Or perhaps just the gall the men need to see in their captain, his father’s voice said.

“Let’s tack south, lads!” Benjamin shouted from the quarterdeck. “What do you say?”

“Three cheers for the Devil’s Son!” someone cried.

A brief silence. Benjamin didn’t know who said it, but he could tell the others were uncertain if it was appropriate to call the captain by that nickname. He knew much depended on how he responded to it. So, he threw his head back and laughed. Others laughed, too, including Osterholm, who sat on a barrel and slapped his potbelly, and Averill, who sang from the ratlines. Everyone was tired, somewhat disoriented by all the hard work, perhaps even a little frightened by the story of Swanson the cabin boy. But they’d survived Long Nights together, defended Port Royal against Spanish incursion, and sailed with fearsome Ol’ Charley at their side. The firmament had tossed them around, had tossed the whole world around, and yet these men stood. And sailed on.

“Hip-hip, hooray! Hip-hip, hooray! Hip-hip, hooray!”

Vhingfrith had Bartlett sent out a signal to the Duke in the form of lanterns waving in patterns. The large man-o-war signaled back that they hadn’t seen the Coronado, but changed their course to follow the Lively in pursuit. Woodes Rogers knew the power of Vhingfrith’s cat’s-eye. In the darkness, it was not to be doubted.

____

A man named Strathairn died during the night. No one knew the cause. There was no sign of foul play, Mr. Tyndall found no sign of a broken neck or stab wound or strangulation. He was grey-haired and bent, however, a seasoned cooper and blacksmith that had sailed with the likes of Norris and Wickham. And, Benjamin soon discovered, the man was well loved by those of the lower decks. Strathairn had been a good spinner of tales, with an apparently limitless supply of jokes, and so his death brought a unexpected pall over the previous day’s celebration.

The body was brought up from below, wrapped in Strathairn’s own hammock as was tradition, and with one cannonball tied to him. The hammock was sewn around him. The last stitch was run through his nose to be sure he was dead.

“Off hats!” called Captain Vhingfrith. The men doffed their hats, and in solemn silence they listened to the captain say the words. “Neil Adam Strathairn, beloved by his captain and crew.” It was perhaps one of the more important duties a captain must preside over, and Benjamin had seen his father do this quite a few times at sea. You must let them see you stalwart, boy, yet affected. It humanizes you to them. Even in such a sad moment, you can make an impression. “Able-bodied seaman, skilled cooper and smith. He was loved by the men he served with. There isn’t a man who can say that Neil Strathairn failed to respond to a friend in need, nor to his duties when ordered.”

Vhingfrith read a passage from Scripture, one recommended by his pilot. “We therefore commit his body to the deep.”

The body was wrapped in the Union Jack and was placed on a plank, them summarily dropped into the sea. The silence was broken by a faint splash. Strathairn’s clothes and sea chest were immediately auctioned off among the men for his widow back home.

____

When the sun came up again, the Coronado was nowhere in sight, but Vhingfrith knew they were close. The winds and current had them in a loop. There was nowhere the Spaniards could go that he and Mr. Fuller could not predict.

Three men were now kept in the maintop at all times, and during the nights Vhingfrith took a shift in the crow’s nest himself, to lend his cat’s-eye. The men welcomed his company. Indeed, he thought he saw their chests puff up during his visitations. Even when rains came, they huddled under their coats and sighted through their spyglasses, waiting for those distant winks of lightning to show them the León Coronado.

But all the while, his mind was in three places at once. The first place was back home in Antigua, on his father’s plantation, playing hide-and-seek with Mother while Father was off sailing and trading abroad. The second place was the dark corner where he had put John Laurier and all their memories together. Sometimes, whenever he looked out and saw the Duke, and imagined Captain Rogers at the helm, Vhingfrith imagined himself strangling him.

And the third place his mind went to was the cook’s quarters, where Swanson was still being held. The cabin boy still had not said a word.

____

When Benjamin was about seven or eight his mother taught him the game of hide-and-seek. They lived in Antigua, on a small plantation his father paid for by funding ventures of privateers, before becoming a privateer himself. He had not been allowed to play with Negro children. Whenever he asked why, his mother gave the same reason: “I shouldn’t want you to become so familiar with them that you begin to think yourself the same.” It hadn’t made sense to him at the time, but after what happened with Toby, it was clear his mother never wanted either Ben or white people to think of him as a slave.

And so, hide-and-seek had been a game twixt Ben and his mother, especially during those times when Father was away on long trips. It was just the two of them, hiding in the fields of sugarcane behind the house, or in the barn, or around the rocks by the shore, or in any of a dozen other places. Whenever he was done with his studies, his mother would sit in the living room and count to fifty, then come looking for him. In those first days of the game, his mother would laugh and tickle him when she found him, and then encourage him to find a better hiding place next time.

But as the years wore on, and Ben became a young man, the game continued. Ben found himself bored of it, and desperately wanted to meet other boys and girls, like those he saw in town. But his mother was adamant. The game must continue.

And so it had. Only when she found him, Ben could expect a lecture, practically a chastisement for the obviousness of his choice to hide in a ditch or the barn loft. One evening while they sat eating in the dining room, Benjamin had asked her why the game must go on. “I’m not longer a child, so why must we play the game?” His mother had set her fork down, but leveled her knife at him. After a moment, she said, “If I were to chase you with this knife next time, would you hide differently?”

Benjamin had never considered this. He nodded, “Of course, Mother.”

“Then imagine me with this knife. And always imagine that whatever is troubling you, or chasing you, is probably worse. Always assume it. Do you hear me, son?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Then do as I say. Always imagine it’s worse. And hide better.”

After that day, whenever they played the game, she never found him again.

Had the woman been insane? Did she have one of her dreams, the ones that showed her terrible things that she thought were omens? Was that why she encouraged him to hide better? Had she seen a day coming when things would be worse for him? Benjamin thought it might be that. He’d always known he was different, because children know when they are being shielded. They may go a lifetime not appreciating it, but they sense the dangers just beyond the fence, just over there in the forest, if only because their parents forbid them to go there. Slaves came and went from their plantation, bought and sold, sometimes worked to death, and as he sat on the porch the children always glared at him from the bottom of the steps. So Ben knew he wasn’t of their world, no more than he was of the whites’. It had never been a game; his mother had been preparing him to hide from them all.

Standing in the doorway in front of Swanson, who sat vacant-eyed and silent and shivering in the cook’s quarters, Vhingfrith thought, Always imagine it’s worse. “Has he eaten?”

“Yes, sir,” said Carson, one of the marines Major Halleck had assigned to keep watch outside the door.

“Has he spoken?”

“No, sir. Nelson here thought he heard him mutter something, but I think he was just coughing.”

Vhingfrith looked at the other marine. “Nelson, have you seen any other strange behaviour out of him?”

“None that you can’t see for yourself, sir. He drools a bit, but that’s because his mouth lolls open a lot.” Nelson shrugged.

The ship heeled. Outside, Old Charley was lightly grazing the hull, the scraping noise went from bow to stern. There was a theory he liked scratching any itches he had by scraping the barnacles off the ship’s hull.

Vhingfrith looked back at the cabin boy. Snapped his fingers in front of the lad’s face. Always imagine it’s worse. “Let me know if he says anything or does anything out of the ordinary. No matter how small. Even if you have to wake me.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Vhingfrith appraised young Swanson a moment longer. When he turned away, he thought he heard whispering. He looked back at Swanson. “Sorry, what?” But the boy seemed as unmoved as before, and only stared at nothing.

____

“Some o’ the men fear we lost the Coronado to an Altered Night,” Fuller said. He sat at the table with the captain, Major Halleck, the first and second mates, Dawson, and Tyndall, all eating a course of brined beef, biscuits, and a pudding. The sun was setting and the crew were singing out in the galley. “They think the reason we haven’t seen our quarry in days is because they got swallowed up, taken to wherever it is a ship goes when they get sucked into an Altered Night.”

“Is that possible, Captain?” asked the major. “Is that how the firmament works? It takes people to some other plane of existence?” Halleck’s curiosity might have been born, Fuller thought, by his military need to know of all possible outcomes, and plan strategies accordingly. But he’d also noticed how everyone leaned on Vhingfrith’s knowledge of the firmament, being the man that coined the phrase himself and wrote about it in papers that were reprinted and spread as far as England, Spain, France, and the Colonies.

And Fuller always recognized Vhingfrith’s face as he wrestled with two matters: the fact that other men respected him enough as an erudite to ask, and the fact that he was meant to pretend at knowledge that no man could lay claim.

Vhingfrith wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said, “It is my belief that whenever a ship, man, fish, or entity is drawn into an Altered Night, then yes, that ship or entity is no longer on this physical plane, but some other plane, perhaps partially immaterial.”

“What does that mean, ‘immaterial’?” asked Bartlett.

“Means it lacks the ordinary laws that provide substance to things in our world, Major,” Tyndall provided.

Fuller smiled to himself, and drank his rum. The definition Scarecrow had just provided was almost verbatim from Vhingfrith’s papers. He knew, because he’d read them many times himself before leaving Port Royal.

“How is that possible?” asked Major Halleck.

Vhingfrith lifted his biscuit, and tilted his head philosophically. “I have only my theories, my friends. Nothing I laid down in those papers was a fact, more my reflections on my own experiences, and what I’ve gathered through observation, and the accounts of others’. Tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Vhingfrith poured it himself, a frightful generosity for any officer. Fuller had noticed Vhingfrith often availed himself of many such interactions, more carefully manicured than talks had been in the days before the Cataclysm. His respect for the Devil’s Son grew daily, and he was forced to admit to himself that he might’ve been wrong to assume all these men were going along with Vhingfrith begrudgingly, because there was no other way to enter into such enterprise with the likes of Woodes Rogers and England.

But that isn’t true. There’s more to it than that. He’s somehow positioned himself as the right kind of know-it-all. He got his men through the Hellmouth, or whatever—the Altered Night. He helped in Port Royal in the days following the Cataclysm. He took down a Spanish galleon with pirates, and fought two more galleons to defend Royal. He’s availed himself to his crew. Something else has transpired here, and I find myself glad of it.

“May be just as well the firmament took her,” Dawson was saying. “After that first salvo, we were lucky we got hit so little. Coronado’s not such a terrifying galleon, aye, but she’s fierce. And now she’ll be ready for us, and she’ll know that wherever she sees Lively, the Duke isn’t far behind. Our element of surprise is lost. And those guns…those guns of hers…”

“Aye, they were a damn fine battery,” said Averill.

“You’ll all have to compliment Maxwell on his fine delivery of this evening’s meal,” said the captain, changing the subject. “And I understand he has something quite special planned for us tomorrow.”

“Speaking of Maxwell,” said Bartlett. “How is he handling having his quarters given up to Swanson?”

“Mm,” Vhingfrith spoke around a mouthful of hardtack, “he’s quite fine with it, I assure you. I believe he likes bunking with me, in fact,” he laughed. The captain started to say something else, but waited for the ship to heel. Outside, Charley was having a time of it.

“And how is the lad? Still hasn’t said anything?” said Averill.

The table went eerily quiet. This was the gossip they all wanted to hear.

“No, I’m afraid Mr. Swanson still hasn’t said anything.”

“Some of the men think he may be a Judas,” Dawson warned. “That spells bad for us if it catches on.”

“It won’t catch on. I have faith in this crew, Mr. Dawson, perhaps more faith than everyone in this room com—”

There came a ruckus outside in the companionway. The door flung open and Serjeant McCulloch came in panting, face elated.

“Captain! They need your eye up in the nest! Adler thinks he spotted her but it’s too dark! Said he thought he saw a lantern briefly moving in the night, just a small light! They need your eye up in the—”

Vhingfrith’s chair scraped the floor as she shot up, wiped his mouth, and said, “Say no more, Serjeant,” as he grabbed his tricorne and jogged out the door. Everyone else quickly followed. Fuller still had his napkin tucked into his collar when he came to the portside railing and stood beside Captain Vhingfrith, who stared across darkness, out beyond the dark form of Old Charley. Fuller saw nothing. Waited for Vhingfrith. “Where away?”

“Two points off the starboard bow!” Adler called from the crow’s nest.

Fuller watched Vhingfrith shut his right eye, and slowly scanned the night with his left. What must it look like for him, to see through the shadows God meant to keep the world’s secrets?

At last, the captain smiled. “I see her. She’s there. It’s her. Mr. Bartlett, Major Halleck, beat to quarters. Mr. Fuller, my congratulations, sir. You predicted her every step along the way, through fog and darkness. Knowing I’m a man of the Molly-house, I hope you’ll accept my invitation to marriage.”

Fuller’s mouth hung open. He wasn’t sure if anyone else around had heard it, but to his knowledge this was the first time he’d ever heard Vhingfrith acknowledge publicly that he was a poof.

Vhingfrith gave him a weird, sly smile, and walked away to join Dawson at the helm. Fuller blurted out a laugh. Then scowled. Then laughed. He had no idea what to do with this news. He didn’t know if there was anything to be done. The captain had become so familiar, and so confident in his crew, that he’d just said a thing that he shouldn’t want ever spoken.

But the moment was over before he had time to fully marinate in it. He had a job to do, and ran to the binnacle to do it. And when he got to the quarterdeck he was in time to hear Vhingfrith say to the helmsman, “Here is my plan, Mr. Dawson, and you’ll tell me if I’m crazy.”

Vhingfrith said something close to Dawson’s ear. Fuller couldn’t hear it, for just then Charley breached the surface like a whale and sent a shower over their heads, soaking everyone and causing Lively to heel heavily to port.

“Captain…that’s awful risky…” Dawson was saying.

“But Coronado hasn’t seen us yet. Only I have seen her. And we cannot signal the Duke, not with lanterns and not with pistol shot, or else our quarry might detect us. If we do this maneuver, we must start making plans for it now, while Coronado has no clue we’re behind her.”

“What is this plan?” asked Fuller, walking up.

Vhingfrith looked at his navigator. Back at his pilot.

Dawson sighed and shrugged. “We’ll need to cut speed. Now. That’ll give us time to prepare. But, Cap’n, if I may say, her guns—”

“I know, I know, you keep saying. But I believe our men can stall long enough for Captain Rogers to swoop in and finish the job.”

Dawson looked uncertain.

“What plan?” Fuller insisted.

They both looked at him. And they told him.

____

It was Adler, up in the maintop, who spotted her against the rising sun. The León Coronado was running. And now that they had the light, they could signal the Duke using flags from the maintop, telling them to slow down. Lively sailed half a day like this, keeping herself at the furthest reach of the Coronado’s sight, all sails out, turning southwest and close-reached with the wind. This slowed them down, but not as much as what Vhingfrith ordered next.

They reeled in Lively’s Union Jack, deploying a green-and-yellow flag with British emblem on it; the flag of a merchantman, which Lively had once been. They then reduced her speed further by towing astern cables and chests and seven long ropes tied to heavy pots taken from the kitchen. Maxwell wasn’t happy about that, even once Vhingfrith told him the plan.

Going as slow as she was, the Lively would appear sluggish despite all her sails out, which would mean, at first blush, she was either a wounded duck or a merchantman loaded down with too much cargo. A prime target for a Spanish galleon who was herself nursing many injuries but still looking for English treasures.

They sailed away from the Duke, but kept the Coronado just within sight. “Come on,” Vhingfrith said from the quarterdeck. “Come on, see us, see us.” Beside him, Mr. Dawson, Mr. Fuller, and Mr. Averill were all watching in silence.

Then, the call came from the maintop. “She’s turning, Captain!” Adler shouted. “I see her prow coming about!”

“Slowly now, Mr. Dawson,” Vhingfrith said. “Don’t be too suspicious. Just get us close-hauled and let them meet us.”

“Aye, sir.” The pilot slowly turned the wheel to the left. Lively drifted that way, as leisurely as a Sunday stroll.

Vhingfrith went to the ship’s stern and called down to the men leaning out the three windows of the captain’s quarters. “Be ready to cut all ropes!” he called down.

“Aye, sir!” Osterholm called up. He and seven men were prepared with axes. The ropes tied to the beams inside the captain’s quarters were two hundred feet long, and were dragging the pots and chests behind them, across the seafloor. Dragging all this cargo in the water could slow them down, even against the current.

“Where did you learn this trick, sir?” asked Averill, coming up beside him. The man looked as tense as Vhingfrith had ever seen.

“From a pirate.”

Averill had had a nervous smile that now vanished. “Which pirate?”

“John Laurier.”

Vhingfrith walked away from the stern and sighted the Coronado through his spyglass. She was indeed turning towards them, running before the wind a while before going into broad reach. There was no reason for them to change course other than to intercept the Lively. “They’ve fallen for it. They’re in broad reach now, Dawson. Coming right at us. You know what to do.”

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“Aye, sir.”

Vhingfrith sighted the enemy again. They were definitely taking the bait. He looked around for Old Charley, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the beast had gone under and was only making occasional appearances, as though he knew what Lively was up to and that he needed to not be seen. Strange. Does he recognize the Coronado? Does he know it’s our same enemy as before? Does he know we’re trying to deceive—?

Something caught his eye. When he searched for it again, he saw they were currently flying over unusually clear waters. And a light came up from the depths. A pulsating, red light that came from one of the four or six orb-like protrusions on Charley’s head. It was only momentary, just a glimpse of the seabed, not so far beneath the Lively. It was strange to suddenly see fish and sharks swimming beneath them in such clarity, as though the water had just turned into glass. He wondered if anyone else saw it. All that loose sand and shale, huge clouds of it swirling in Charley’s wake. They were so close to the seafloor he wondered if…

Vhingfrith jogged down the steps to the main deck. “Linemen, Say depth!”

“Five fathoms!” called Jocom, an African boy missing half his fingers.

That’s enough, he thought.

Another voice said, No, it’s too close.

Vhingfrith clenched his jaw. It’s enough. “Mr. Bartlett.”

“Sir?”

“Capstan bars, now. Prepare to drop anchor.”

His second mate looked at him sharply. “Sir?”

“You heard me, Mr. Bartlett. Be prepared to drop anchor when I say. Have a man sprinkle sand across the deck. Lively’s going to take water across her deck and we don’t want it slippery, not when it counts. And ready the flags in the maintop, I want to signal the Duke to change tack and go all sails.” He ran back up the stairs, to shout over the stern rail, “Mr. Osterholm! We need speed, cut the ropes!” To his pilot, “Mr. Dawson, I have a slight alteration to our plan.”

“Sir?”

“Charley’s just shown me something, and I mean to capitalize on it.”

____

Before the battle could commence, all was made ready below.

Mr. Tyndall, the man all the lads called Scarecrow, had the loblolly boys push all chairs from the galley and prep dinner tables for receiving the wounded. Sail canvas was placed on the floor to help prevent people slipping on the blood. There would be lots of blood.

____

The León Coronado’s captain may have realized the deception earlier than Vhingfrith wanted. A pity, but no major tragedy. He smiled at the memory of John relaying his story of taking down the Sarah Girl, and thinking it sounded mad at the time. But while the trick of disguising a ship as a treasure-laden merchantman may have been his, the “smuggler’s turn” was a technique developed by a friend of Vhingfrith’s father, and written about by legendary sailors such as Krenshaw and Graeber.

But Benjamin had never once tried it.

Benjamin glanced over his shoulder at the Duke. She had seen the signal and was gaining speed, approaching fast. By now the men in the Coronado’s crow’s nest would have seen the Duke coming, and would know this had been an ambush. Her prow began to turn. There! There she goes, veering off! She knows! “Mr. Dawson—”

“I see it, Captain. I’m touching her with a feather…” The pilot gave a small turn of the wheel.

Vhingfrith realized he was holding his breath, waiting for the moment he’d read about in Graeber’s Tactics & Strategems. And he used his own governance of the sea, of the wind. He let Lively speak to him. He listened to the sea, to the dolphins splashing ahead of their cut-water, even to Old Charley swimming alongside them now, which, at this distance, would no longer look like a pod of whales to the men aboard Coronado, but a true Leviathan.

The León Coronado was coming at them head-on, getting larger, going from coin-sized to fist-sized in a matter of seconds, her forward cannons visible, and they could see men attending them, gunnery teams preparing to fire—

“Now, Mr. Dawson! Aim our prow right at hers!”

“Aye, Cap’n! Aye!”

Dawson spun the wheel hard and Bartlett helped him. And as they did, Vhingfrith wondered, Am I mad?

The maneuver was viable, but also forbidden by Royal Navy regulations, for it was seen as unsafe for the vessel as it put far too great a strain on the timbers, and when the vessel slewed it would also heel and possibly move cargo around unpredictably, making the ship weighted to one side, hindering her maneuverability. Speed also had to first be increased, and then cut nearly in half at the right moment, which could give enemy vessels time to line up their broadsides.

They were still at beam reach, while the Coronado was coming on fast at broad reach, forward guns facing Lively’s port side. “To the gunnels! Grab some lines!” Vhingfrith shouted. The timing of this would have to be precise, and, as far as he knew, not a single man aboard Lively had ever done a smuggler’s turn. Why should they? Most of them had served at some point as sailors of his Majesty’s Royal Navy, and aboard a British man o’ war, whose size would almost certainly cost the ship dearly in a smuggler’s turn. But for a brigantine, Vhingfrith had learned it was far more feasible. His father had done it twice chasing Spanish naos.

But could Benjamin perform what he’d only heard about while sitting upon his father’s lap, and only seen done once by the Ladyman?

Doubt swam in his gut, and for a moment he gave a thought to John. He touched the locket for good luck. And why not? Why shouldn’t John Laurier be looking down from Paradise? Why shouldn’t he be admitted into heaven where he could watch over—

“Captain!” Dawson called. “These waves—”

Yes, indeed. Old Charley swims hard to our starboard. But I’m counting on him, too. Charley’s tumult was making them bob in the water, almost like floating above it. A sensation usually only experienced in storms. “Hold fast, Mr. Dawson! Courage now! Now…hard aport!”

He helped Dawson spin the wheel.

This is madness. Turn back now, Benjamin. The voice sounded like both his, his father’s, and his mother’s, and yet he believed. He pulled the wheel double-handed, grunting, shouting at Dawson and Bartlett to find more strength. They spun and spun, while the ship leaned and the whole crew hung on to railing and ropes. Vhingfrith saw Serjeant McCulloch and his marines dodging out of the way of barrels of rice that went rolling across the deck and crashed against the starboard rail.

“Handsomely now, Dawson! Handsomely!”

We’re not going to make it.

Yes, you are, said a voice on the wind. John’s voice. Show them what you can do, Ben. No man can stop your beautiful mind.

“Like God’s wrath, Dawson! Now hold! Hold her!” They clutched the wheel to keep her spun to port, but the water dragged against the rudder and the Lively fought them to wrest back control. “Drop anchor!”

“Drop anchor!” Bartlett cried, clinging to netting.

They could feel when the anchor hit the seafloor, and when it dragged along the bed. Lively juddered and moaned as the portside rail was pulled forcefully into the water. The deck was leaned at nearly a forty-five-degree angle, digging into the sea. Water swam over the scuppers and deck and swept men’s feet out from under them.

“Let out some slack!” he cried, but the men at the capstan had already done so.

The Lively was turned directly into the León Coronado’s path, and the nao gave two shots from its guns. Both shots ripped through the prow and missed everything important. A bit of good luck there. And now the Coronado was closing at two hundred yards and turned to her port, going beam-reach eastward, her cut-water slicing into foaming waters. Coronado never had time to reload and fire again, because Lively fish-tailed and came to an almost complete stop as the Spanish ship streaked past them, so close Vhingfrith could almost count the pinstripes on the uniforms of the Spanish soldiers who were lining up their shots, but now gawked at the maneuver. Lively had the nao momentarily athwartships, her front facing her enemy’s sides, then heeled hard in her enemy’s wake, her timbers crackling, and she kept spinning around in the water in a lurching slide like a sled on ice, her prow raking from the western horizon to the eastern horizon. She spun almost perfectly one hundred eighty degrees, almost rolling over into the water, dumping barrels of rum and rice into the sea while men clung to rails. Some of them screamed. Some of them laughed.

Bartlett cried out, “Man overboard!”

This was always a risk of a smuggler’s turn performed so rapidly. Or so said Vhingfrith’s father.

“Throw out anything that floats, Mr. Averill!” Vhingfrith called. “Throw out rope and tie it to the gunnels! Give him something to cling to! If he misses it, we’ll come back for the poor lad once we have Coronado!” He waited two more beats. “Now, Mr. Dawson! Hard a-larboard!” They began the process of giving Lively what she wanted, turning the wheel to right her rudder and let her reorient herself in the water. The last challenge in a smuggler’s turn was to get the ship back up to speed. Now that they were directly behind the Coronado, they too were at broad reach.

But they were also just two or three degrees off from her stern.

“Weigh anchor! Weigh anchor!”

“Weigh anchor, aye!” Bartlett called, clambering down the deck to help reel in the anchor.

“Let fly! Lay aloft and loose topgallants! Clear away the jib! Clear away, clear away! We must avail ourselves of this wind, boys! Lively now!”

The crew had known the plan, and the forward gunnery was ready with the single cannon primed and ready.

“Mr. Galloway, fire when ready! Aim true and be ready to reload if we miss with our first shot!”

“Aye, Captain!” called the skinny little man at the prow, his hand resting easily on the shoulder of Hawkins, the lad manning the gun. “Fire!”

The nine-pounder thundered, and smoke plume prevented Vhingfrith from seeing past the bow, so he didn’t know if they’d hit. But by the looks of how fast Galloway had Hawkins were reloading, he didn’t think so. “Fire!”

Second shot also missed, and now Coronado’s ass end was looming large in front of them. Two shots were fired from her double stern guns, doubtlessly late because their gunnery hadn’t foreseen this turnabout where Lively was suddenly behind them. One shot splashed into the water to starboard, but the other clipped Lively’s mizzenmast.

“Mr. Galloway—” Vhingfrith began.

“Reloading now, Captain—”

“Fire! Fire straight up her arse! Fire now and hit the fucking—”

The forward gun thundered and a moment later he saw Galloway tear the handkerchief from his head and throw it into the air. “She’s hit, Cap’n! Her rudder’s hit! It’s blown to bloody fuckin’ flinders!”

Vhingfrith grinned savagely. “Fire again, Mr. Galloway! Try and hit those rear guns!”

The Coronado tried turning. Now, the worms of doubt would start to burrow into the hearts of every man aboard that ship, as they realized there would soon be no way out. The Lively was gaining on them and there could be no avoiding a fight.

“Mr. Dawson, prepare to cut speed! Mr. Bartlett, Mr. Averill, we shall board her from the rear to remain clear of her broadside batteries! Major Halleck, Serjeant McCulloch, prepare your men for boarding action! For England!” He turned and looked northeast and smiled when he saw the Duke closing in fast, aiming to pass in front of Coronado with broadsides facing. Vhingfrith knew that soon they would move around to the Coronado’s stern, so that Captain Rogers could attempt to rake the Spanish ship. To have an enemy’s broadsides facing your stern was the most devastating position to be in.

And without her rudder, Coronado was unable to steer to avoid being raked, only her blooming sails could carry her inexorably forward into peril. And though Lively had cut her own speed, she was still moving forward on her own momentum, prow aimed at her enemy’s arse.

“Brace!” Vhingfrith ordered, just as Lively crashed and scraped along Coronado’s backside.

Men clung to rails and ropes until the scraping was over.

Vhingfrith waited a beat before giving the order. He needed to see if Coronado’s captain would see the dilemma he was in with the Duke, and wave a flag of surrender. But then Coronado’s guns tried firing at the Duke.

That’s in, then. “Board her! Board her!” he cried.

The grappling hooks arced through the air, and most found a home on Coronado’s railing. Old Charley swam a long, wide orbit around all three ships, those six bulbous eyes staring. Curious what this’ll look like, eh, my friend?

“Board her!” he cried again. “Board her!”

The Lively’s men surged, with the marines at the head of the charge, but the Spaniards were keen to remain offensive and several of them fired muskets down at the Lively’s crew, while a dozen Spanish soldiers threw out their own ropes and slid down to Lively’s deck. Vhingfrith drew cutlass and pistol. Behind him, Dawson abandoned the wheel and did the same. “With me, Mr. Dawson?”

“With pleasure, Cap’n.”

____

Fuller fired the one pistol he had into the face of a Spanish soldier, then dropped it and came at the next one with his cutlass. The soldier’s musket had misfired and so now the bayonet was his only hope. Fuller had never killed anyone, but he’d learned how to stall for the marines. He and his mates came forward with cutlasses batting away the bayonets, pushing and shoving the soldiers, receiving a cut or thrust in the heaving throng. Fuller spat, and bit, and shoved, and kicked the shins of any man that so much as advanced on him.

Then came the Royal Marines. Halleck sounded the whistle once, and every one of Lively’s privateer crew dropped to the deck as the first marines knelt on a firing line and gunned down half a dozen Spaniards. Fuller leapt back to his feet alongside Mr. Bartlett and Mr. Averill, both of whom had slashes to their midsections. Averill had a hole in his leg from a lead ball.

While some of the marines reloaded, others defended them with bayonets. Fuller ran forward, slashing at neck level, and he batted away every Spaniard he saw dumping gunpowder hastily into their rifle. He found a barrel full of salt, its top cracked and opened, damaged by cannonfire. He grabbed a handful and flung it into an enemy’s face. Head-butted another. Kicked a man in the groin. Slashed a man’s nose half off.

Panting, he pushed forward. Then a blade found his side and was thankfully deflected by a rib. Someone punched him in the jaw, he heard one or two teeth crack.

The whistle went up and he gladly hit the deck as Major Halleck’s men let loose another salvo. Fuller staggered back to his feet, spat a gob of blood in a Spaniard’s face, then received a thrust into his side, and this one made it between his ribs and went deep. “Gak!” He sliced the forearm of the man who stabbed him, then staggered around on deck, bleeding, blinded by gunsmoke.

Two soldiers advanced on Fuller with bayonets. He parried one, the other went into his thigh. He dropped, and saw the bayonet about to skewer him when Captain Vhingfrith came out of nowhere, along with Dawson, and collided with the two attackers. Vhingfrith parried two attacks, received a thrust to his shoulder, and someone else grabbed hold of his arm and wrenched the sword from his hand.

Fuller roared as he leapt onto that man’s back, pulling him away from the captain, who drew two pistols from the brace across his chest, cocked both, and fired one of them into the face of the man Fuller was holding. The Spaniard’s brains and skull fragments went into Fuller’s eyes, and he staggered backward against barrels of rum.

Someone fired a shot that almost hit him, but smacked into the railing beside him, sending splinters into his neck.

The Duke circled around the Coronado and fired, but her shots were all aimed at Coronado’s masts and sails, tearing them to pieces, crippling her further. Splinters rained down on them all.

The whistle went up. Halleck’s men fired again.

Men screamed in anger and in death. One Spaniard lay beside Fuller, trembling, looking up at the sky, blood flowing from a gash in his neck, eyes questing for an answer to something.

Looking through the smoke, Fuller estimated they hadn’t made it even halfway across the deck. He looked back at the soldier dying beside him and saw that he had a pistol strapped to his chest, unused. Fuller drew it from the holster, stood up, and ran forward, firing into the next Spaniard’s chest.

“To the helm! Secure the helm!” Captain Vhingfrith ordered.

On his way to the steps of the quarterdeck, Fuller saw three men rushing down at him, all with muskets. He was all ready to charge them when suddenly the sea rose beside him, black and solid, with seawater rippling down an onyx-black wall. The shower drenched them all, and a single dagger-like limb, as long as a horse, suddenly impaled two of the Spaniards at once, at an angle, starting from the belly of one, exiting his spine, and going up through the neck and skull of the second Spaniard.

Charley had come up from the sea to join in.

“My God…” Fuller breathed.

As the soldiers were lifted up, a similar limb reached out from Charley’s belly, and skewered another soldier.

As Charley lowered back into the sea, the sun returned, having been momentarily blocked by the Leviathan’s body. And Fuller laughed. Lucky me. Lucky ol’ Captain Vhingfrith. And lucky us—

The pronged tentacle suddenly snapped out of the sea like a whip, grabbed Fuller at the waist, squeezed, deployed even more prongs from within, filling his innards with so many blades they shoved his guts out of his face, eye sockets ejected to make room for the expulsion. It happened so fast his mind was left enough intact for a moment to feel a lurching sensation, like being lifted, and the coldness of the water as he was pulled down into enormous masticators. Fuller never felt the razor-sharp, gnashing teeth that ground him into mincemeat.

____

The battle was almost over when Charley made his appearance. Only seven or eight men fell to his attack, but as the Leviathan swam back out to sea, the Spaniards seemed to finally lose what fight they had left in them. Benjamin hung on to the rail as the León Coronado heeled, just as Lively had done in Charley’s wake. And he watched, panting, bleeding from three punctures to his arms and a cut across his cheek, as Charley breached the surface, his whole body coming out of the water and revealing more facets, more limbs that split from his stomach, as though something inside was tearing its way out of him.

Benjamin stared at where Fuller had been a moment ago. He’d seen him running up the steps. He’d seen the horror of Fuller’s last moments. He’d seen—

The Leviathan crashed back into the sea, dividing the water like Moses was said to have done. And when the water rushed back in to fill the void, both the Coronado, the Lively, and the Duke all sloshed around one another like toys in a child’s bathtub, bumping and scraping one another for several moments before everything righted itself. Men were thrown about the decks like dolls. Some went overboard.

“We surrender!” shouted a white-wig-wearing Spaniard who came down the stairs, absolutely drenched, looking shocked and horrified by the day’s events. He wore a captain’s epaulette and coat. “We surrender, per favor. Please…just…just…spare my men.”

Vhingfrith looked over at Charley, reassuming his orbit around all three ships, this time farther out than ever. He blinked, looked over at Dawson, Halleck, and all the others. One marine was dead, and two of Lively’s sailors. He walked over to the León Coronado’s captain, who held out his sabre in surrender.

“Per favor,” said the captain.

Vhingfrith accepted it.

“It was cleverly done, mi amigo. Very cleverly done.”

Vhingfrith sighed. He looked at the sword in his hand. He could hardly believe it was done. Years of hunting, of fighting, of doubting, of killing. And here in his hands was what it amounted to. He’d read the words of wise men who said such victories often feel pale once attained. But that was not his experience. There had never been a moment like this in all the world. Few people must ever stand in such a moment. He turned to his crew, and raised the sabre in glory.

The cheers were like the finest wine.

He smiled. Then he looked over to the rail where Fuller had gone, and felt some of his cheer dissipate.

____

The Duke was on the Coronado’s port side now, gunports open and ready in case of a last-minute resistance. The Duke’s starboardside guns were aimed south, to where Old Charley was now swimming off towards the horizon. Grappling hooks were thrown over to the Coronado and the Duke’s crew worked to reel them in. Planks were set up so that Captain Rogers could walk across with his own marine contingent. Vhingfrith sat on a barrel, with Scarecrow tending a gash across the left side of his face, someone’s sabre had gotten a little too close in the fracas and he wasn’t entirely sure it hadn’t been one of his own men swinging wildly and carelessly.

“This will have to do for now, my quarters took a hit from our friends’ cannons,” said the surgeon, who took some milk freshly squeezed from the goat in their hold, and poured it lightly over Benjamin’s wound, which he’d gotten to stop bleeding by packing it with powder. “All right, now here comes the needle.”

Benjamin winced as the needle and thread were woven through his flesh. Before him, Mr. Averill saw to their prisoners, that is until Captain Rogers brought aboard his own first and second mates, who immediately took control over the matter.

Limping up to him was Osterholm, just returned from the Coronado’s lower holds. His smile had never looked finer. “Tell me that smile is for me, Mr. Osterholm.”

“I’d say at least three thousand ducats of silver, Captain. Plus spices, sugar, salt, pepper, some pearls in two separate chests marked for some noble in Madrid, lots of fine clothing, and aged wine. But that’s not all. There’s all sorts o’ extra curios: a golden statue—maybe Mayan or Aztec, I’m no scholar on that—two chests of bullion, some emerald-encrusted sceptre, a golden crucifix as big as my leg.” He smiled wider. “And there’s gold and silver bars, Captain. Marked as coming from Peru. And pieces of eight.”

“How many pieces of eight, Mr. Osterholm?”

The quartermaster doffed his bandana and wiped his brow, looking up at the sky like he was thanking God for this day. “I can only estimate. As many trunks as I saw, though…hard to believe it’s less than a hundred thousand.”

Benjamin shot up so fast the thread was yanked from Scarecrow’s hands. “A hundred thousand pieces of eight?”

“Aye, sir. At least.” Osterholm shrugged. “And then there’s the ship. A Spanish galleon, taken a prize? Captain, there may not have been a catch like this since Drake’s two hundred years ago.”

Benjamin kept his composure. He clapped the Jew on his shoulder and smiled. “Make a list, Mr. Osterholm. Everything documented, down to the last speck of gold. I want nothing missed. Take whatever men you need to help you organize. Then tell the men that each of them gets a double ration of rum tonight, and that they may sing, as long and as loud as they like throughout the night.”

“With pleasure, Captain.”

Benjamin clasped his hands behind him to prevent anyone from seeing them wringing. He wanted to scream for joy.

“Captain?” said Tyndall.

“Mm? Oh, heavens, forgive me, Scarecrow.” He sat back down and allowed the surgeon to continue his work.

A hundred thousand. A hundred thousand pieces of eight. Francis Drake himself never…

His eyes flitted over to the stairs leading up to the quarterdeck, where Fuller had last stood. Aboard the Lively, the sounds of cheers and singing came wafting across. Benjamin ran a hand over two-day stubble, and looked south, towards Charley, who began a slow, slow easterly course change.

____

“I’ll only ask this once, Benjamin,” said Rogers when they were alone in his cabin aboard the Duke. Down the hall, they heard a man screaming. One of his legs was being cut off just above the knee and cauterized with boiling tar. They had to speak above his wails. “What is that creature? And did you communicate with it using some sort of occult signaling? And do you have any idea how to call it off?”

The sun had set, it was now two hours past seven bells and it was evident they had entered another Long Night. If there was any doubt, there were only stars in the sky, no moon at all. The waters had gone eerily still and the winds had died down, making them becalmed. Stranded at sea, with no way to propel themselves. If it wasn’t for the small cay appearing precisely where it ought to be, according to Vhingfrith’s charts, then the crew might be fretting right now that they’d entered an Altered Night, and would have to tide over for untold weeks.

Vhingfrith stood across from Rogers, who sat behind his desk. “I don’t know what you mean, sir. And frankly, I’m astonished by any accusation of—”

“You know what I mean. It followed you. You. Not us, not the Duke. It followed the Lively, and for days. I watched you from afar, I saw myself how it joined in when we attacked the Coronado the first time, and I saw how it orbited your vessel like a moon for days, right up until this final assault.” Rogers rose from his seat slowly. He wore only a white shirt, untucked, and a pair of pants covered in someone else’s blood. He paced to the rear windows and looked out at the Long Night. “How long will this last?”

“You mean the night?”

“Yes, of course, I mean the bloody night!”

Down the companionway, the man was still screaming.

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because you’re the one with all the answers when it comes to the firmament.”

“That’s just what men say because of what I’ve written. You’ve been in almost as many Long Nights as I have now, sir. You know as much as me.”

“Do I?”

“Captain Rogers, what brought you here? What are you asking? Speak plainly, please.”

Rogers rounded on him, looking furious for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and recomposed himself. “All right, let’s go through this. Charley found us two days before we attacked the León Coronado, and when we attacked her, he attacked also. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then he leads you to find this…what were their names? Swanson and Henley? And then Henley claims Swanson is some other creature coughed up from the firmament. Then Charley attacks the Spaniards again, this time raking their men off the deck, and taking your navigator with them. Accident?”

At last, the amputee’s screams ceased. That usually meant they had finally, mercifully, passed out.

“I cannot say for certain, sir.”

Rogers paced. “When we return to Port Royal, I’ll want you speaking with the benandanti.”

Vhingfrith was astonished. “Those witches?”

“King George seems to believe they’re useful. They’re all the rage in London and elsewhere. Perhaps there’s a reason. Perhaps they know something we don’t.”

“I wouldn’t say ol’ Lucky George is any authority on the occult.”

“Have you spoken to Swanson?” Rogers asked, as though Vhingfrith hadn’t commented.

“Not since before the attack on Coronado, no.”

Rogers scratched his chin irritably. “I want to see him.”

“He’s not speaking, Captain. Hardly even moving.”

“Still, I want to see him.”

Vhingfrith sighed. “If it will ease your mind. But afterwards, we must select someone to captain and crew the León Coronado back to Port Royal.”

“Of course. I already have thoughts on the matter.”

____

There was unmistakable tension from the crew of the Duke as the two captains crossed the planks to the Lively. The waters were calm, but there was the sound of loud clapping—the sound of Old Charley clapping against the waters in the east. Vhingfrith alone could see the Leviathan rolling in the waters, and he knew that if anyone else could see, it might cause a stir of fear.

Lively’s crew also appeared unnerved when the two captains descended to the forecastle, carrying their lanterns past the men of second watch sleeping lightly in their hammocks, and approaching the cook’s quarters. The two marines saluted Captain Rogers, whose noble birth made his military rank above theirs even if he weren’t a ship’s captain, and then stepped aside to admit the two captains.

Swanson sat in darkness in Maxwell’s bed, back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. But for a loincloth, he was naked, and his flesh appeared pale even when Vhingfrith’s lanternlight moved over him.

“That a birthmark?” Rogers said, leaning down to examine Swanson’s face.

“Yes. Henley said he’s always had it, only it used to be on the other side of his face.”

“Used to be?”

Vhingfrith hesitated a moment, conscious that they were talking about the boy like he wasn’t in the room. “Before he swam below the water to find the sandbar, the birthmark was on the other side of his face. That’s what Henley claims, sir.”

“What’s wrong with his eyes?”

“They’ve been bloodshot like that since we brought him on board. I imagine it’s due to lack of sleep. The guards say he rarely ever—”

“They’re not bloodshot. They’re like yours.”

Vhingfrith squinted. “Come again?”

“Take a look.” Rogers stepped back from Swanson but kept his lantern close to the boy’s face.

Benjamin bent to examine the eyes, and, had Captain Rogers not been there, he might have gasped. But Benjamin had to play it down, for what he saw could threaten to undue the gestalt of the Lively’s crew. Swanson’s eyes were perfectly ordinary except for an odd shimmer deep within, somewhat more pronounced than Benjamin’s own cat’s-eye, but Captain Rogers was right to say they looked the same. Benjamin had seen his cat’s-eye in mirrors, it used to make him self-conscious until his mother said it meant he was blessed, marked by God for great things.

“There is a passing resemblance, I won’t deny.”

“Resemblance?” Rogers scoffed. “Passing?”

Vhingfrith straightened. He knew how this looked. A moment ago, Rogers was all but ready to suggest some sort of connection between the Devil’s Son and Old Charley. The Long Night had him rattled, just as it had rattled him after the Cataclysm. It was up to Vhingfrith to ensure sanity prevailed. “The boy was born with a strange birthmark. It could be he had other defects that have only just begun to surface. It happens. The first doctor I ever conferred with on the matter said that he encountered a man in India with a cat’s-eye, said it came and went, until at last the man’s vision became blurrier by the day, and finally he went blind.” He shrugged. “There are many ailments men suffer under God’s wrathful eye that we cannot make head or tails of, Captain.”

Rogers stared at Ben. He seemed unconvinced. Then he leaned over to Swanson and snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Mr. Swanson? My name is Woodes Rogers, I am captain of the man o’ war Duke. I have some questions I would like to ask you. Can you hear me?”

Swanson said nothing.

“What happened to you during the Altered Night? When you went underwater, did you see anything? Anything unusual?

Swanson said nothing. His lower lip twitched, and a runnel of drool fell from the edge of his mouth.

“Mr. Swanson, you are here aboard the Lively by the generosity of her captain here. This man here, Captain Vhignfrith. Do you know him?”

Vhingfrith noticed the wording of the question. Is he asking the boy if he remembers whose ship he’s on? Or is he asking if the creature before us somehow “knows” me in other ways? The benandanti were fashionable these days, two or three were in Port Royal, and a dozen were in Nassau, all talking about some Disease passing through all of England, some parts of Spain and France and the Colonies, as well. They spoke of bodies turned to pudding and porridge once they died, so much that these large puddles ran together in the streets, forming something called the Tam, which was highly flammable and toxic. Barrels of the stuff were being poured into rivers and thrown out to sea, it was said. Such talk had caused the upper-class intellectuals of Port Royal to speculate at parties, inviting benandanti and other soothsayers who claimed to know how to palm read, hold séance, and commune with the spirit world.

But no one, not even the erudite of the Church, had been able to qualify what was going on. The articles Benjamin had read spoke of the Black Death, the plague that ravaged all of Eurasia some four hundred years ago, and how the evil humours that spurned that plague may have returned, even angrier, when God chose to punish Man for his manifold blasphemies.

Woodes Rogers read the same papers in Port Royal, those papers having been written by what passed for journalists in Jamaica, and who were only rewriting the rumours they heard from sailors returning from England and the Colonies. Ambassadors were said to have been sent from Spain, France, and even China, to meet with King George and relay messages back to the rulers of those other countries, so that the leaders of the world could swap theories about what was taking place, theories about the firmament that they had gathered from their own scholars.

Vhingfrith’s own writings on his experiences in the Long Night, and his use of the word firmament, had seen print, partially because of Rogers himself, who now seemed to be developing a theory of his own. He’s wondering if I’m a Judas, or some Jonah sent to curse the land. But I don’t believe he’s convinced that I’m aware of my status as a cursed man. He thinks I may be cursed and yet unaware that I am cursed.

Rogers kept snapping his fingers in Swanson’s face, even gave him a light tap on the cheek. “Mr. Swanson? Mr. Swanson! Fucking dimwit. Is your name Swanson or isn’t it?”

“Let’s go, Woodes. Forget about him for now. He hasn’t—”

Suddenly, a voice filled the room. “Nuntius maximus non est.” Swanson’s lips moved in time with each syllable, and his twin cat’s-eyes glared over at the two men. The voice leapt from his chest, from the timbers in the walls and floor, from the air, and it reeked of death. Vhingfrith backpedaled from that stench. Rogers bent over and retched his supper out. The two marines standing in the doorway covered their noses and backed away, both gagging.

Vhingfrith plunged one hand into his jacket pocket until he pulled out a handkerchief to put over his mouth. It did little good. The putrid smell was that of corpses baking in the hot sun, of bilges filled with human waste, of a goat’s guts spilled on the road and trampled for days.

Rogers vomited again, and covered his nose with his sleeve. “God! What is that stench?”

“I don’t know.”

“What…what did he say?”

Vhingfrith coughed, but kept his gaze on Swanson, whose flesh rippled and undulated, as though he had an eel swimming between his flesh and bones. Vhingfrith’s head was hurting. The voice had been grating, somehow rattling his inner ear, squeezing tympanic nerve and cochlea and all, it felt like. It made him dizzy. He had once had both his ears clapped in a fight with a boy who was a slave on his father’s plantation, and he had felt so dizzy that he had almost passed out. This felt like that. “He said…” Vhingfrith gagged, but kept himself from retching as Rogers had. “He said, ‘The messenger is not important.’ If it was Latin, that is. And if I heard him correctly.”

“Latin is the root of all your languages, is it not?” said the voice. Again, Swanson’s lips moved in time to the syllables, but his voice came from the oak timbers, from Vhingfrith’s clothing, from the air, it rattled his teeth and made them feel brittle, and his eardrums felt squeezed to the point of bursting. The voice wasn’t even loud, in fact it was spoken quite softly. And yet.

“What do you mean, Swanson?” Rogers asked, yellow-faced but suddenly fascinated. “The root of languages?”

“Everything is so soft here,” Swanson said, and Vhingfrith’s eyes watered from the pain. “The hard things are the dead things. The dead wood of these walls. The rocks beneath the sea. The hard things are the dead things. All the living things are soft.”

“Swanson—?”

Vhingfrith staggered towards the door. “You’re not speaking to Swanson. Get out! For the love of God, Rogers, get the fuck out!”

“Why are all the living things soft?” the voice in the timbers said.

Rogers collapsed to his knees. He started weeping. The voice was killing him.

“Why are all the living things—”

Vhingfrith grabbed Rogers by his collar—

“—so soft? That seems backwards to us. Does it not seem backwards to you?”

—and hauled him to his feet and threw him out of the room just before they both passed out.

Vhingfrith was in darkness. He saw himself back in John’s room in The Dashing Inn. Felt the dirty sheets around his legs, smelled John’s hair, felt John’s head on his chest. Munt was there, telling him it was time to go soon. And there was a creature, hidden behind a caul of black mist, swirling around somewhere underneath the bed. He knew it was there. Somehow he just knew—

He awoke moments later, the two marines standing over him and lightly tapping his face. Scarecrow was waving smelling salts underneath Vhingfrith’s nose. He gasped and slapped Scarecrow away and scrambled to his feet, having to use the wall for support. They were in the captain’s cabin, Vhingfrith’s eyes were hurting and blurry. It was dark in here, but his cat’s-eye allowed him to see Rogers lying on the floor, sitting up, his back propped against the wall. Serjeant McCulloch was also in the room, seeing to his two ashen-faced marines. Blood was coming out of one of their ears, and the lad kept saying, “I can’t hear…I can’t hear, Serjeant…”

“Get him out of here,” Vhingfrith croaked, his throat dry as sand. “Get him off my ship!”

“Captain?” said Scarecrow. “What do you—?”

“Swanson. Clap that boy in irons, tie him in chains and cannon shot, and throw him into the goddamned sea.”

“He blasphemes!” Rogers barked from across the room.

“Get the man off my ship,” John said, ignoring him. “Let our guests from the firmament take back their agent.”

“Their agent?”

“He’s an agent! Their spy! Or I’m no judge! I don’t know what it all means but I feel it in my bones, Scarecrow! Just bloody do it!”

He heard splashing, like in his dream. He looked out the back windows and saw Charley out there, splashing in their wake. Lively heeled as the Leviathan shot around them. “Tell Dawson…get us back to Royal. With all speed. Tighter sleeping shifts. No man sleeps more than four hours at a time until we get there.”

Scarecrow said, “Captain, sorry to tell you, but we’re still becalmed. No wind. We cannot move.”

Vhingfrith touched his head, which was pounding. He could still smell the filth of Swanson’s breath, and his ears rang with the echoes of his stomach-churning words. He wanted nothing more than to protect his men, to protect the Lively and the Duke. Fear rose fast in his chest, and he worried he had somehow failed them all already.

“Then have both ships…beat to quarters. Be ready to kill fucking Charley if he so much as grazes one of us. The Long Night is our enemy, and everything in it. Trust nothing and no one.”

Rogers moaned from the other side of the room, “Fucking…agreed. And while we’re at it…Serjeant McCulloch?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers?”

Rogers pointed at Vhingfrith. “Clap that man in irons, as well.”

Vhingfrith was astonished. “What?”

“I’m sorry, Benjamin, but the bastard shares your eyes and the rumour is now running rampant through both our crews. Right now, that kind of coincidence merits precaution, but I promise you, you will receive adequate defence when brought before the Admiralty Court, and I myself will act as a witness to your character—”

“Woodes, you’re panicking. You cannot—”

“I said clap him in irons! I’m sorry for this, Ben—”

“You sent me out here to help you and you were waiting for an excuse to remove me and take all credit!” Now it was Benjamin who was panicking. He saw the looks of confusion and fear on the marines’ faces. “Now you create this calumny about me…which could send me to my death!”

Rogers glared at him. “I told you, you will be well represented in court.”

Benjamin spat at him. “This calumny will not stand! Rogers, you bastard, is this what you wanted from the outset? Is this where all this was all along? You killed John! You killed him and you used me to fetch you the Coronado! You want all my shares of the treasure? That it?”

“Silence him!”

“This is my ship—”

“Silence him, I said!”

“—this is my ship and this won’t fucking stand!”

Hands seized him.

Benjamin spat at Rogers again. “You fucking—”

Something hard hit the back of his head. Something with an edge. He hit the deck and his vision went blurry. “No!” Rogers shouted. “Just hang on now, he’s not resisting anym—”

Benjamin tried to lift his head. It felt both heavy and light. Moving it created blurry trails around the furniture in the room. He closed his eyes and thought he saw his father gazing at him reproachfully. Behind him stood Toby. And Lawrence Burr.

Always assume it will get worse, they said.