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

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

athwartships – At a right angle to the midline or centerline of the ship—an imaginary line drawn from bow to stern that equally divides the ship.

FROM OKOA’S PERSPECTIVE aboard the Hazard, coming around the bend to face the Turtle Crawles, he saw only the lumbering form the Ladyman had described to him months back. The Behemoth. He and every other man and woman aboard the ship stood a moment on the swaying deck and took it all in. Perhaps because most of them had already seen it, they laughed and whistled and even sang a chanty about it that they’d been working on. Sailors could be like that, Okoa mused, for they already believed in krakens and sirens and all sorts of strange things things, so their superstitions had perhaps prepared them (somewhat) to accept a colossal demon on Earth. Seeing his first Leviathan only convinced Okoa further that he would never question the Ladyman’s accounts again.

It was indeed the largest, most frightening monstrosity he had ever seen. Not even his nightmares had conjured anything like it. Tendrils came down from the clouds and joined with the Behemoth, attaching themselves to it, and those tendrils looked like the black strings of a devil’s marionette.

A dark puppet, raised from hell, a toy of the Dark One.

His first thought wasn’t to pray—Captain Laurier forbade that on his boat—but there was no mistaking that they were witnessing something earth-shattering, world-changing, and Okoa had at least the wits to know he should have reverence for it. A god rose from the sea and walked ashore, crashing through the North Docks and moving inland on deformed tripod legs. The upheaval it created caused the ships at dock to sway and tip and crash into one another.

But Okoa saw his target amongst them. The Lively was anchored on the second-longest pier, bobbing up and down like a top.

“Orders, Mr. Okoa?” Irwin called above the wind. The fellow they had picked up in Nassau was indeed a good pilot, if a little inexperienced in storms.

“Get us closer, Mr. Irwin,” he replied.

“You’re sure?”

“Certain.” He grabbed hold of the railing and limped down the stairs on the wooden leg he’d purchased while in Nassau. But while he was no longer hopping, the wooden leg still made uncertain footing on a heeling ship. He alternately grabbed netting and railing, depending on which way Hazard tipped, and water ran over the deck, almost up to his stump, and washed overboard through the scuppers with a soft sigh. “Mr. Adetombé!” he called to the fifteen-year-old former slave. “My dear boy!” He clapped the nervous youth on his shoulder. “Are we ready?”

The boy was all wiry muscle, covered in scars from the cat-o’-nine-tails. “Aye, Mr. Okoa.” He’d learned English well while serving Raymond Smith.

“Good! Then let us use this momentum! The Behemoth returns, boys!” he called to all of them. He said it almost as if it was a good thing. “The Behemoth helped the Ladyman and his people when last we were here, and I think it’s come back to help us again!”

Almost all the crew left aboard the Hazard were Africans, and some of them still had not gotten used to storms. Some vomited over the rail while others hung comfortably in the ratlines above. All of them gawked at the Behemoth. “Do not be afraid! You see every time the captain stands his ground against the English of Port Royal, the Behemoth comes to lend him a hand! This is not a curse, it is a good omen!” He used a mixture of English and African words to make himself understood. “Courage, my boys! Mr. Orombo, help reel in the stuns’ls! We’re going for the Lively! Uri, Adé, Koko, to the capstan bars! Handsomely now!”

Some moved nervously, others moved lively.

Okoa half stumbled over to the portside railing and hung on tight while he gazed at the ships swaying by the docks. The Behemoth was all the way out of the water now and onto the shore, walking the streets of Port Royal. The water was settling, the ships weren’t crashing into each other as much. And the clouds had left gaps around the three moons, swirling around them like water down a drain, allowing their light to shine down, giving Okoa a clear view of the sea and the North Docks.

Okoa took one more look back at the Behemoth and shook his head in bemusement. How many decades had it been since he was taken from his mother? He still recalled the story she told of the giants that lived in the sea, and sometimes came to shore to feed.

Mother, I was stolen from you, and we were robbed of each other’s presence and love. But, oh, what things your child has seen, Mother. What things he has seen.

“Ship to larboard!” one of the linemen called above the wind. “Fifth-rate! Big bitch, her!”

Okoa swung to port. Aye, he’d seen the fifth-rate yonder. A big bitch, indeed. A two-decker with a long prow. Her escutcheon had her name: the Edinburgh. Warship, Scottish make, Okoa had been sailing long enough to know by the size and breadth of her sails, and the number of her gunports. “I see her!” He called over to Irwin, “Keep an eye on her, helmsman!”

“Aye, Quartermaster!”

Okoa gave the warship one last look. He saw almost no one on deck. The ship looked frankly dead. His gaze was drawn more to the Behemoth, and soon they had sailed around the Edinburgh and he forgot all about her.

____

Vhingfrith felt around his head. Blood. It was dark inside the carriage, but his cat’s-eye allowed him to orient himself a bit. He’d been flung around the room when the carriage wrecked. Rain was coming in from the window, which he realized belatedly was somewhat above him. He reached up for the bars. That’s when he realized, also belatedly, that the carriage was almost on its side, like it was leaning against something. The manacles around his wrists and ankles had been latched to a chain on the floor, so he couldn’t do more than reach the bars, he couldn’t stick his head to the bars to see out.

“Anne? Anne!”

When no reply came, Vhingfrith looked around the carriage for anything that might help him out of this predicament, knowing full-well there was nothing. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead.

“Anne!” he shouted again.

“Easy in there, Captain,” someone laughed. A man. Enjoying himself. “Your lady friend’s doing just fine. And you’re safe and sound, where you need to be.”

“Anne, are you all right?” Vhingfrith called out. He didn’t believe them.

“She’s doing just—”

“Christ!” someone else shouted. Another man.

“What are you—?”

“Look behind you!”

A brief pause.

The first man said, “God Almighty, grant us mercy…”

“What’s going on out there?” Vhingfrith shouted. Another trickle of blood went into his eye and he wiped it away. “What is happening?”

“God Almighty…God Almighty…” the man outside kept saying.

Vhingfrith tried to get a good look through the bars but suddenly the carriage dropped from whatever obstacle it had been half propped on and landed back on its right-side wheels. He fell to his knees. Stood up.

The window was facing the wall of a shop. He heard more raised voices outside. Some shouting. Sounded like a mob of people screaming. Vhingfrith searched the carriage in panic. That’s when his cat’s-eye landed on something. A wooden board in the floor had split. The hook that was bolted to the floor, the same hook his chains had been fastened to, was right about on that split. Must’ve gotten damaged when we crashed. Frame probably came loose underneath. He tried tugging his chains a few times, and saw that the plank came up a little.

Not daring to taste hope yet, Vhingfrith grabbed up the slack from his chains and stood over the split plank, and gave it a harder tug. It barely budged. He yanked harder, again and again. Outside he heard more screaming. A shot fired in the air. And, unless he was mistaken, he sensed a temblor. An earthquake? The carriage vibrated just a little and he felt it through his bare feet. Tidal wave? Is that what that screaming is about? Everybody running away from the shore—

On his next tug, the plank split some more and rose from the floor half an inch.

“God in heaven, please be good today,” Vhingfrith breathed, and pulled again. And again the plank rose another inch.

Keys rattled in the lock outside, and the door swung open and Vhingfrith felt his stomach sink when facing the business end of a musket. It was a militiaman, standing in the rain, his lower half soaked in mud like he had fallen. Behind him was another militiaman doing something strange; his back was turned to his friend, and he was looking up at the sky, saying over and over again, “God Almighty…God Almighty…”

“Step out, Captain,” said the militiaman with the rifle.

“Sorry to say, gentlemen, but I am currently indisposed. As you can see.” He held up his chains.

The rifleman glared at him. Looked up at the sky. Back at Vhingfrith. Tossed him a set of keys. “Undo y’self. Then step out. Very slowly.”

The keys hit the floor and slid towards Vhingfrith, who stopped them with his foot and said, “Which one?”

“The big one.”

It took a moment, the key did not turn intuitively, which Vhingfrith assumed was the point. While he worked on his ankles, he called out, “Anne? You all right?”

“She’s just fine, Captain. Stop wasting—Carlson! For God’s sakes, we still got a job to do! Get your weapon and watch this prisoner!”

“God Almighty, what is it, Nelson? What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Nelson said, his eyes and weapon still trained on Vhingfrith. And his eyes said he was afraid.

But this man is a man of duty, Vhingfrith thought. He’ll not shirk it. Indeed, whatever it is that has Carlson aflutter, Nelson seems bound and determined to refuse it’s happening.

Vhingfrith knew he couldn’t make a move with this man’s weapon trained. So, once the final manacle was removed, Vhingfrith stood up, hands up, and approached the doorway slowly.

“That’s it. Nice and slow like, Captain,” said Nelson. “Nice and—about time!” he called over his shoulder. Just as Vhingfrith stepped down the ladder and into the rain, he turned and saw four militiamen approaching on horseback. Vhingfrith looked around for Anne, and found her still body lying in the street, turned on her side, her face half in a puddle and covered in blood.

The horsemen pulled to a stop and two of them swung off their horses and ran splashing through the mud with pistols out. “We blew the whistle five minutes ago! Where the bloody hell’ve—?”

“Nelson, shut it!” a blond-bearded man bellowed above the rain. “Get you to the fort! All haste! Now! Our orders are to spread the word! We are evacuating Port Royal and moving the governor to Kingston—”

“Why in bloody hell would we do that?”

“Why do you think?!” the bearded man cried, and pointed south.

That’s when Vhingfrith swung his gaze south and finally saw it. And felt it. The muddy ground beneath him didn’t just tremble, it seemed to shift like when he stood barefoot in the tide and felt it recede, taking much of the sand around his feet with it. And he felt himself sink an inch or two. At the same time, he saw the monstrosity towering over the rooftops of the market, and his cat’s-eye allowed him to see such detail that Vhingfrith gasped, staggered backward in disorientation, and collapsed to one knee, barely stopping himself from falling on his arse.

“God in heaven,” he breathed. “It’s the Master.”

The shape of the creature made no sense to him. It only vaguely resembled a man-ish build, but its body was made of the interwoven sinew that split apart from the fleshless bodies that made its frayed, hanging moss-like exterior. It stood forty or fifty feet tall, swaying with each step, like it was uncertain of its balance, and occasionally it bowed low enough that it vanished behind the rooftops before emerging again.

The messenger is not important.

So is this the Master? Must be. What else is it?

Vhingfrith tried to stand. That’s when he heard creaking wood, and looked back through the doorway of the carriage, to where he saw Toby. To say fear skewered his heart would be an understatement. Vhingfrith was looking at the slave boy hanging from a rope inside the carriage, his feet somehow passing through the floor. Toby’s body swung almost imperceptibly, his eyes as fixed on Vhingfrith as they had been decades ago.

His father taught him long ago to master his fears and face them head-on, as he had done not half an hour ago in the dungeon when he formally met the Messenger. Benjamin gritted his teeth, willed himself to his feet, and stared at the spectral agent. “I see you,” he said. “I see you. You have no power over me. Torment me as you please, if it will make you feel better. But know that I see you. Tell your Master and whoever else commands you all, or leads you, or feeds you. Tell them I see the firmament for what it is. You’re an accident. You’re all God’s accident, just like we are. But, by God, I shall undo you. I swear it. On my honour, I swear I’ll undo you all.”

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Toby’s head cocked sideways. A needle of ice went through Vhingfrith’s heart, but when he blinked again, the spectre was gone and he’d sunk another inch into the mud upon the monster’s next step.

Nelson and the other militiamen had been arguing amongst themselves about what all was going on and what needed to be done, but now they stopped and looked at Vhingfrith. “Who is he talking to?” the bearded man shouted. “Is someone else in there?”

“There’s no one else,” said Nelson, who walked over and grabbed Benjamin by his arm and yanked him away. “He’s coming with us.”

“No room for prisoners!” said the bearded man. “Cut him loose and get to one of the boats on—”

“Cut him loose?” Nelson bellowed incredulously.

“God Almighty…” Carlson was still saying. His gaze was stuck on the monster. “God Almighty, be merciful…”

“You heard what I said,” said the bearded officer. “Let the Devil’s Son go. We don’t have room for—”

“Woodes Rogers had him brought in on suspicion o’ having something to do with all this firmament business,” Nelson argued. “Consorting with devils and whatnot! And the Admiralty was probably going to hang him later tonight! So this bastard comes with us.”

“I’m not arguing with you! We’re clearing out of here and we’ve not got room—” The bullet that tore through the bearded man’s head did so at the same time Benjamin heard the crack of the pistol.

Many things happened at once. Nelson released his grip on Vhingfrith, who lunged behind the carriage for cover. The militiamen still on their horses turned about and aimed pistols wildly. Pistols barked and their smoke plumed out into the streets and filled the air. The militiamen on foot fired once into darkness before drawing their sabres. Four or five horses rushed in from another alley and atop one of them was John Laurier.

____

John held onto the reins one-handed, jerked a pistol from his brace and fired, missing one of the horsemen, dropped the pistol and pulled another, fired, and nicked his target, sending the militiaman from his saddle. A round whizzed by John’s head a second before he heeled the horse to a gallop and aimed it at the final horseman and leapt off, hitting the mud hard and rolling and sliding. Beside him, Jenkins, Jaime, and LaCroix charged through the group ahorse.

The militiamen all fired. One round hit LaCroix’s horse and sent both of them to the ground.

Jenkins and Jaime trampled two foes.

John felt something in his shoulder crack as he stood up, and, with his Corrupted hand, drew his cutlass, and threw himself into the fray. The Corrupted hand wove god-like through the enemies, moving in ways it ought not have been able. Inhuman ways. It was fleshless and had no sensation and yet it obeyed his commands. John parried the first sabre with lightning speed and slashed his enemy’s throat before push-stepping forward, splashing through mud and around Anne’s body until his foot hugged the foot of another enemy. He shin-pressed the other’s leg and reaped his foot to off-balance him and parried away his blade before thrusting into the femoral artery and shoulder-checking him and knocking him to the ground.

It was a maelstrom of limbs and nervous slashes and unsure thrusts and angry screaming. Riderless horses galloped in circles and reared up, kicking wildly. Men slammed up against one another, sometimes slashing or punching their friends until lightning revealed their true foes. Jenkins rode by a militiaman and slashed open his face and the militiaman turned and ran, holding the fleshy slab of his cheek. John pulled LaCroix up from the ground before he was trampled by a horse. One of the militiamen grabbed Jaime’s leg as he rode by and pulled him off his horse and started kicking him. A blade jabbed John in the hip but bounced off the bone and he screamed and spun and performed a gissard to slice the offender’s hand and disarmed him. A militiaman slipped and fell, grabbed fistfuls of LaCroix’s pants and climbed up the Frenchman and started strangling him up against the carriage until Benjamin appeared and pulled the militiaman away, giving LaCroix a moment to pull out his dagger and put it in his enemy’s gut. One of the militiamen locked blades with John, parried it tip-down to the ground. On instinct John let his sword go and used the talons of his Corrupted hand to rake the man’s face. Instead, he skewered both of the man’s eyes, on forefinger and ring finger, and plucked them out of his skull before he knew what he was doing. The man fell backward screaming and clutching his face before Jaime knifed him.

It was a milling mass of desperate bodies, all flailing about for less than a minute before it was done. And when it was, they stood there panting while the Behemoth’s foot planted onto a house the next street over and leveled it.

“Everyone all right?” John called. “Jaime?”

“Gah! I’m all right!” the Scotsman called out, leaning against a wall and holding his ribs. “The fucker didna break much, Captain.” His wincing face made it look a lot worse, but John let it go.

He turned and looked at LaCroix and Jenkins. And then at Benjamin, who was on his knees beside Anne. John sheathed his sword and said to his men, “Grab their pistols. Them that haven’t been fired yet. Make sure they didn’t get wet enough to misfire.” He checked his hip. Still bleeding. Then he walked over to Benjamin and knelt beside him. Neither of them acknowledged the other, for a moment all their focus was on Anne. “Is she dead?” he finally said.

Ben shook his head. “No. But they knocked her good.” He looked over at John, his own head bleeding. “John, I—”

“No time to discuss. Let’s go.”

“John, your hand. What’s wrong with it?”

“We have to go.”

“What in God’s name—”

“No time, I said!” John turned and pretended to reach inside his jacket so as to hide his shame. “Jenkins? How are we on pistols?”

“Salvaged one, Cap’n. Rest of ’em have been fired or soaked.”

“Who’s the better shot of us?”

“That’d be me, sir.”

“In a fuckin’ dream, per’aps—” Jaime laughed.

“Jenkins, you take the pistol and take the lead with me.” John pulled out his final unspent pistol. “Jaime, help me put Anne on that horse there.” Only one of their horses had not yet fled or been shot. “LaCroix, watch our backsides. Ben, are you hurt? Can you walk? Good. We’re heading to the Turtle Crawles. We can see the North Docks from there. If all’s clear, we head for the docks. For Hazard. Okoa should have her brought ’round by now.”

“My crew,” Benjamin said. “The Lively. I have to—”

“Okoa has orders to board her if possible, and send a skeleton crew aboard to sail her away.” There was a loud crunch that rent the night—wooden boards being broken. John glanced at the Behemoth, already striding higher up the hill, deeper into Port Royal. “If the Behemoth didn’t destroy them both on the way in, Hazard and Lively ought to be waiting for us at the North Docks, but we have to move quickly! Double-time, no slouching, you bloody fucking scallywags! And if we see any more militia along the way, the first of you to gut one gets ten fucking doubloons from me!”

“Aye-aye, sir!” shouted Jenkins, Jaime, and LaCroix as they got to it.

John took one look back at Ben. The cat’s-eye was easily spotted in the dark, and it was clear what it was staring at. John pushed his Corrupted hand deeper into his jacket. “Let’s move!”

____

The Hazard drew closer to the docks. It now was coming alongside the Lively, which was to port. Okoa limped-slid-staggered back over to the stairs and climbed up to the quarterdeck, swinging his gaze from the moons to the Behemoth, which was still climbing the hills of Port Royal. He shouted into Irwin’s ear, “Steady, my friend! Steady there!”

“This is as steady as she’s gettin’, Quartermaster!”

Okoa looked up at the three moons, clouds swirling around them. He called down to the men on the capstan bars. “Drop anchor, lads!”

The three Africans pulled the bars back a bit, then pushed forward hard, and they could all feel the deck judder as the massive chain was unrolled belowdecks to lower the anchor. Much of the seafloor around Port Royal’s shore was just loose sediment, but a few ships had been sunk rather than taken to the shipbreaking yards for scrap. The sunken ships gave visiting ships plenty to anchor by, but in a high storm it could be bloody unreliable, what with the tide knocking the ships around.

Crews knew when the anchor hit the seabed because the thump was felt all the way up the chain and onto the ship, and there would be a few breaths while they waited to see how well the anchor held. The ship would either drift or she wouldn’t. Once Hazard steadied, Okoa grinned and clapped Irwin on the shoulder and limped over to the portside rail. “Ropes out! Planks out! Get aboard her, you scallywags!”

In moments the grappling hooks were tossed over and the men pulled on the ropes in teams of five or ten, getting Hazard within kissing distance of Lively. “Mr. Reginald,” Okoa shouted to the cook. “You be the Lively’s captain, yes?” He gestured over to the brigantine.

The cook looked unsure. Captain Laurier had nominated Reginald just before he left, as he had some training in steering, but Okoa could see the man’s uneasiness now that the moment was nigh. “Aye, Mr. Okoa,” the big man finally said. “I reckon I can.”

“Then go! Today is your day! From cook to ship captain!”

Planks were laid between the ships, but they were slippery footing. Some of the men crossed just by hanging from ropes and crawling, or else swinging over. Okoa clapped men’s backs, encouraging them as they went. He was proud of them. Africans, Englishmen, Dutchmen, and Irishmen, all of them tossed aside by their governments for one reason or another, perhaps left for dead, perhaps forgotten, perhaps shunned after a lifetime of leal service, perhaps stolen or sold into slavery.

Only one stood out. Captain Belmont came up the ladder from the forecastle and stood in the rain, holding onto the capstan bars for support while he watched pirates sneak across under cover of darkness and storm. Okoa called down to the militiaman, “Captain! Up here!” Once Belmont climbed up the stairs, Okoa shouted above a growl of thunder. “Captain Laurier say you stay belowdecks until this is all over.”

“I understand he doesn’t want me going ashore and warning anyone what is happening. But I heard…good God, there it is.” Belmont faced north. A flash of lightning revealed the Behemoth. “There it is. Just the same as the night you all took me from here. My God…just look.”

“Fill your eyes, and then go back belowdecks. That is an order, Captain.”

But he may as well have commanded the waves to settle down, for Belmont could not tear his gaze away. He went to the portside rail and clung to it, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the rain. He peered through the flapping ropes of the many ships moored here at the North Docks, moving his head side to side, craning his neck for a better look as the Behemoth kept climbing the hill. Okoa joined him by the rail, and said, “Your religion. It speaks on the End of Days.”

Belmont nodded. “It does.”

“What does it say happens next? Captain won’t say.”

Belmont shook his head, then looked up at the three moons, visible through holes in the clouds. Holes fitted perfectly for those moons. The moonlights were unquenchable, and between that and the lightning all of Port Royal had a strange glow. Absurdly unusual in a rainstorm. Then he looked over to the Lively, the pirates crawling all over it like ticks.

Okoa noticed something just then. The militiaman’s face went through a change. Like something had just occurred to him. Belmont looked out to sea, at the ships anchored away from the North Docks. Then he looked back to shore. Then back to the Lively. “What is it?”

“Is that what you all came here for?”

Okoa nodded. “The Lively. Didn’t you know?”

“No. The Ladyman didn’t want me knowing the plan. Foolish of him.”

“Why foolish?”

“Because if he had told me, I could have advised him against it.”

Rain fell down Okoa’s face. “Why advise against?”

“Look at those ships out to sea. Good God, man, their gunports are open! Their starboard guns! The ones facing shore! Facing us! Did you not see them when you came in?”

Okoa looked. No. For all the brightness of the night, there were still curtains of rain obscuring his view of his surroundings. But he still did not understand, not even when he heard the alarm in Belmont’s voice. “Why?”

“Your captain’s lover was taken by Woodes Rogers, yes? Never a cleverer beast than him. He figures ‘Why kill the fox that’s been looting your chicken house when you can wound it and lure in the rest of the pack?’ Savvy?”

Belmont looked over at Lively.

“There’s a trap waiting for your men on that ship, sure as I’m standing here seasick. I don’t know what it looks like, but it’s there. And those guns…” He pointed back to the ships anchored away from the docks. “You flew us straight into a pincer, Mr. Okoa. And the only reason I’m telling you this is because I mean to spend my last days at home with my family, not dead alongside you fucking maggots. Now, if you don’t listen carefully, and do exactly as I say, we’re all going to be joining the shipwreck we’re currently anchored to.”

“You are not in—”

“I’m in command now if you want to live. First thing is, abandon those men on the Lively. You cannot get them back in time. You need to unhook us from that brig. Tell your men to be ready to drop all sheets they’ve reeled in, but don’t drop them just yet. Then you need to get that fellow—what’s his name? Irwin? Get Irwin to turn the wheel far as he can thataway.”

He pointed east.

“Then let sheets fly. We’ll sail in front of those merchantmen moored over yonder, and that might make them squeamish about firing at us—out of fear of hitting innocents on the docks and on shore. With any luck, these winds’ll turn us so’s our starboard guns are facing those out there. Perhaps we can make enough commotion we can leave. Perhaps they’ll fix their guns on the Behemoth if it comes back. We have an opportunity here—”

“We not leaving Captain Laurier,” Okoa said, even as he looked out at the ships anchored in the bay and cursed himself for being so blind. Flew right into the trap. Belmont is right. I flew us directly into it—

“Didn’t say you needed to leave him, just sail away, perhaps circle the island and send a boat with some of your crew to shore later, find him, then bring him back to some rendezvous point. I don’t care, you just need to get us clear of this trap, which is about to spring any moment.”

Belmont looked calm yet intense, a look Okoa had seen on the Ladyman’s face too many times to count. A man with certainty in his deductions and his commands. It was clear why he had been entrusted to lead a militia unit.

“You need to decide now, Mr. Okoa. If we delay, then even if we decide to leave later, they will have us athwartships. I’m no sailor, sir, but I know enough to know that we will be mincemeat and tinder wood before their cannons.”

Okoa looked over at the Lively. Every instinct in his gut told him not to leave Reginald and his men. His crew. Then, all at once, he shouted to Irwin to keep an eye on Belmont, and limped as fast as he could down the stairs and hollered as loud as he could, “Cut all ropes! Cut all ropes! Drop all planks and cut all ropes! Untie us from the Lively! She’s a trap! Ship capstan bars and ready to weigh anchor! Treadwell, Conroy, signal the men aboard Lively to get off the ship, and run for their lives! We will regroup later on far side of island!”

If there’s anything left of Jamaica later, he thought, watching the Behemoth continue slogging up the hill.

He shouted to the men hanging in the ratlines to climb up and be ready to let the sheets fly, then limped back up to the quarterdeck and gave Irwin the command to turn the wheel hard to starboard. Belmont was still leaning on the portside railing, his gaze flitting from the Behemoth, to the Lively, to the ships in the bay, as if wondering which of them would kill him first. In fact, Okoa believed that’s exactly what the militiaman was thinking.

The anchor was carefully raised, and slowly the Hazard began drifting away from the docks. From the Lively, men began yelling in shock and anger as some of them leapt over to grab hold of the netting, and others either missed and fell into the water or were forced to remain aboard.

And no more than half a minute later, Okoa saw revelation, as Belmont’s prediction came horribly true. A flash of lightning allowed him to see twenty or thirty men rushing up from Lively’s belowdecks and onto the top deck. Men armed with blades and guns. An ambush! Two shots were fired. Okoa’s heart raced as he watched more of his men leap from the Lively and into the waters. Most of them could not swim, and so they sank.

“It won’t be long now—” Belmont was just saying as he pointed to the ships in the bay.

But Okoa was already shouting, “Avast there, you bastards! Sheet home! Sheet home! Hoist away, lads! Quickly there, in the foretop! Look alive you scallywags! Stuns’l sheets, let fly, let fly! Hands to the braces!”

Every sheet bloomed in the chaotic wind and almost instantly they all felt Hazard surge as she caught it at broad reach and swam her prow from north to east. The wheel had been pre-turned so as to put the rudder in the right place to carry her where she needed to be. Hazard turned smartly, her starboard side coming around to aim out at the bay. Out at the ships parked there. The ships Belmont claimed were part of the trap and which Okoa now believed wholeheartedly.

They had just pushed past the Edinburgh and were heading away from Port Royal when Okoa became aware of a shout of alarm. He looked down to the main deck and saw men running from starboardside to portside railing. He couldn’t make sense of it. Are we being boarded? I saw no one swimming over from the Lively, they all sank when—

And then he saw it. Long, wet, and eel-like, the tenebrous thing emerged from the water and crawled up over the rail, slithering, at least twenty feet in length, like a colossal earthworm. An oil-black kraken! Its girth was at least twice as thick as a man’s chest, and it already had in its split-faced head one of Hazard’s crewmen. It moved fast yet clumsily, blindly smashing the barrels on deck and groping around for any other prey, as the first crewmen’s feet disappeared down its gullet.

The crew screamed. The tentacle shot back below the waves.

Then thunder rang out. Too much thunder. Okoa saw the numerous flashes from the bay, and shouted, “Brace yourselves!” just as the first volley of cannon shot tore through their ship.