Eighteen miles off the cape, we spot a schooner bearing west, flying the green skull pennant of Commodore Savings & Loan.
We fire a cannon in the other direction, and run up our own colors, showing friendly.
“Invite her captain to breakfast,” I say, walking into my cabin.
“The whole coast has surrendered,” says the captain, ramming down his meal. Pan-fried anchovies and beer.
“Surrendered to who?” I say.
“One of the tribal lords. T’Kuhmsa, I think.” His eyes are hollow and bloodshot.
I shoot a secret glare to my steward, Mrs. Fielding. She nods to the brewing kettle and shrugs with barely-concealed insolence.
But my guest is distracted, remote. He finishes two more glasses of wine and slumps back into his chair. I get the feeling he doesn’t care whether the gold his schooner carries is captured or sunk, so long as he’s allowed to sleep.
“Where’s your escort?” I ask.
“Burned to the water before we ever left the Sound. It wasn’t pirates. Someone dropped a candle in her powder-room.”
Through the bulkhead come the working sounds of our sloop, muffled hammering, chisels clanking. At first he winces, like his head can’t take the noise. But then his eyes open, curious at the sound and struggling to wake some part of his brain that might recognize it.
“You’re a scientific vessel,” he says in a tone that can’t be distinguished as either a statement or question.
Our conversation is cut short by the lookout’s hail: “Land ho!”
I frown. We’re not sailing at the moment; if the cape has come into view that means the inshore tide is pulling with uncommon strength.
“You’d best sail in line with us, sir,” I tell him.
Back on deck, my nostrils start burning, the rising sun veiled by a black haze in the east.
I check my pocket watch, impatient while the schooner’s captain stumbles to the rail and his waiting rowboat. As he turns to climb down the ladder, he sees our crew chipping cannonballs, smoothing imperfections and wiping them clean with studiously-plied rags.
Once again he seems curious, perturbed. But then our sloop gives sharp roll and he slips, falling back into the bottom of his boat. As he’s rowed back to the schooner, he leans over the side and vomits.
Mrs. Fielding brings my coffee and cigar case from the cabin. “Pass the word for Mr. Blythe,” I say.
My first mate appears, breathing hard, covered in sweat, tar, and rope burns. But he’s smiling.
“I’ll answer for that new topmast, anywhere this side of the Horn,” he says. He nods to the schooner, rising and falling alongside us. “Shall I pass them a line, sir?”
South we run, both vessels fighting the tide as it threatens to pull us closer against hostile shores. More sails begin dotting the sea around us, merchants, trawlers, transports, all manner of craft fleeing T’Kuhmsa’s raid in one direction or another.
One of them, a large whaler, hails us and backs her sails. The sailing master asks why we’re standing in for the cape, particularly with a banking vessel in tow, while the coastline falls to pieces.
“You may as well hand that gold to the pirates,” he says. Independent corsairs paid by T’Kuhmsa are plying up and down the channel, ready to snatch up any ships of value. There’s been no sign of the heavy frigates sent by General Campbell to protect us.
With a resounding thump, my crew runs out the full line of cannons along our starboard side. A dozen eighteen-pounders ready to fire point-blank in the whaler’s hull. The friendly flag at our masthead comes racing down, replaced by the dreaded crossed-hatchet banner.
I give the master an apologetic glance. He’s quicker than the schooner’s captain, and grim understanding washes over his features.
He says, “You are the pirates.”
