By some miracle, no lives had been lost to the storm. The crew had escaped with only a few minor injuries, though the same could not be said for the Scourge herself.

If she had been considered a wreck before, she was fresh from the shipbuilder's yard compared to what she was now. The hull was as flimsy as a fractured skull, the bilge-pumps had been worked almost to until they shattered, the masts were cracked, the sails shredded, and they'd lost more cargo than they could afford for such a long journey.

Captain Percival made it clear that it was necessary to take a short detour to an island the Quartermaster had worked out lay in their path. Its bay made an ideal anchorage. The woodland around was perfect for harvesting timber needed for repairs, and the season was ideal for the trees and bushes to be abundant with fruit and berries. The fruit would bring boar, deer and any other wildlife that would go away to replenish their stores of salted meat, and the animals would lead them to fresh springs to water the crew for the remainder of the voyage.

It soon became clear that only thing in worse shape than the ship was her crew's morale. The mood on deck was tumultuous at best and outright mutinous at worst, coming to a head when a fight broke out between two men, who had previously been mates. Captain Percival had no other choice but to have the Gunner lash the pair for their behaviour, which only made the mood fouler.

So, the Captain implored the Cook to break out his secret weapon.

***

The island was a thin whisp of an archipelago, made up of two larger land masses joined together on one side by a bridge of sand, forming a naturally shallow lagoon. Martin almost missed it as they approached as the island's peak didn't stand more than a few feet above the sea. A grove of tall trees bound it to the sky, and when they were close enough that they could see the leaves waving them in, the Captain ordered the sails reefed, and the crew to feed the ship into the bay on foot with hawse. The dense nest of trees on either side hummed with life as they limped between the sandbanks.

The men anchored down and prepared to disembark, though Cook was the first to touch the sand. He hefted with him a cauldron stuffed with utensils, then ordered two of his mates to scout around in the trees. In the time it took the crew to pitch tents and divvy up tools, the pair returned with two ripe nanny-goats. Cook grinned, and before the crew felled their first tree he had constructed a tripod with which to mount the cauldron, and filled it to the brim as best he could with goat's milk.

Martin watched as Cook built a roaring fire underneath. When the milk was alive with froth and cream, he unwrapped a packet containing a clay-coloured brick of something not unlike lard, shaving perhaps half the contents into the cauldron with his knife. Cook loomed over the broth, looking down at it from over the tilt of his upturned nose, before picking up a basin at his feet and adding more milk. He repeated this, humming a tune as he went, dancing between milk and clay lard until the mixture within was almost bronze in colour, thick bubbles bursting like magma.

Cook nodded to himself, then smirked and took up his spoon.

Martin watched in amazement as he swirled the smooth molten-gold, turning his hum into a cheerful whistle. He tapped the spoon against the cauldron, then shovelled a finger full of the mix into his mouth. He smacked his lips, appearing greatly satisfied. The spoon rapped against the side of the cauldron ringing out across the whole island.

'Come and get it, lads!'

'What's going on?' Emily set down the package of canvas and rods needed to build her tent and watched in amusement as the crew descended into an excitable frenzy. 'Is something happening?'

'You're damned right it is!' Martin threw aside his axe and put out his hand to Emily. 'Come on. You'll want to be the first in line.'

'First in line for what?' Emily took Martin's hand. Her shoulder almost popped from her torso with the force exerted as Martin dashed across the beach.

'You'll see!'

He was practically buzzing as he reached the front of the queue that had formed in front of the pot.

'Morning, Mister Hamish,' Cook wiped his hands on his apron. 'Busy night's work ahead?'

'I'll work all the harder with some of your cocoa, Cook,' Martin proffered his tankard.

'Alright, alright, you've convinced me.' Cook took the tankard and dipped it into the velvety liquid, then handed it back to Martin. 'Here you are. You take it slow now, you hear?'

'Aye, Cook. Thank you.'

'My pleasure. Who's next?'

Emily stepped forward with her own tankard, hastily whittled by Martin out of jungle wood.

'Ah, morning, Miss. A cup for you?'

'Um... yes please.'

Cook took the cup from her hand and dipped it into the cauldron.

'Here you are,' he passed it back to her, dripping down to the side with melted chocolate.

'Thank you, um, Mister...?'

'Cook'll do, Miss. And you're welcome,' Cook tipped his head before calling the next in line forward.

'What did you say this was?' Emily stared down into the smooth, gloopy mix as she and Martin shuffled up the beach.

'Hot cocoa!' Martin exclaimed, slurping the drink. The back of his jaw beginning to tingle as the chocolate hit his tongue, and he shivered all over with warmth and delight.

'Hot what?'

'Cocoa, or chocolate, if you prefer. The best thing this side of the New World. It's probably the only reason Cook still has a job on the ship; it's the only thing he's good at. But trust me, he's really good at it.'

'I'd best be the judge of that,' Emily chuckled. 'Forgive me if I don't take the word of a boy who likes the taste of grog. Surely, nothing can be that good?'

But it was.

Martin could see it in her face as she raised the cup to her lips. She closed her eyes and dipped her tongue into the steaming cocoa, then retracted it and rolled it around her mouth. When she opened her eyes again, they were sparkling with a new life that Martin had never seen before.

'Oh, my God,' she drawled, pressing the cup back to her lips and drinking deep.

'Good, right?' Martin asked.

She didn't even pause to answer him, just nodded and continued tipping her tankard skywards. There was a hollow whistle as she drained the cup dry and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

'It's been weeks since I've had anything that good,' she smiled. 'This makes wine seem like bog water.'

'It is really good,' Martin wafted the cup under his nose and breathed in the earthy-sweet steam. He was just about to put his tankard to his lips, when something tore his feet from beneath him.

He tumbled, face first, letting go of his cocoa and putting his hands out in an effort to catch himself. Something struck his ribs so hard and deep that it threw him onto his back and he found himself staring up at the sky. The sun would have blinded him were it not for the dome of a bald head blotting it out.

'Time to pay!' Ostrid grabbed Martin by the collar and shook him until his vision swam. 'Where's that money you owe?'

'What in Hell's name do you think you're doing?!' Emily snapped, beating Ostrid's shoulder with her fist. 'Get off him!'

'Shut it, whore,' Ostrid let one of his hands slip from Martin in order to push Emily. She tumbled back with such force that she was flattened to the sand. 'This doesn't concern you. Now, a pound, with interest, or do I have to tear the teeth out your head one by one and-.'

Crack! Ostrid staggered as a fist struck him across the face.

Martin was dropped to the sand as Ostrid cupped his face in his hands, spitting out a small gob of blood.

Schleckt stood between the two, his broad shoulder bulging, his fists clenched.

'Back off him, Ostrid.'

'Schleckt? What the Hell was that?'

'You alright, Hamish?' Jennes offered his hand to help Martin get to his feet, while Jacobi did the same for Emily.

'Touch him again,' Schleckt rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, 'and you'll find out.'

'I-!' Ostrid rubbed his cheek, which had already begun to redden and swell, then started. His tongue passed over his cheek. 'M-my tooth's loose. You've knocked a tooth loose! So, that's what you do now, is it? Go around knocking out teeth for that little prick?'

Schleckt took a step forward. 'Call him a prick again and I'll break more than just your teeth, you miserable, salt-brained ape.'

'You fat, bloody...!' Ostrid roared and leapt at Schleckt with murder in his eyes.

Schleckt met him mid-charge. They both clawed at the other's throat. Schleckt kicked at Ostrid's shins as Ostrid bit into Schleckt's arm. Schleckt yelled, then wrangled Ostrid by his collar and threw him over his knee. The pair collapsed in a flurry of kicks and punches, a cloud of sand in their wake.

Jennes and Jacobi leapt cautiously around the dust cloud, then dipped in and pulled Schleckt away.

'Leave him, Hans,' Jacobi struggled to restrain his arm between both of his.

'He's not worth it,' Jennes groaned as he stretched Schleckt's arm out of useable range.

'It'll be worth it, alright. I doubt there's anything more worthwhile in this life than seeing his face caved in under my boot.'

'Come on over and kick it in, then,' Ostrid taunted, now a nice, purple lip to compliment his busted cheek. 'Unless you're too coward to?'

Schleckt roared and jostled against Jennes and Jacobi, his eyes red with rage.

'Let me go! I'm gonna kill that-!'

'What the Hell is going on?' The Captain marched over, his thumbs hooked into his bandolier; the Quartermaster stood at his heel.

Martin's heart leapt into his throat, and the four men's faces paled. Jennes and Jacobi let Schleckt slip from their grasp, then stood stock-still like startled rabbits.

For a moment, everyone was silent.

'You all deaf?' the Quartermaster barked; the demand almost laughable in the wake of the Captain's snarl. 'Captain's asked you a question. Explain yourselves. Who started this?'

'Started what?' Ostrid stammered. 'Weren't nothing going on here. Just a small disagreement between comrades, ay boys?' No one answered.

Schleckt continued to stare daggers at Ostrid.

'Really?' the Captain folded his arms across his chest and drew his brow over his dark eyes. 'Because it looks like a damned fight to me. Who started it?'

Again, no one responded.

'Very well,' the Captain turned to the Quartermaster. 'Fifty lashes each for the pair of them.'

'It was Schleckt, Captain!' Ostrid blurted out. 'He started the fight! Came over and attacked me for no reason, he did. Was just minding my own business and-.'

'Bollocks!' Emily spat and stepped forward. 'Utter bollocks! You came over and harassed Martin. He was just minding his own business. Mister Schleckt just stepped in to help.'

'Miss Morton, I appreciate your input,' the Quartermaster sighed impatiently, 'but it doesn't concern you. This is a crew affair.'

'A crew affair?' Emily snarled. 'I'm as much a part of this crew as you are, Mister Ratchett! And I'm helping you make the right choice. I'm providing you with a witness.'

'She's right, Captain,' Jennes nodded. 'Ostrid attacked Hamish first; Schleckt tried to break up the fight and Ostrid lost it.'

'You're a goddamned liar, Jennes!' Ostrid growled. 'You were always a bastard son of a-!'

'Enough!' Captain Percival snarled at Jennes, who immediately shrank in height. 'It's not about what happened and what didn't; it's about taking responsibility. If one of you owns up to it, then only that one will get fifty lashes. Else, all of you will be lashed.'

'All?' Jacobi's eyes widened. 'What do you mean "all"?'

'I mean that since you all have such a personal interest in this incident, you're all equally to blame. So, all of you-.'

'Sir,' the Quartermaster muttered in the Captain's ear. 'I'm not quite sure that's a good id-.'

'Don't tell me how to do my job, Ratchett!' the Captain grit his teeth and the Quartermaster took a wary step away. 'Just because you don't have the spine to do yours, I have to pick up the slack and settle this on your behalf. All of you – Messers Schleckt, Ostrid, Hamish, Jennes and Jacobi – will receive lashes if no-one owns up.' The Captain's gaze pierced Emily. 'You feel much like mucking in with the crew now, Miss Morton? If so, there's plenty of leather for your back, too.'

Martin's heart plucked in despair as he looked over at Emily, her face now pale with terror, her lips white and quivering. Whatever kind of pain she was imagining, Martin thought flinching as the sting of memories tore the flesh from across his spine, it's nothing like the real thing.

He remembered the feeling of being dragged wailing and screaming, only a boy of ten, to the post by the townsfolk for stealing a loaf of bread. He remembered how it felt to be tied to the post and have his shirt torn from his back. He remembered the sound of the whip cracking the air as the deputy flexed the flog, warming up for the real thing. He didn't remember much after that; nothing except white, seering pain shooting through his spine. It was the humiliation that scarred him the most. Though the fragmented memory haunted his nightmares, he wouldn't wish such a punishment upon his worst enemy, let alone Emily.

The crack of the whip in his mind brought him back down to the beach.

'So, what's it to be, gents?' the Captain studied each of their pallid faces.

Once again, the six remained quiet, standing their casting glances at each other. An itch had festered in the back of Martin's throat which he dared not scratch with a cough, lest he break the fragile silence.

The Captain's face stirred.

Martin's heart dropped.

'Very well. All of you will-.'

'Captain, wait,' Martin stepped forward, and suddenly felt his soul ripped from his body. His mind floating several feet above as he watched him sentence himself to the flog. 'I'm responsible. It's my fault the fight broke out.'

Everyone's posture seemed to settle, and then tensed again.

'Hamish, what are you-?' Schleckt began.

'It's alright,' Martin gestured to Schleckt not to step forward. 'You don't have to cover up for me. I'm sorry, Captain. I owed Ostrid some money and I refused to pay it. When he insisted, I insulted him. He lashed out. Schleckt just stepped in to help and things got a bit heated. None of it would have happened if I'd just paid him the money like he asked.'

'Martin, no,' Emily stepped to his side. 'Captain, that's not how it happened. It-.'

'It is what happened,' Martin insisted. 'I'm responsible, Captain. End of story. Do as you will with me, but the others are not to blame.'

'I find that hard to believe,' the Quartermaster muttered and casting suspicious glances at the four men.

Martin swallowed as the Captain stared down, his dark eyes shimmering in the morning light.

'Well, Hamish. That's good of you to step forward. You know, of course, that it won't lessen your punishment?'

'Martin...' Emily tried to step in front, but Martin put out his hand and smiled a half smile.

'I understand, Captain,' Martin swallowed.

'Very well,' the Captain turned to the Quartermaster. 'Ratchett, fetch the cat o' nine tails.'

Martin's blood froze and his entire body began to tremble at the mere mention of the word.

'You-you're not... handling his punishment yourself, Captain?'

The Captain's stare did not faulter.

Ratchett's eyes grew wide as he leaned into Black Hal's ear. 'If you're going to do it, at least don't do it in front of the men. Their mood is low enough as it is after the last lashing.'

The Captain nodded.

'I know. I'll take him up into that grove. Afford him as much dignity as I can.'

Within a minute, the Quartermaster had summoned the Gunner, who guarded the whip with passionate jealousy.

When the Captain took leather-bound strop, he folded the plaited yarn-tails twice in hand and gestured to Martin.

'Come on then, Hamish. Let's not drag this out any more than it needs to. You first,' he pointed up the shallow embankment towards the dense nest of trees.

Martin felt all the blood in his head rush to his feet. His legs were like lead, and for a few moments he struggled to find the strength to even move. When he finally began to crawl up the bank, the Captain turned again to the Quartermaster.

'You're in charge until I get back. Hamish might not have the strength to travel, so we'll make camp in the trees for the night. Holler if something's amiss, but I'm sure you'll be able to handle it on your own.'

'Aye, sir,' the Quartermaster nodded gravely.

'As for the rest of you,' he turned to address the five who stood sheepishly pawing the sand. 'If the screams of your fellow man reach your ears, may they serve as a reminder.'

Martin felt cold sweat bead across his temples.

'Go on, Hamish. Keep walking,' and with that, the pair disappeared into the trees.

***

Martin walked ahead, his palms tight and beaded with sweat, as the Captain followed behind, the tails of the whip rattling against his cotton coat.

Along the way, they encountered snakes hissing their warnings between the bushes, small apes, and bright blue, red and gold birds fluttering from branch to branch. Insects crawled and pricked his skin, escaping the lizards that waddled through the undergrowth.

The trees grew denser, the thicket greener and teeming with life. Martin almost thought that all the creatures had gathered to watch his punishment like townsfolk crowding round the whipping post, bloodlust in their eyes and foaming at the mouths. Every step cast him further back to that day in his childhood. The civilized people of that town had seemed no less wild than the animals that watched him now.

His feet ached and his calves burned as they climbed further and further into the jungle. They reached a clearing ringed round with brilliant purple and red flowers, with bushes hung heavy with golden berries.

'Stop here, Hamish.'

Martin froze, his body tense.

The Captain stepped out from behind him and began to sweep the clearing, pawing at the dry Earth and peeking over the thicket, then back towards the path they'd walked.

'Here's a good enough spot,' he threw down the cat o' nine tails with a look of disgust, then slipped off his coat hung it on the stub of a tree branch.

Martin was still frozen solid, not even daring to take a breath, until the Captain took off his hat and nodded in his direction.

'You can relax, Hamish. I'm not going to lash you.'

'Y...You're not?' The words slipped out of Martin's mouth before he could even consider what other evils they could give way to.

'Of course, I'm not,' the Captain scoffed. He brushed the dust and pollen off his hat then hung it off the same branch he had hung his coat. 'I know you didn't start that fight. You're a pathetic liar, and if you thought you were going to get sympathy, you were wrong on that count, too. Nevertheless, you took responsibility. That was good of you, though stupid. I've seen the way those men treat you. Hopefully if they believe you've taken a few lashes, they'll ease off.'

'Um, well... thank you, Captain. Tha-That's really-.'

'I haven't finished yet, Hamish.'

Martin's jaw snapped shut like a bear trap.

'Like I said, you took responsibility for the fight, which does have to be punished. It's only fair. However, in light of my belief that you didn't start the fight, and having seen your performance in battle first-hand, I propose a different punishment from the usual. You see, I've never believed much in using the lash, though it serves its purpose to the right man. But I've seen it all too easily abused in my time by sadistic captains and commodores, using it more for entertainment or to satisfy their frustrations than to teach anyone a lesson. That's what I believe punishment should be – a lesson. So, with that in mind, I offer you a different punishment.'

Martin swallowed, his shirt clinging tight across his chest and back.

'And... what would that be, sir?'

To Martin's horror, the Captain put a hand to his hip and drew his silver sabre with a long, deliberate action, the sun dancing off the polished blade.

'Draw your sword, Hamish,' the Captain ordered. His eyes were filled with sparkling fire as the sword in his hand whirled around him with a flourish.

Slowly, Martin put his hand to the leather hilt of his chipped cutlass and drew it, holding it across his chest.

'Take a swing at me.'

'I-I'm sorry?' Martin stammered.

'Take a swing,' the Captain spread his arms like a crucifix, his sword grasped limply in his hand.

Martin hesitated, then hopped softly from foot-to-foot and lunged forward with caution, his blade beside his ear. Before he had a chance to complete the slash, the Captain caught the blade with his own. Martin's heart skipped as the Captain kicked his leg out from under him to crash to the floor with a grunt, his cutlass flying from his grasp.

'Right... What did you do wrong there?' the Captain paced in a semicircle around Martin, still flourishing his sword.

'I-I took a swing at you?' Martin groaned, climbing up onto his knees and hissing as he lifted his grazed elbow off a protruding tree root.

'Don't be impertinent. You swung, but you swung too hard. You put all your energy into a single attack, leaving none left over for what comes after; first mistake. Second, you didn't take a moment to study my weak points; where I'm open, where my blinds are, where I'm least likely to defend. Always study your enemy before attacking. A good swordsman should observe everything before he's even drawn his blade. Now, repeat both back to me.'

'Uh...' Martin rubbed his head. 'Uh... Don't attack too hard... Observe your enemy?'

'Good. Pick up your sword. Try again.'

Martin staggered and looked around for his cutlass. When he took it in hand, he got to his feet and tried to swing at the Captain again.

This time, he dodged aside.

Martin's blade whistled through the empty air before burying itself in a tree behind the Captain with a clunk. With lightning speed, the Captain struck Martin's hand free of the hilt with his elbow, then drew his blade up to the boy's throat.

'Now, what did you do wrong there?' the Captain asked, the edge of his sabre only a fraction of an inch from Martin's throat.

'I-I don't know,' Martin swallowed. 'I... didn't swing fast enough?'

'No,' the Captain withdrew the mirror-like blade from Martin's sweaty neck and began to pace around the clearing. 'You didn't look at the space around you. You lashed out without thought of what was behind me. Notice how I held my position. I wanted you to hit that tree and lose your focus. Listen close, because this may save your life one day.' The Captain's sabre whistled through the air as he flourished it then pointed the blade at Martin, who was desperately trying to dislodge his cutlass from the tree's dense flesh. 'Swordplay isn't about being stronger, faster or more skilled than your opponent. It's a game like any other. You don't have to beat anyone, just get them exactly where you want them. You understand, Hamish?'

Martin nodded, then staggered as the blade broke free of its binding.

'Very good. Now, again.'

This time, Martin hopped from foot to foot, his eyes darting around Captain Percival. Instead of lunging, he stepped forward, keeping his sword close to his chest. He moved it just enough so that Captain Percival put his sword out to parry left.

Martin feinted, swinging his cutlass over his head to flank his right, but his heart stopped when the blade was caught by the silver sabre. He paused for a moment, feeling a twinge in his wrist from the blow, but to his surprise, Black Hal chuckled.

'Excellent! You see? You're getting it already.'

Martin chuckled too, suddenly feeling more powerful that he had ever felt before.

'You were too slow that time and your grip was too tight. Relax it a bit, you'll have more control. Better a dropped sword than a broken wrist. Ready?

Martin nodded.

'Again.'

The light seeping through the trees began to die, but still the pair sparred in the open clearing, scratching patterns with their heels and toes as if they were dancing. Martin was covered in bruises and shallow nicks, and his bones howled with pain. He managed to parry the Captain's sword thrice from side to side and then threw the Captain off balance, before lunging behind his own line of defence, catching the Captain's wrist and yanking the sword from his hand before pinning his own to the his neck.

'Great work,' the Captain grinned, his hands raised in surrender. 'Excellent. Sloppy, but excellent. With practice, you'll be a master, but I think we've practiced enough, for now. We've earned a rest.'

Martin beamed, feeling a thousand times lighter than ever before, but also a thousand times heavier with sweat and exhaustion.

He was glad to collapse beside the fire that the Captain had lit by striking his knife against a shard of flint. The flames crackled, red and gold sparks floating into the sky to join the rest of the stars.

Martin lay against a log and watched them rise and twinkle and listened to the wood popping and the creatures around them hiding in the jungle as they hooted, snorted, and snored.

The scent of sweet, black tobacco wafted past his nose and he sat up to see the Captain with a clay pipe clenched between his teeth, a sprig of ember caught on a splint cupped in his hands as he lit it. He tossed the stick aside and puffed merrily on the mouthpiece. Then, he sat back on his throne of roots and blew a great stream of smoke into the rising grey river snaking into the sky from the fire.

'Ah, that's good stuff. Cuban tobacco; can't beat it. You smoke, Hamish?'

'No,' Martin shook his head. 'It's not allowed on the ship.'

'Oh, right, aye. That's another of my rules that I don't follow,' he chuckled, clamping his teeth once again around the mouthpiece and taking another drag. 'If you could keep it between us, I'd be in your debt.' He winked at Martin before adding another steady puff of smoke to the fire before him.

'Of course, sir.'

'Much appreciated, lad,' the Captain grinned, pointing with the stalk of his pipe at a cloth sack by his feet. 'There's a wineskin and some hardtack in there if you're in the market for refreshment.'

Martin took out the leather wineskin and unwrapped packet of hardtack, a tough, chalky square of baked flour, as tough as stone and as delectable as soot.

It was the best on offer aside from the jerky, which was more like rubber or tree bark than anything that may have previously been meat.

Before opening the packet, Martin rested the block on the flat of a half-buried rock and beat it to shards with the hilt of his knife. Then, he closed his eyes and put a chunk into his mouth – he'd learned that was the only way of eating it if you didn't want to know if your tack had weevils or not; it only made a difference if you could see them.

'Terrible, isn't it?' the Captain asked after another drag.

'It's disgusting,' Martin choked as he tried in vain to swallow the half-chewed mouthful of dusty flour that soaked all the moisture out of his mouth, turning his tongue to ash.

'You won't have to put up with it for much longer, Hamish.' the Captain snuggled deeper into his cot of tree roots. 'Just think. In a few short weeks, we'll have Miss Morton's money, and all of us will be able to feast like kings on pheasant and roast pork, and drink fine wine until we can't tell up from down,' he chuckled, then sighed, taking another puff of his pipe.

'That's what Heaven must be like,' Martin smiled, imaging before him a feast of glowing fruit and glistening pork, with white bread still steaming from the oven and jug upon jug of rich, red wine. He imagined the taste, even as flour clogged his throat and made him wheeze.

'Aye, that it is. Tell me something, Hamish,' the Captain sat up, his face lit brilliantly by the bronze glow. 'After we've completed our little quest and got the loot we've been promised, do you plan on sailing the sea longer?'

'Well...' Martin fumbled with his fingers as he stared into the embers, the warmth of the fire caressing his cheeks, clinging to his still relatively raw wound. 'I don't know, sir. It depends. I don't think there is life for me except on the sea.' Even as he said it, he thought of Emily, imagining her standing under a woven wreath of roses with dandelions and daisies braided around her hair like a crown, her smile as bright and beautiful as the white dress she wore.

'I understand, lad,' the Captain nodded. 'Every time I think I've escaped the sea, she always finds a way to pull me back into her embrace. I don't think I'll ever stop sailing her. Not until I've explored every nook and cranny twice over. Did I ever tell you I was married?'

'No, never,' Martin turned to the Captain, suddenly the picture of Emily in her white dress was clearer than ever. His heart sang with longing and delight. 'Who was she? What was she like?'

'Ah, she was a girl I knew from my childhood growing up in Leeds. We were sweethearts from the very first moment we understood what love was. Her name was Alice,' he smiled, lost in dream. 'We were young, and I was poor, so I went to sea on a merchantman to earn a crust. When I got home, there she was waiting for me. I used what I'd scrounged on that voyage to buy two rings. I told her I didn't have much to offer, and she told me that I could have had nothing, and it would still be enough for her. But as it's want to do, money ran out and the sea called me again. When I got home, she was still waiting for me, but every time I returned, the sea would call me again. It was only ever a matter of time. I managed to scrape together what I could and invested in a ship.' He pointed with the stalk of his pipe at the masts that hung just above the line of trees. 'Her. I set up a neat little enterprise for myself and told Alice it was gonna make us rich. But she always said it didn't matter. She just needed me. Would if I had listened to her, eh?' He chuckled and put the pipe back in his mouth.

'She sounds wonderful,' Martin smiled, imaging years of marital bliss, Emily always there waiting for him with open arms outside the little house they shared together. 'W-where is she now?'

The smile faded from the Captain's face. He looked down at his boots and fiddled with his pipe.

'She...She died,' he muttered, not angrily, but his tone still froze Martin's blood. 'She was attacked in our home. A gang tried to rob us; all our memories, all our dreams, the life we'd built together. She couldn't stand for it. Bloody stubborn, she was. She tried to fight back and they... killed her.'

Martin's heart sank and the vision of Emily stood outside a little cottage on the rolling hills of England suddenly vanished in his mind like fog in a breeze.

'I was at sea at the time. I couldn't... I wasn't there to protect her... protect her... or the child inside her. Our child.'

In that moment, Martin felt heavier than he ever had in his life, and more guilty. His face flushed, and he became more aware of this scar across his cheek.

'I'm... I'm sorry, Captain.'

There was a moment of silence, where the air hung staler than the hardtack. Captain Percival cleared his throat and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

'No matter. It's past now. Just history. No point dwelling on it,' he forced a smile. 'You know what I'm going to do when Miss Morton pays us? I'm going to have a ship commissioned. I never really wanted an old brig, anyway. She was always meant to be temporary. I'll build a frigate – thirty-two guns, tight woven sails, trim and sleek. She'll be the fastest, strongest and most feared ship in the Spanish Main. The Scourge mark two: A ship fit for a King to make all others tremble in their diamond shoes. This time though, things will be different, I swear it. I'm so tired, Hamish. I'm tired of playing the Devil. Next go around, I'll be a better man; a ki... A kinder man.' He turned to Martin. 'Can I count on you to sail with me, Hamish? There's a long war and I've still plenty to teach you.'

'Of course, Captain,' Martin flashed a half-smile. 'If you'll have me.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' the Captain exclaimed. 'Of course, I'll have you. Any ship of mine is a ship of yours, and you'll be welcome aboard. You're a born seaman. Salt-water runs in your veins, I know it. Had I a son, I would want him to be just like you, you know?' The smile faded again. 'Well... I would like to have someone along with me, at any rate. Someone like me who'll never stop sailing. The sea is my mistress, now. England holds nothing for me anymore.'

'Nor me, Captain.' The vision of Emily, radiant and glowing, evaporated. 'Never has. I'll keep sailing until I can sail no more.'

'I'm glad to hear it, son,' he patted Martin on the shoulder. 'You've your tankard? Chuck up that wineskin and I'll pour you a tot of red.' After he'd poured a liberal amount of wine into the base of Martin's cup, he held the skin aloft. 'What are we to drink to, lad?'

Martin thought for a moment, feeling like this was the most important decision of his life. He watched the flames dance between the twigs and consume the dry leaves, fizzing as a log split open and sap trickled out. Martin took a deep breath and lifted his tankard.

'To... family. They that share flesh and blood or only the salt-water in their veins.'

The Captain paused, then nodded.

'Aye, I'll drink to that.'

They both let themselves be engulfed by the half-silence of the night as they both tipped their drinks skywards and drank deep.

Before either of them could say another word, the Captain's head twitched and he put a hand out to silence Martin.

'Shh,' he whispered. 'Did you hear that?'

'Hear what?' Martin murmured back.

'Shh!' the Captain whistled. 'There it is again.'

There was a sound like a scream carrying over the trees. It came at regular intervals like a monkey's howl, but higher pitched. It cut the air again, and again, and again, until the sound grew so close that Martin thought he could make out words.

'Captain! Captain!' a voice pleaded.

'Is... Is that... Ratchett?' Captain Percival mumbled.

'Hal! Are you out there? Captain! Where are you? Captain!'

'Ratchett! Is that you?' the Captain bellowed.

'Yes! It's me! Where are you?'

'Over here! Follow my voice!'

Within seconds, the red face of the Quartermaster burst from the thicket with a breathless wheeze, bent double from exhaustion.

'For Heaven's sake, what's going on, Ratchett? I thought I told you to watch the camp.'

'B...Br...Brig. Brig... Beach...' the Quartermaster coughed and swallowed sharply. 'D-Du-Dutch... Dutchman.'

Martin's heart seized.

Captain Percival went pale.

'What?!' he leapt to his feet and slung his coat over his shoulders without hesitation. 'Come on, Hamish. Back to the others. Quickly!'

With a nod, Martin looped his tankard back over his belt, sheathed his cutlass and darted after the Captain as he leapt through the jungle with a panther's speed. He bounded across protruding roots where Martin stumbled. He swung across shallow ravines like an acrobat, whilst Martin fell into them, but still staggered after the Captain.

Before long, their feet dug into white sands and they burst from the grove to see the crew gathered on the beach, standing around their campfires.

'Martin!' Emily cried, rushing over and throwing her arms around his shoulders, ignoring the sweat pouring down his neck. 'Martin, I'm so glad you're alright.'

'Of course, I'm alright,' he held her, then stepped away to look into her sparkling sapphire eyes. 'Are you alright? What's going on?'

Emily didn't say anything. Her face turned putrid green, and then she slowly pointed at a spot on the dark sea, where a handful of lanterns hung like ghosts above the water. They drew the shape of a two masted brigantine sitting just shy of the mouth of the lagoon, its broadsides bristled with cannons, and the white and red cross of a Spanish flag flying from her stern.