CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Red Flag…Ho!”

THE WICKED WENCH SAILED FROM THE PORT of Viviana just as the eastern horizon began to lighten, heading north, past New Providence and its port of Nassau. Jack knew his crew assumed they were following the Triangle, but they weren’t—the heading he gave his helmsman was the one Tia Dalma’s compass indicated. Christophe was somewhere to the north, and that was where Jack was going.

Jack was eager to find his erstwhile friend so he could persuade him to sail east to Kerma. His plans were hazy from the point where he located Christophe, but they inevitably involved figuring out a way to get the third bracelet back from the French rogue. After all, Pharaoh Taharka had given it to Jack, not Christophe, right? Once Jack had all three bracelets, he’d get into the labyrinth and find the treasure himself. Whether or not Christophe survived the transfer of the third bracelet depended on Jack’s mood at the moment.

Chamba hadn’t needed his shipmates’ help to escape from St. John Fenwick’s slave compound. The lad had appeared down at the Wickhaven dock to meet Jack’s boat before midnight, and they’d spirited him away as planned. Jack resolved to give Chamba a liberal reward for his part in rescuing young Shabako, just as soon as he got his hands on the fabled treasure.

He was extremely pleased that Shabako’s rescue had proceeded so smoothly and successfully, and not just because he now had access to the second bracelet. Increasing his bargaining power with Christophe was important, yes, but Jack was also mindful of how happy Ayisha was to have found her brother. From a woman who had never smiled when Jack had first encountered her, she had scarcely stopped smiling since they’d rescued the young pharaoh.

They continued to anchor out at night, so it took the Wicked Wench another two days of sailing north for Jack to sight the island of New Providence in his spyglass, still some distance away. He went up to the quarterdeck to double-check that the helmsman on watch knew to keep that pirate-controlled island off their starboard bow. A deep water channel running north-south lay to the west of the island, and Jack smiled as he saw the color of the water change beneath the Wench’s keel, darkening as they sailed into the channel.

After days of having to keep lookouts posted to watch for shoals, plus repeatedly checking the depth of the water, he was finally able to relax his vigilance. Many captains wouldn’t have chanced sailing through the heart of the Bahamas, but Jack knew these waters…he’d sailed them for years, as man and boy.

With his ship safely in the deepwater channel, Jack decided it was finally safe to take a few hours off to celebrate the success of their mission.

Accordingly, just before seven bells of the forenoon watch, Jack and Robby left Frank Connery on duty as officer of the watch. Leaving Robby to collect people and escort them to his cabin, Jack prepared to host the guests he’d invited. He set out some of his precious supplies of fresh bread, purchased in Viviana, as well as fresh fruit and some of his best cheese and smoked meat. After due consideration, he set out not one but two bottles of good wine.

A few minutes later, Robby knocked on the door of Jack’s cabin, and Jack ushered in his guests: Robby, Chamba, and the three Zerzurans. This time, Robby and Chamba shared the floor, while Jack and Tarek sat on the bunk, and Ayisha and her brother took the chairs.

People passed around the food, talking and smiling, as Jack filled his motley assortment of cups with wine. Upon reflection, the captain decided that this was an occasion that merited his favorite drink, so he filled his own tankard with his best rum, savoring the heady fumes. Mindful of the fact that he would be going back on duty before too long, he served himself a plate of food and sat munching it.

As the group refilled their cups, there was a lot of laughter and recounting of experiences from the day of the rescue. Jack’s description of his notable dinner at Wickhaven, especially when he regaled the group with his inspired description of his prowess as the most notable rider to hounds in all of England made everyone chuckle—but Ayisha, who knew the actual derivation of his imaginary hunter, Caesar, laughed until she was breathless.

Jack watched her laugh, enjoying the sound of it. It still fascinated him, how animated and lovely her real features were, as opposed to the illusion she’d woven so well. The afternoon sun glinted off her gold earrings that swung back and forth, brushing the dark skin of her throat. Idly, Jack imagined lifting the nearest gold disk and kissing her there, then feeling her pulse leap. He took another swig of rum, and sighed contentedly. Truly a moment to savor, he decided. Here he was, captain of a fine vessel like the Wicked Wench, with good rum to drink, enjoying a lovely woman’s smile, with the promise of treasure soon to come. What could be better?

You’re thinking more and more like a pirate, Jacky boy, the little voice mocked in the back of his mind. Obsessed with rum, wenches, and treasure.

So what if I think like a pirate, Teague? Jack replied to that part of himself. I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, mate, and if I want to think about—or lust after—lovely wenches—excuse me, that should be lovely princesses—and treasure, too, so bloody what?

“Teague” fell silent.

Jack took another swig of rum, grinning and listening as Tarek, in his halting English, rose and described, with gestures, how “Frederick” had fussed about the dirt on the white silk parasol, before he’d ever bothered to look down at the “swooning” Chamba lying sprawled at his feet, eyes rolled back into his head. The big eunuch revealed a hitherto unexpected talent; he mimicked Jack so well that the captain laughed harder than anyone.

When it comes right down to it, piracy isn’t a bad life, Jack thought, watching as Ayisha mock-fussed at her brother to eat more, picking grapes off a bunch, putting them on his battered pewter plate, then slicing him another hunk of cheese. A short life, all too often, but nothing’s perfect. When you’re a pirate, you’re master of your own fate. Pirates have more freedom than just about anyone else. Look at the Cutler Becketts of the world. Always scheming, trying to make everyone do everything their way. Determined to hem you in, pin you down, make you toil and scrape and sweat for every bloody farthing.

Jack abandoned his mental back-and-forth when the young pharaoh stood up, and the group fell silent. Jack took another gulp of rum.

Shabako cleared his throat, then said, in good English, “As you know, I am Shabako, brother to Princess Amenirdis.” He smiled at his sister. “She has told me of your search for me, how everyone present worked together to plan my rescue. You traveled far, you searched for weeks, you located me, then you risked much to free me. Each of you has demonstrated notable wit and courage.”

The young man paused, then he straightened, his expression altering, becoming grave and formal. Despite the motley assortment of slop-chest garments he wore, he appeared taller, stronger, and full of power. Shabako gazed regally at Chamba, Robby, and finally Jack, in turn, and, perhaps for the first time in his young life, he deliberately employed the royal “We.”

“Be assured,” he said, his tones deepening, “that We are speaking as the Horus, Lord of the Two Lands, Hemef of Kerma, Ruler of the Shining City. Please accept Our gratitude, Chamba, Robby Greene, and Jack Sparrow.”

“Captain Jack Sparrow,” Jack corrected, before he could stop himself. Then, as Ayisha glared at him, he gulped and added, “Excuse me, Your Majesty.”

Shabako gave him an imperial nod, and continued. “When this vessel reaches Our homeland of Kerma, We shall be able to make Our thanks more tangible, but until that time, know that you may call upon Us in any way, should you need help during this voyage. Thank you.”

With a nod, the youthful pharaoh sat back down.

Well-spoken lad, Jack thought, exchanging a glance with Robby and Chamba.

Minutes later, the impromptu party broke up, with the participants returning to their regular tasks. Jack saw Robby yawn as he left the cabin, and guessed he might be heading for his tiny cabin to rest up before his next watch.

Swallowing the last drops of his rum, Jack straightened his neckcloth and put his coat back on. He hid his good rum in its hiding place next to the head.

After grabbing his spyglass, he opened the door to the cabin. Spotting the cabin boy, Sam Hopkins, Jack called him over, then left him to clean up after the festivities. Heading out onto the weather deck, he sauntered around, enjoying the sea breeze as it cooled his rum-flushed cheeks. He was, he realized, more than a bit tipsy. Not really drunk, he thought, somewhat defensively. Certainly not half seas over, or three sheets in the wind…nothing like that! Well, maybe one sheet, he thought, repressing the urge to giggle. At most, two.…

Clearing his throat, Jack made himself focus on the business at hand. Automatically, he checked the sailing conditions. Licking his finger, he held it up, scanning the waves. The seas were mostly calm, with the wind coming east-northeast at a steady eight knots. A glance at the sun told him it wasn’t much past noon. Any moment now, he’d hear the bells sound, and then he’d know whether it was one or two bells of the afternoon watch. While he’d been entertaining, some cloud cover had moved in; some of the sky was now pale blue, due to some thin clouds gathering in the west. The rest of the sky was deeper blue, spotted with fair-weather cumulus.

Taking out his spyglass, Jack scanned the northern horizon for the southwest point of Great Abaco Island. When he sighted it, it would be time for the Wench to change course so they could enter the Northwest Providence Channel. This deepwater channel would take them safely between Great Abaco Island to starboard and the Berry Islands on the port side, avoiding the dangerous shoals. Jack resolved to post an extra lookout up on the main crosstrees to keep watch for any approaching vessels or shoal water. He’d sailed the Northwest Providence Channel many times and had the shoals and deep water marked on his charts, frequently in his own hand, but it didn’t pay to be overconfident.

The Bahamas were notorious for shoal water. Many of the residents of these islands made their living as wreckers, salvaging ships that had run aground. Jack was glad to be approaching the channel in daylight; there were many tales of wreckers who had lured ships to their doom using lanterns rigged to look like beacons.

The Wicked Wench was making good time as she neared the channel. Jack went back to the railing, took out his spyglass and looked north. This time, he spotted the tip of Great Abaco. Time to change course. Accordingly, Jack headed over to Frank Connery, who still had the deck as officer of the watch. “Mr. Connery,” Jack said, “please prepare the ship to take the Northwest Providence Channel.”

Connery nodded. “Aye, Captain Sparrow.” Then he bellowed, “Hands to the braces! Trim the ship!” Striding over to the ladder leading up to the quarterdeck, he addressed the helmsman on duty, Lee Trafford. “Mr. Trafford! New course, northwest by north.”

“Aye, Mr. Connery!”

After watching the crew handle the lines from the deck, paying out on some lines, heaving taut on others, then belaying to finish, Jack went up to the quarterdeck to check their new course on the binnacle. Afterward he nodded approvingly at the helmsman. “Hole in the Wall is due north of us,” Jack said, referring to a distinctive “keyhole” landmark in the rocky cliffs running along the southern coast of Great Abaco Island. “Ever see it before, Mr. Trafford?”

“I did, once, sir,” Trafford said. “My captain on that voyage wasn’t happy that we could actually spot it naked eye, since it meant we were too close to shoal water.”

“Left it too long to change the heading, did he?” Jack shook his head and clucked his tongue reprovingly, watching Trafford hold his ship on their new course. “Did you run aground?”

“By the mercy of Our Lord, Cap’n, we didn’t. But we were sweating for a few minutes.”

Jack stayed up on the quarterdeck for a while, then wandered back down to the weather deck to check the trim of the sails. Connery had done his usual competent job. For a moment he considered fetching his cutlass and getting in some sword practice, but he could still feel the effects of the rum, so perhaps that wasn’t the best idea.

Jack wandered across the weather deck, heading forward, then went up the few steps of the ladder leading to the bow. He stood leaning against the starboard rail, looking across the water to Great Abaco Island, which lay about two leagues off. Idly, he took out his compass and flipped open the cover, then closed his eyes, thinking of Christophe and how much he needed to find him. When he opened his eyes, the needle pointed north. It won’t be long now, Christophe, Jack thought, as he stowed the compass back in its hiding place.

Two bells of the afternoon watch sounded. Even though he stood in the shade of one of the jibs, the sun’s heat was still strong enough to make him drowsy, what with not having had enough sleep, and the lingering effects of the rum. Jack blinked, then blinked again. His eyelids grew heavy. They’d been running up the channel now for about thirty minutes. He looked aft, at the doors to his cabin, thinking of how good it would feel to take off his coat and shoes and just lie down on his bunk for a little while. He yawned, then yawned again, so widely this time he could hear his jaw crack.

Come on, mate, he thought, what’s the good of being captain, if you can’t take a ruddy nap once in a while? Heading back down the short ladder to the weather deck, Jack found Connery again. “Frank, everything looks good,” he said. “I’m going to catch a few winks while I can. Have someone wake me at the change of the watch.”

“Aye, Captain Sparrow,” Connery said, nodding.

“Oh…and post an extra lookout on the main crosstrees, Mr. Connery.”

“Good idea, sir.”

Jack headed into his cabin, which was neat and tidy again, thanks to the ministrations of the cabin boy. Taking off his neckcloth, coat, and waistcoat, he kicked off his shoes, then flopped down on the bunk, and closed his eyes.…

Someone was knocking on the door of his cabin. “Captain Sparrow!” came the voice of Sam Hopkins.

Jack swung off the bunk, and opened the door. “Mr. Connery’s compliments, sir, and he said you ordered him to call you when the watch changed.”

“Very good, thank you,” Jack said. “I’ll be up directly.”

Still groggy with heat and sleep, he stumbled into the head and availed himself of the facility. Then he fetched a canteen filled with water. Bending over the hole, he sloshed the tepid liquid over the back of his neck, then splashed several handfuls onto his face, sputtering a bit. The water helped wake him up. He combed his hair, tied it back, then pulled his clothes and shoes back on. The couple of hours of sleep had refreshed him, and the effects of the rum were long gone.

Grabbing his tricorne and his spyglass, he headed out onto the weather deck. Almost immediately he spotted Robby, now officer of the watch, coming down the ladder from the quarterdeck. “How’re you doing?” Jack asked, knuckling something grainy from the corner of his right eye.

Robby smiled, taking in the gesture, as well as Jack’s freshly combed hair and still-damp face. “Better. I took a nap too,” he confessed, with a grin. “We’re getting too old for all this riotous living and late night high jinks, Jack.”

Jack grinned back. “Speak for yourself, lad. I’m always keen for a bit of a riot.”

Donning his tricorne, he straightened, his voice going more formal. “Report, Mr. Greene?”

“I just checked our heading, Captain, and we’re proceeding on course. We’ve maintained a steady six knots, and we’re currently between twelve and fourteen miles into the Northwest Providence Channel. My estimate, judging by the traverse log, says we’re about three leagues south of Sandy Point on Great Abaco.”

“Very good, Mr. Greene. Continue on present course,” Jack said.

He headed over to the starboard rail to peer through his spyglass, but all he could make out of Great Abaco was a smudge on the eastern horizon. Jack wondered where Ayisha was, and what she was doing. Probably talking with her brother, catching Shabako up on—

“Sail ho! Sloop three points off the lee bow!” rang the voice of the lookout from overhead.

Jack snapped to attention. A sloop? A sloop?

Striding fast up to the port bow, he scanned the area in question with his spyglass, but he couldn’t spot the vessel from the deck, not yet. It’s probably just an honest merchantman, he thought, trying to reassure himself. No point in getting the wind up yet.

Heading back down the ladder, Jack looked up at the main crosstrees, where the extra lookout, an experienced able seaman by the name of Dan O’Shaughnessy, was stationed. Should he go up himself to get a look? Or wait? Cupping his hands around his mouth, Jack yelled up to the Irishman, “How far off do you make her to be?”

“Seven, maybe eight miles, Cap’n!” the answer came back.

Jack frowned, calculating. By the time he climbed up to where the lookout was, it would only be a few more minutes before the sloop would be viewable by spyglass from the elevation of the quarterdeck. He decided to check their position instead, so he hastened across the deck, then took the ladder steps two at a time. Quickly he checked their compass heading, then the traverse board, and did a quick mental calculation. He nodded. Robby’s estimate as to their position had been right.

Robby joined him up on the quarterdeck, peering down into the binnacle, then turning to regard him. Jack tapped the traverse board, then nodded at the first mate, silently indicating his approval of Robby’s estimate.

Roger Prescott, the helmsman now on watch, eyed him. “Trouble, Cap’n?”

“Too soon to tell,” Jack said, absently, staring off to port. “It may be nothing. But…” He trailed off.

“This is the Caribbean, aye, sir,” Prescott finished for him. “The Spanish Main, they call it. Pirates on the prowl here.”

“Exactly,” Jack said. He and Robby exchanged a look. Then Robby headed back down the ladder to the weather deck.

Jack paced restlessly on the quarterdeck for the next fifteen minutes or so. Word of the sail being spotted must have been spreading because off-duty crewmen began gathering on the weather deck, gazing off to port.

Spotting the burly lee helmsman, William Banks, Jack called to him to come up the ladder to the quarterdeck. Spyglass in hand, Jack pointed to the high, solid railing at the rear of the quarterdeck. “I’m going to climb up to the edge of the taffrail for a better look,” he said. “A boost, if you please, Mr. Banks.”

“Aye, Cap’n!” Banks cupped his hands. Jack lifted his left foot, much as he would have to mount a horse, and stepped into the impromptu “stirrup.” He sprang upward, and Banks lifted. Moments later the captain was up another seven feet, bracing himself against the portside stern lantern, focusing his spyglass off to port.

The sloop was there, in the channel, and he could see her, now that she was closer, only five or six miles away. She was moving faster than the cargo-laden Wicked Wench, and if she held to her current course and speed, she would intersect the Wench in thirty or forty minutes.

Jack squinted, adjusting the focus of his spyglass to get the sharpest view. A Bermuda-rigged sloop…

He lowered his spyglass, gnawing at his lower lip. If only this wasn’t a bloody sloop, he thought, uneasily. Still, there were hundreds of sloops sailing around the Caribbean. Some undoubtedly were pirate ships, while others were merchantmen.

But there was only one rogue pirate who preferred sloops, and he flew a red flag, emblazoned with a horned demon’s skull.

Jack didn’t recognize this particular sloop, but that was no comfort. Vessels plying the waters of the Caribbean were at risk from shipworm, a type of worm that could literally eat holes in a ship’s hull. It had been five years since he’d seen Koldunya. Borya might well have replaced the sloop he’d had five years ago with a newer one.

Jack raised the spyglass again, but the ship was too far away to make out any details. He couldn’t see any spot of red that might be a flag.

“Bugger,” he muttered under his breath. “Bugger, bugger, bugger!”

Well, there was one way to find out whether the sloop was a pirate or a merchant ship. Jack went back to the edge of the high railing and sat down, legs dangling, then bent over to hand Banks his spyglass. When he slid down, Banks caught his arm, steadying him as he landed.

“Helm to port,” Jack ordered Prescott. “Heading due west. Let’s be very gentlemanly and pass astern of her. I want plenty of water between us, Roger.”

Prescott nodded. “Aye, Cap’n.” He turned the wheel, and the Wicked Wench’s bow swung to port.

Jack called down the course change to Robby and saw the crew beginning to make the necessary adjustments to the sails. Jack, Banks, and Prescott watched tensely for the next few minutes, waiting to see what the sloop would do.

Thinking he saw movement from the sloop, Jack trained his spyglass on her again. He was right. She was altering course. He watched her as she turned, until he could see her full starboard side. She was definitely “wearing,” changing course by turning her bow away from the wind. It was a useful way to turn a vessel without tacking. As the sloop continued to change course, her sails nearly disappeared—Jack knew he was seeing them edge on. Then the sails reappeared as the sloop completed its full turn. Once more, she was aimed to intersect the Wicked Wench.

“Bugger!” Jack whispered again, under his breath. The one word didn’t seem adequate to relieve his feelings, so he said a few others, in three or four different languages, but he kept his voice down. After seeing the way Bainbridge had yelled, cursed, and raved, Jack was determined to maintain proper decorum.

At this point, there could be no further doubt; the sloop was a pirate vessel, and the Wicked Wench was her intended prey. Jack thought for a minute, picturing their current location in his mind. He knew these waters.…

Jack beckoned to Robby to join him on the quarterdeck. “Mr. Greene, new course, due north. Keep her hard on the wind, not an inch to leeward.”

Robby’s expression was grim. “Aye, Cap’n!” He hesitated for a moment, glancing back at Banks, but the lee helmsman was on the other side of the quarterdeck. “Jack,” he said, softly, “do you think it’s him?”

“I think we’ll find out before long, Robby,” Jack said. “But for what it’s worth…” He trailed off and nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“God help us,” Robby whispered. Beneath his tan, he was pale. “He was the only man Captain de Rapièr ever feared.”

“He’s human,” Jack said. “It’s not like he’s some kind of bloody demon. And we’re aboard the Wench, Robby. She’s a good ship. She’s quick to the hand, and she has teeth.”

Jack glanced to port, then back at his first mate—his friend. “Robby, we can fight, and we will. We may lose, we may go down, but if we do, by Neptune’s beard, that Russian son of a bitch will know he’s been in a scrap.”

Robby nodded. Jack could see that he was trying to stay impassive, but he knew him too well to miss the fear in his eyes.

“Don’t forget, I know these waters, Robby. I’m wagering I know them better than Borya does. I’ve got an idea how to get him. You’re a praying man. Pray it works. Pray hard.”

“I will, Jack.”

Jack smiled and clapped Robby on the shoulder. “I believe I gave you an order, Mr. Greene?”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Robby said. He tried to smile, then turned away.

Jack heard him giving orders, and felt the Wench turn again, swinging back to starboard, heading due north. He headed down the ladder, then turned and went into his cabin. All his charts had been put away to make room for the little gathering earlier, but a quick search produced the right one. Jack lifted it, and with an expert snap of his wrist, sent it unrolling across his table. He bent over it, studying it. He’d ordered the course change based on memory; now it was time to check and double-check what lay to the north.

After looking again at the chart, Jack went back to the quarterdeck, moving fast, to examine the traverse board, where all the Wench’s positions, as determined by the chip log, were recorded, using pegs to mark their progress. Quickly he checked them, then, holding the figures in his mind, he ran back down the ladder, back to the chart. Muttering the numbers, he hastily grabbed a quill and some ink, then scratched them onto a scrap of parchment. Then he went back over the chart again.

Finally Jack sagged into his chair, and absently capped his bottle of ink. He was sure of their position now. The Wicked Wench was not quite twenty miles from an uncharted deepwater inlet, a trough in the coral reef about one mile wide and three miles long. The inlet dead-ended just east of the northernmost tip of a little island called Gorda Cay. If the Wicked Wench continued due north on her current course, all Jack had to do was turn just little bit to the northeast, and his ship would sail right into the inlet—and Borya would follow him.

Jack knew where the trough began. He also knew where it abruptly dead-ended. He was betting Borya didn’t.

He knew his plan was risky. If he didn’t time this maneuver just right, he and his crew would wind up trapped, sitting ducks. On the other hand, if he were successful, the pirate sloop would run aground, and the Wench would be free to come about and blast her to flinders with her twelve-pounders. A ship that couldn’t move couldn’t aim her cannons properly.

Jack took a deep breath and crossed his fingers. All I need is good timing and a bit of luck.

Time passed, seeming to crawl, as the two ships continued on their respective courses. As the afternoon lengthened, the pirate sloop gradually closed the distance between it and the Wicked Wench. Jack watched the gap between them narrow, checking the sloop through his spyglass as it drew closer and closer. When the sloop was barely two miles away, the pirate hoisted his colors.

It was almost anticlimactic for Jack to recognize the flag the sloop ran up as a rogue pirate’s distinctive red ensign. On some level he’d known the pirate ship pursuing him was Borya Palachnik ever since the lookout had shouted his alert.

Jack handed Robby the spyglass. When Robby lowered the glass, he was pale, but resolute. Jack kept his voice flat. “Mr. Greene, call all hands.”

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Robby shouted, “All hands on deck!” The ship’s bell rang stridently.

By this time many of the crew had already gathered, nervously watching as the sloop paced them, drawing ever closer. The remaining hands arrived quickly.

Jack turned and climbed a few steps up from the weather deck, waiting for his men to gather. As soon as he was sure they were all there, watching him silently, he spoke, raising his voice so all could hear. “Lads, you’re a good crew, none better. We’re shipmates, so I’m going to be honest with you. Lads, we’re in a tight spot. That sloop over there”—he pointed—“is a rogue pirate, flying the red flag. She’s after us, and we’re going to have to fight.”

Jack paused, hearing the mutter of anxious voices. He cleared his throat. Silence fell again. “I believe most of you have heard stories about how these rogue pirates treat the crews of vessels they capture. They slaughter them. No quarter, no mercy. Being captured is a death sentence. So, lads, we have no choice but to fight, and each of you must give his all. The Wench must not be captured. Savvy?”

Jack waited.

Robby, recognizing his cue, shouted, “No surrender! We fight!”

Slowly, a few voices at a time, the assembled crew picked up his words. “We fight! We fight! We fight!”

They chanted it, over and over, louder and louder, their voices rising and falling in unison, as their excitement grew. Soon the whole crew was pumping their fisted hands in the air, all of them shouting at the top of their lungs.

Jack nodded, then raised his own fist as they quieted, their faces turned up to hear him. “That’s my brave lads, my shipmates! Today we fight! We’ll fight like cornered bilge rats! We’ll fight, and we’ll win!”

His men cheered, and chanted again. “Fight! FIGHT! FIGHT! ”

“Victory!” yelled Jack. “VICTORY!”

The crew yelled with him, chanting for victory.

Jack looked over the assembled crew, and saw Ayisha, Tarek, and Shabako standing there, silent, beside Chamba, who was yelling and leaping up and down, as excited as his mates.

As the crew’s shouts died away, Jack nodded at their flushed faces. “I knew I could count on you! I’m proud to serve with you! Now, all hands, stand by for orders.”

He headed down the ladder, cleaving through the crowd of men, slapping backs, patting shoulders, flashing them a wide, confident smile. It had to be some of the best acting he’d ever done.

When Jack reached the three Zerzurans, he said, curtly, “If Chamba hasn’t explained, this is what’s happening. We’ve got a rogue pirate closing in on us, and he’s made his intention to attack us clear. The rogue pirates are the ones that give no quarter, savvy? That means they take no prisoners. If they capture us, we’re all dead.”

Ayisha gasped, and her brother put his arm around her. “The crew is going to be very busy,” Jack continued. “Too busy to deal with passengers. So I want you three to head below, all the way below to the cargo hold.”

Jack fixed Tarek with a stern glance. He’d been in the guards, surely he knew how to take orders. “Look over the cargo in the hold, and find someplace to hide there in the middle of the barrels. An empty spot, savvy? There’s a good chance we’ll take fire.” At their uncomprehending looks, he amended, “They will probably shoot cannonballs at us. Hide in one of the clear spaces. The ship may bounce around. Barrels may topple. Just find the best place, and stay there.”

He started to turn away, but Ayisha, her gray shawl held tightly around her, darted forward and grasped his arm. “Jack, isn’t there anything, any way that I can help? I want to help!”

Jack looked over at Tarek and a glance of understanding flashed between them. Shaking his head, he smiled faintly. “Sorry, love, I’m afraid not. Unless you can arrange to blow up their powder magazine, the best thing you can do is to follow orders, go below, and stay there. Now go on, please.”

Without waiting for any more arguments from her, Jack headed back to give his orders. Behind him, he could hear Ayisha protesting, then she let out an indignant squawk. Jack suspected that the giant eunuch had picked her up bodily, to carry her below.

Jack spent the next few minutes ordering Robby and Frank Connery to “anchor by the stern” on the Wicked Wench’s starboard side—the side away from Borya. Jack didn’t want the rogue captain to see what they were doing.

Anchoring by the stern was a messy, arduous task, requiring the cooperation and strength of all available hands, but it would bring Jack the results he wanted—if all went according to plan.

Working together, under the supervision of the two mates, the crew would haul the thick, heavy anchor cable all the way from the bow on the main deck back to the stern, then pass it out of the aft-most gun port on the starboard side. Then, using ropes to keep the cable from falling into the sea, the crew would come up on the weather deck and haul the cable along the outside of the hull, all the way forward to the ship’s bow, where they’d secure it to the “small bower” anchor—basically, the Wench’s spare anchor.

When Jack gave the order to drop anchor, the small bower would plummet down into the water, catch on the bottom, and bring the ship up short, stopping her dead, before she could run aground at the end of the trough. While the anchor was dropping and catching, the sail handlers would spill all wind from the sails to stall the ship’s forward momentum.

Borya’s sloop was slowly closing on their port side, so the Russian wouldn’t be able to see what they were doing over on the starboard side.

Jack stood on the quarterdeck with his most experienced helmsman, Lemuel Matthews, on the wheel, and Chamba, who was on duty as the ordinary seaman, turning the hourglass and updating the traverse board. They were the only three who were exempt from the duty of hauling the anchor cable. Jack and Chamba stood side by side, watching as Connery and Robby gave the crew their instructions. The men went below to begin the operation.

Suddenly a muffled boom off to port made them swing around, only to see a puff of smoke clouding one of Koldunya’s starboard gun ports. Borya’s sloop was now only about a mile away, and he’d opened fire. He didn’t have the range yet, and the shot fell harmlessly short. Jack watched the spout of water the ball splashed up.

For a moment Jack wished he had more men so he could shoot back, but he needed every available crewman to handle the heavy anchor cable. He shrugged. Let Borya waste ammunition. Jack planned to conserve his, because he knew the rogue was bound to have more powder and shot than he did.

Borya fired again, and again it fell short. The Russian continued to fire at intervals, trying to get the range, using his starboard cannons.

Jack ignored the shots. It was time to check his position again. Heading forward, he stood on the port side of the bow, spyglass ready. He had to stand far forward, because his crewman were back up on the weather deck as they completed hauling the cable forward to the bow so it could be secured to the small bower anchor.

His next landmark was Rocky Point on Great Abaco, a distinctive fishhook-shaped bit of land that lay only two miles east of their path north. He should be able to spot it easily—it was the easternmost land on Great Abaco.

It wasn’t long before Jack saw the point approaching. He waited until they were opposite the tip of Rocky Point to use it as his mark, then he went back to the quarterdeck, checked the traverse board and the binnacle, and went back down to his cabin to check their position on his chart one last time.

When he returned to the quarterdeck, he nodded at Chamba and Matthews. “We’re right on course, mates.”

Robby Greene appeared, tired and grimy, to report that the anchor was rigged in accordance with Jack’s orders. Jack directed him to oversee the sail handlers, and to have Second Mate Connery supervise the dropping of the anchor as soon as the captain gave the order. Between them, they agreed on a visual signal to back up shouted orders, in case Borya fired just as Jack issued the orders.

Jack’s landmark for actually entering the deepwater inlet was a sandbar that lay about two miles north of Rocky Point. At the Wicked Wench’s current speed, it would take them about fifteen more minutes to reach it. The sandbar was white, and it was low tide. It should be easily visible to the naked eye, off to starboard.

The three on the quarterdeck stood in silence as Borya continued to fire at them. The sloop was still closing, now less than a mile away, and, inevitably, a three pounder finally hit the Wicked Wench, smashing through the portside railing as though it wasn’t there, then going over the starboard side, just missing the mainmast. Jack, Chamba, and Matthews looked at one another, but there was nothing to say.

When Jack judged they were drawing near the inlet, he sent Chamba forward to the bow with orders to signal the quarterdeck as soon as the ship drew even with the sandbar. The sails blocked Jack’s and Matthews’s view forward; they could only see off to port or starboard.

When Chamba was gone, Jack went over to the wheel. “I’ll take her for a moment, Mr. Matthews. We’re going to need to turn to starboard, but gradually, and not much.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

As Jack slid his hands around the spokes of the big wheel, he wondered whether this would be the last time he’d steer his ship. The waiting was getting to him. He knew that once the action started, he’d steady down and focus; until then, his palms were slippery with sweat. But it wouldn’t do to wipe them in front of Matthews.

Another shot plunked into the water not ten feet from the Wicked Wench’s port side, amidships. Jack’s jaw tightened, but he remained focused, waiting for Chamba to appear.

Finally, he spotted the lad bounding across the weather deck, waving and pointing off to starboard. Jack waited a minute or two until he glimpsed the whiteness of the sandbank himself, then he turned the wheel very slightly, delicately.

Chamba came bounding up the ladder to the quarterdeck to resume his duties. Jack turned the wheel just a bit more. He couldn’t turn them much to the east, or they’d lose their forward momentum as the sails began to luff.

The Wicked Wench’s bow drifted right a little, then a little more.

After another minute or two, Jack stole a glance to starboard, and saw they were almost past the sandbar, and heading straight. They were in the trough. The water on either side of the ship remained deep blue, but when he squinted, he could see the color of the sea change, grow lighter in the distance. Because of the clouds, and the length of the sun’s rays in the west, it was difficult to make out the depth of the water, due to the reflection. It would probably take Borya a while before he realized that there were now shoals hemming him in on both sides of the trough.

Koldunya followed them into the trough. She was now about three-quarters of a mile away, behind them, still on their port side. The sloop’s next shot came from her bow chaser, aimed at the Wench’s stern. It missed, plunking into the water, but the next one hit them. Jack didn’t think it had struck below the waterline, but it was hard to tell.

Jack gave the wheel back to Matthews, and went forward, watching the water as it slid past the bow. He was sweating, but not due to the heat. He could see Gorda Cay without his spyglass, coming up to port. It wasn’t a very big island—not even half a mile long.

They hadn’t been in the deepwater trough long—perhaps five minutes. In fifteen more minutes, give or take, the Wench would reach the end of the trough, and run into the shoal. Before that happened, Jack had to trick Borya into running aground. He knew just where he had to do it, and they were not there yet, but the waiting was torture.

Jack peered back at Borya’s sloop. He knew the Russian captain must be itching to come up on his port side again so he could fire a broadside instead of just lobbing shots at them with the single bow chaser. Koldunya was barely half a mile away.

Ten more minutes crawled by, and finally—finally!—it was time for Jack to make his move. He raced up the ladder to the quarterdeck. Koldunya was right behind the Wench now, less than a thousand yards astern, still gaining steadily.

“Matthews, change course to northwest,” Jack ordered. As the helmsman turned the wheel, Jack waved at Robby to stand by, indicating that he was about to issue those orders. Robby waved back, acknowledging the signal, then, in his turn, signaled Connery, who was standing ready to release the anchor.

The Wicked Wench swung to port.

As Jack had anticipated, Borya immediately did the same. The Wench’s turn closed the distance between them, and Koldunya was now only three hundred yards away—within broadside range.

Jack held his breath. Surely by now the Russian captain had noticed there were shoals on either side! But the sloop plunged ahead, doing exactly what Jack wanted. Borya’s sloop had a much shallower draft than the Wicked Wench. The Little Butcher must have figured the Wench was following yet another deepwater channel.

Come on, run aground, run aground, run aground now, come on! Jack thought, balling his fists. Would Borya be able to hit the Wench with a broadside before his sloop hit the shoal? If he didn’t hit it soon, the Wench would run aground! They were barely two hundred yards from the end of the inlet!

The sloop’s bow suddenly thrust upward as she came to a crashing halt. Jack watched as her topmast snapped off and crashed to the deck.

Jack gasped with relief. It had worked! “YES!” he yelled. “YES!”

He heard his crew yelling in celebration. It was hard to tear his eyes away from the sight of the sloop, helplessly aground, but Jack turned, and waved to Robby. “Drop anchor!” he bellowed.

Robby signed to Connery, repeating the order, in case the second mate hadn’t heard the captain over the cheering crewmen. Immediately Jack cupped his hands around his mouth, grabbed a breath, and yelled, “Let fly all sheets! Scandalize her!”

The “sheets” were the ropes that kept the sails taut, and “to scandalize” meant to spill all wind from the sails. Jack waited tensely as the crewmen worked feverishly to halt the ship.

Without warning, the Wicked Wench’s bow lifted, then she halted so abruptly Jack was flung into the air. The top of his head whacked the railing of the quarterdeck, and he nearly catapulted right down the ladder—but some instinct made him grab the railing just in time to save himself. Stars and pinwheels spiraled past his vision; he struggled against blacking out.

Moments later, Jack slowly sat up, then he climbed to his feet, shaking his head, still stunned from the fall. The sails hung loose, as ordered. He knew the anchor had been let go.

But the anchor wasn’t what had stopped them. Not that fast, not that hard.

Jack realized the Wicked Wench had run aground, too. Looking over to port, Jack could see Koldunya, three hundred yards distant, her starboard side facing them.

The ships were within cannon range of each other. It wasn’t particularly close range, but shots would be able to reach.

Jack stumbled down the ladder, his steps dragging. He was having trouble focusing…his vision seemed blurred.

Now what? he wondered. He tried to think, to plan, but his head was still spinning from the fall. He felt sick as he realized that he’d failed.

Outsmarted yourself, Jacky Boy, didn’t you?

Not even realizing that he was speaking aloud, Jack told Teague what he could do with himself.

“Jack?” a voice reached him. He turned to find Robby beside him, staring at him intently. “Jack, are you all right?”

“Yes,” Jack said. He rubbed the top of his head, feeling a lump rising. “Nearly took a purler down the ladder. But I’m all right.”

“You’re staggering,” Robby said, worriedly.

“I’ll be fine,” Jack said. His vision seemed to be clearing, and so was his thinking. “Robby, we need to order the port gun crew to open fire. All we can do now is hope to hit him before he pulls himself together enough to fire at us.”

“Right, Jack,” Robby said. Turning he darted off in the direction of the main deck.

Jack stood there, still unsteady on his feet. Heading over to the mainmast, he braced one hand against it. The westering sun touched his face, making him squint. I’ve lost me bloody hat, he thought, grumpily.

Then he spoke aloud, because the sound of his own voice seemed to anchor him to reality. “First thing, shoot Borya with cannon broadsides,” he said. “Check. Second thing, ah, yes…assess how much damage we’ve sustained. Right.”

Moving a bit more steadily, Jack headed across the weather deck to find Frank Connery. Suddenly the Wicked Wench lurched again, beneath his feet, and he heard the thunder of her cannons. Even from up here on the weather deck, the sound hit his ears with nearly physical force. Smoke stung his eyes, and he smelled burned powder.

The battle had begun.

When the ship lurched, Ayisha, Tarek, and Shabako all tumbled forward. But since they’d been sitting on the deck in the first place, they didn’t have far to fall. The three Zerzurans picked themselves up and stood there, listening. The ship was still. Even the normal rocking motion had ceased.

“This isn’t right,” Ayisha said, nervously. “Something has happened. Something bad. I think I should go up and see what’s going on.”

“Captain Sparrow told us to stay right here,” Shabako said. “As he pointed out, the crew needs to give all their attention to the ship. They can’t take time to answer questions, or deal with us. We’ll just have to wait.”

“The Hemef is right,” Tarek said. “We need to stay here.”

The princess glared at her bodyguard. Her memory of how he’d carried her down here to the hold was still vivid, and embarrassing. She stroked her bracelet. “You know, I might be able to help,” she pointed out. “Perhaps I could cast an illusion that would help the crew against the enemy vessel.”

Tarek shook his head obdurately. “Captain Sparrow said…”

Ayisha took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. She wasn’t sure what was impelling her to leave the hold, but it was strong. Her fingers crept to the scrap of fabric that was her wristlet, gently rubbing the raised bumps of the embroidery. All her instincts were telling her to leave the hold, to go up to the main deck and see what was happening. Was she just curious, or spoiled, accustomed to getting her way? Not after more than six months of slavery.

She wet her lips, eyeing Tarek, knowing he could—and would—physically stop her, unless she could convince him. “Tarek, I have to go up there. There is something I have to do. I feel…” She turned to her brother. “Shabako, I must go. Please. Order Tarek to let me leave here.”

Her brother gazed at her, then his eyes fastened on her wristlet, which she was still rubbing. “Amenirdis, be honest with me. Do you feel that you are receiving some kind of…sacred command…to go?”

Ayisha bit her lip. She couldn’t lie to her brother. “I cannot be certain. But I think that my own wishes could not push me so strongly. I do feel some kind of…guidance…at work. This I swear to you, I, who have served as Apedemak’s handmaiden in his temple.”

Shabako nodded, then faced Tarek. “Tarek, I give my sister permission to go, and I ask you to go with her to guard her. This is my royal will.”

Tarek bowed his head. “As you say, so shall it be, Hemef,” he replied, using the term in their language for pharaoh. “But first, give me your word that you will remain here, in as much safety as possible, given our circumstances.”

Shabako nodded. “You have Our royal word,” he said, formally.

Ayisha stepped forward and hugged her brother. “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” she whispered.

Impatience quickened her steps as she headed for the ladder leading up from the cargo hold. Ayisha could feel something driving her onward. Was it simply curiosity? Or boredom and frustration from being shut up like a mouse in a barley bin? Or might it be her concern for Jack Sparrow, who had come to mean more to her than she could easily admit, even to herself ?

She didn’t know. Ayisha simply knew that what she was feeling was real. She had to leave the hold, find out what was happening, and see if there was some way she could help.

Just as she lifted her foot to place it on the next step of the ladder leading up to the main deck, the whole ship lurched, then shuddered again. Ayisha fell backward, off the ladder, and if Tarek hadn’t been there to catch her, she would have fallen all the way back down.

Luckily, she knew almost immediately what the sound was, though it was much louder than she’d ever heard before. The Wicked Wench was firing her cannons. Grabbing the railing beside the ladder, Ayisha clung to it as she made her way back up the steps. Lifting the hatch, she peered out, seeing feet running back and forth. Another broadside rocked the ship, but this time she was hanging on.

She climbed up until she stood on the main deck. All the gunners and gun crews were gathered on the port side of the ship, working feverishly to swab out the barrels of the cannons so they could reload. The stench of burned powder stung her nose, and the smoke drifting back through the gun ports burned her eyes. Tarek climbed up and stood beside her, carefully lowering the hatch so it didn’t bang down.

Ayisha stepped cautiously over until she could see through a gun port, trying to see what they were aiming at.

A ship lay across the water some distance from the Wicked Wench, almost directly parallel to her. As Ayisha watched, smoke bloomed from its gun ports. Tarek caught her, steadying her, as the Wench shuddered from the impact of several shots.

Moments passed, then the enemy gunners fired again, almost at the same exact moment as the guns on the Wicked Wench belched smoke and deadly shot. Again the ship shook. Its timbers creaked in protest.

If anyone had noticed her and Tarek, they were too busy to do anything about it. Ayisha held her finger to her lips, then pointed to their canvas-walled “cabin” on the other side of the vessel. The carpenters had added a new, separate section of canvas to serve as Shabako’s quarters. Quickly she ran across the deck, opened the door flap, and bolted inside, Tarek on her heels. Once they were there, she dared to speak softly. “The ships are not moving. I believe both have run aground. What will happen now?”

Tarek shook his head. “They will either shoot at each other until all their cannonballs are used up, or one of them will break free and sail over to loose their cannons at the other from such close range that the trapped ship will be utterly destroyed.”

Ayisha nodded. “Yes. And since the enemy ship is smaller and lighter, it seems likely that it will be the one to float free first. When we went below, it was low tide, or so Chamba told me. The tide must have turned by now.” She looked out their starboard gun port, which faced northeast. “I cannot see Ra, but his light seems low. I believe he will set within the hour.”

Their whispered conversation was interrupted every few seconds by the booming of the cannons. The sound was so loud that Ayisha wanted to clap her hands over her ears and scream, just to shut it out. She ordered herself to ignore the noise, difficult though that might be.

Tarek was watching her, his eyes intent on her face. “So?” he said. “There is nothing we can do about this, Your Highness.”

Ayisha took a deep breath. “Do you remember what Captain Sparrow said to me just before you carried me below?”

“I confess I was not paying much attention, Highness.”

“He said, ‘Unless you can blow up his powder magazine for me, you cannot help.’”

“I remember now.” Tarek looked at her skeptically. “You aren’t thinking that you.…”

“I am,” she said, fiercely. “I believe I can. And I will. That is why I was summoned to come up here, so I could see all of this, and know what I could do.”

Tarek’s eyes widened. “To work a transfer spell, so far from Zerzura? Highness, you cannot! Not even a High Priest could do that.”

“I can,” she said. “Or die trying. Now either help me, or get out of my way.”

Tarek shrugged, helplessly. “The Hemef ordered me to guard you, Highness. I must do my duty.”

“I release you from that duty. Go below. Guard my brother.”

“No.” Tarek looked her steadily in the eyes. “When you were twelve years old, Highness, I gave up my manhood when your father asked me to do so, so that I might guard his only daughter, the flower of his soul, the delight of his heart. I will not turn away from my duty now.”

Ayisha gazed at him, reminding herself that she had no time for emotion. She swallowed, then nodded. “Very well. I would welcome your help…and your company.”

Spreading out her shawl on her bunk, she began tossing things into it, bustling about their little enclosure. Tarek watched silently as she scrabbled through their meager possessions. A stub of a candle in its holder. A skein of coarse woolen thread. Her hand-loom. All of them landed in the middle of the old gray shawl.

Finally, he said, “Highness, you will need stillness and quiet to work transfer magic. The ship is bouncing and shuddering every minute or two, either from our guns, or the enemy’s. How will you be able to concentrate enough to weave a transfer spell?”

“When the enemy ship breaks free of the land’s hold, its crew will need to handle the sails and repair the damage from the battle. While they are doing that, I believe they will be too busy to shoot for a few minutes. That is when I will weave my spell.”

Ayisha slung the improvised bag over her shoulder. “I will need to be in the open air, within sight of the enemy, in order to envision the transfer point for my spell. I believe I know the perfect spot. But until the guns fall silent, we will wait nearby, in a safe place, where no one is likely to come.”

“Where is that, Your Highness?”

“Jack’s cabin,” she said, with a faint smile. “He will be all over this ship. His own cabin will be the last place he would go.”

Tarek nodded. “Then I will go with you.”

He followed where his princess led.

Ayisha had indeed guessed truly when she’d said that Jack was “all over the ship.” His legs were beginning to ache, he’d been up and down ladders so many times.

Damage control was going on, even as the Wicked Wench continued to pound Koldunya, only to be pounded in turn by the sloop’s broadsides. Jack had little time to spare for thinking about the battle in the abstract, but if he had, he’d have agreed that it was one of the strangest he’d ever heard of. Two ships, trapped and motionless, lobbing broadside after broadside at each other was madness. By the time they floated free, both were likely to sink. There could be no “winner” from such an encounter.

As Jack hastened back and forth, up and down, checking on how Tench, the carpenter, was doing as he and Newton worked feverishly to patch holes and repair damage to the ship’s essential structure, he was aware of several things:

First, the tide was coming in. At some point, the Wicked Wench might float free from the shoal on her own. But since she was a larger, heavier vessel with a deeper draft, it was far more likely that Koldunya would be the first vessel to break free. And when she did, Jack’s ship and crew would be what he’d most feared—sitting ducks.

Secondly, it wouldn’t be long before the Wench’s gunners ran out of ammunition. Merchant ships didn’t have space or weight allowance for many cannonballs—his ship only carried sufficient cannonballs for each gun to fire twenty-five shots. Jack knew that if he hadn’t requested that extra powder from Cutler Beckett, he’d have run out by now.

And thirdly, if by some miracle he managed to get the Wicked Wench free of the shoal, and escape or defeat Koldunya, he still wouldn’t have smooth sailing. His men had been through a lot already today. They were tired, and soon they’d be exhausted. Frank Connery had reported that the ship was taking on water, so Jack had assigned men to start working the bilge pumps in shifts. That was grueling labor, and he’d have to have fresh men to relieve them, and soon, but there were none to assign.

The two carpenters were patching holes as quickly as they could using cone-shaped wooden plugs made to fit the holes left by the various sizes of cannonballs, but they didn’t have an indefinite supply of those, either.

Soon the sun would set. Not that that was likely to affect Koldunya’s barrage of fire. Jack figured the Wench’s ammunition and powder would last until sunset. Borya’s supply, he was sure, would last a lot longer than that.

Jack trotted up the ladder from the main deck, to be met by Chamba. He’d had the lad running errands for him, serving as a messenger between him and his mates. “Cap’n,” Chamba said, “I be just comin’ to find you. I be checking all the ship’s boats, like you said.” He grimaced.

“Bad news?” Jack braced himself.

“Cap’n, we got one little boat, the dinghy, it look like it can be fixed pretty easy. And we got one longboat, no damage. All the others…” he shook his head. “Smashed, Cap’n. Some of ’em hardly more than splinters.”

“Great,” Jack said. He hadn’t expected anything else, but it was still a bitter blow. They couldn’t even abandon ship. However, with one longboat still intact, they might be able to kedge the Wench off the shoal, using the anchor, dragging it along using the boat, then seating it securely behind them in the deepwater channel, and then having men turn the capstan to winch the ship aft until she came free.

The Wicked Wench shuddered yet again from more hits. How much damage had Borya’s ship sustained? The twelve-pounders were heavy cannon. Any hits the Wench’s gunners made were bound to cause serious damage if they struck in the right place.

Jack beckoned to Chamba to come with him, then turned and headed back down the ladder, to inspect their remaining supply of powder and shot. He should have done that before coming back up to the weather deck after checking on the crew working the pumps, but it was hard to keep everything in his mind when everything was crucial, everything was vital.

He started purposefully across the main deck toward the gunnery master, Jedidiah Parker, just as a ball smashed through the hull right between his third and fourth twelve-pounders.

Men screamed and dove for cover. Wood splintered, sharp fragments flying everywhere.

The concussion spun Jack around, and he felt something hit his left arm near his shoulder. It knocked him sprawling. The sound was deafening.

He lay there on his back, blinking, unable to move for a moment. Chamba’s dark face swam into view, his eyes wide and frantic. “Cap’n Sparrow! Cap’n Sparrow! Can you hear me?”

Jack shook his head, then tried to sit up. Chamba helped him. When Jack was up, the lad raised his hand. It was red. “Cap’n,” he said. “You bleeding, sir.”

Jack looked down at his left shoulder, and saw a three-inch splinter of wood protruding from a hole in his coat. And Ayisha just mended that coat, he thought, dazedly.

He tried to move his arm, and it moved. Jack reached up and grabbed his neckcloth with his right hand, then pulled it free. “Pull it out,” he told Chamba, handing him the strip of fabric. “And then tie this around me arm, tightly.”

“But, Cap’n—”

“That’s an order.”

Chamba reluctantly raised his hand to grasp the splinter. Jack set his teeth and looked away. Men were gathered around something—no, someone—lying sprawled on the deck, a few feet from him. He watched Parker bend over the unmoving figure. Jack felt his stomach lurch as he realized exactly what he was seeing.

He’d seen corpses before, even ones with terrible wounds. But he’d never seen one quite this bad. The body belonged to one of his own crewmen, but he couldn’t tell who it was, because…because…the head was missing.

Jack had nearly forgotten about his arm; the shock of seeing one of his crewmen like that was overwhelming. When Chamba yanked the huge splinter out, he gasped and winced, but his own injury now seemed so trivial by comparison, he didn’t even want to acknowledge it.

Jack felt Chamba wrapping the neckcloth around his arm, then starting to tie it. “Tighter!” Jack snapped. The boy tugged, and Jack hissed in pain. There were still fragments of wood in the wound, judging by how it felt. But at least the bandage should slow the bleeding.

“Now help me up,” Jack said. Chamba came over to his other side. The youth was strong after so many months working as a sailor. He heaved Jack to his feet, then steadied him as the Wicked Wench fired yet again, though the number three gun remained silent.

Summoning his strength and balance, Jack managed to walk over to the gunnery master fairly steadily. Parker’s face was smudged nearly as dark as Chamba’s from smoke and powder residue. He gazed at Jack through reddened eyes. “How are our powder and shot holding out, Mr. Parker?”

“Not good, Captain. Three, maybe four more broadsides down here, then a few more rounds of six-pound shot for the guns on the weather deck.…” He shrugged.

Jack frowned, listening. Something was…strange. Different. After a moment, he realized what he was hearing was the lack of sound. Koldunya had ceased fire.

“Captain!” one of the gunners shouted. “Look!”

Jack and Chamba moved closer, bending to see out the gun port. A longboat was moving away from Koldunya’s stern, dragging an anchor cable.

“He’s kedging off,” Jack said. “No wonder he ceased fire. He’ll need hands to the braces, and the windlass. Give him fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, and he’ll be free to nose her to starboard and come up behind our stern, and blow us all to oblivion. Can you hit that longboat, gunner?”

“No, sir,” the lad said, his voice catching. “By the time we spotted it, what with what just happened to Wilson, you know…well, sir, they was already out of range.” He spoke anxiously, as though he thought Jack might scold him for his mistake.

Wilson, Jack thought. Oh, yes. Nice lad, redheaded. Maybe twenty. Micah Wilson, that was his name.

Even as he’d been thinking that, with another part of his mind Jack had been arriving at a decision. “We’ll need to shift one of the six-pounders into my cabin,” Jack said to the gunnery master. “Bash out the stern windows, and open fire. Chamba, find Tench and bring him to me on the weather deck, with his tools.”

Chamba took to his heels.

“Mr. Parker, you and your men start unbolting the starboard six-pounder so you can move it into my cabin as soon as the carpenter rigs a gun tackle to secure it. Make sure we save all the six-pound rounds left, so we can at least shoot back as he comes around.”

“Aye, sir!”

Jack turned and headed back up to the weather deck. He used his right hand to help pull himself up the ladder. He’d have to try to get a bit of line, get Chamba to rig a sling for his left arm, he realized. Every time he moved it, it felt like a hot knife thrust into the flesh.

When he reached the weather deck, Jack turned toward his cabin, then stopped when he saw a body sprawled near the mainmast and another man bending over his injured crewmate. Repressing a groan, Jack ran over, dreading what he would find.

The man on the deck proved to be Etienne de Ver, and the man bending over him was none other than his erstwhile sparring partner, Lucius Featherstone. “What happened?” Jack demanded.

Featherstone looked up. He was chalky beneath his weathered skin. He pointed to the lee clew block, a carved chunk of wood used to hold lines in the rigging, lying in a tangle of tarred rope a few feet away. The block was bigger than a man’s head, and weighed nearly ten pounds. “It came down, Cap’n,” he said, in a choked voice. “A wild shot hit the rigging, and it came down. Would have bashed in me head, but…but de Ver, he jumped—hit me, knocked me clear.…”

“Is he dead?” Jack asked, kneeling next to the Frenchman. He didn’t look dead. Jack put his fingers against de Ver’s throat, and felt a steady throb.

“I think so. Oh, Lord. He…he just…he must be…”

Featherstone was babbling. With mingled amazement and amusement, Jack realized that the man was nearly in tears. “He’s got a pulse,” Jack announced, briskly. “And he’s breathing.”

“He…Etienne ain’t dead, sir?” Featherstone looked up, incredulously.

“No.” Jack looked at the man’s foot, which was twisted oddly. “I think he’s got a broken ankle, though. It will need to be set.”

Just then Chamba arrived, breathless. “Cap’n, Mister Tench, he be on his way. He be old, can’t move as fast as me.”

Jack nodded. “Chamba, you help Featherstone carry de Ver down to the orlop deck. That’s where they’re taking the wounded.”

Jack stood up as they carried the limp form of the Frenchman away. He looked up, seeing Koldunya beginning to move aft as her crew cranked the windlass. In moments, she’d be free. With only one sail left, she wouldn’t be able to move fast, but she didn’t have to go far to get into firing position.

Jack’s heart leaped in his chest, then began slamming hard. He glanced over at his cabin, then scanned the entire weather deck. Where was Tench? And why was the light failing?

Jack turned to look west. The sun was a scarlet streak against the crimson and coral horizon.

Where the bloody hell is my carpenter? In about ten minutes, we’re all dead!

Ayisha and Tarek huddled together at the highest point of the ship, near the taffrail. Tarek had boosted her up first, then used the L-shaped “knees” bolted onto the high railing at the back of the quarterdeck to climb high enough to pull himself up.

It had been agony, waiting with Tarek in Jack’s empty cabin, but Ayisha knew she had to be patient, and seize her best opportunity. She could not afford to waste her power on failed attempts. So she had waited, trying to rest, so she would save her strength. Weaving a spell required that she be able to focus her mind, harness her power, then unleash it to work her will. Affecting physical objects was far more difficult than creating an illusion.

Swiftly, she prepared for the spell, taking out the candle stub in its holder and putting it before her, then threading her handloom. When she wove spells, she actually wove, as a way of visualizing the power she was gathering, then unleashing it at the object of her spell.

When she was prepared, Ayisha moved so she was sitting facing the sloop. To see it, all she needed to do was look up, and across the water.

She did so, staring intently at the sloop. “Tarek…look! It is moving!”

The eunuch turned. “It is. As you guessed, they have broken free. Perhaps he will flee now?”

Ayisha shook her head. “He will not flee. This man, this rogue, as Jack calls him, has malice in his heart. Jack told me how he had encountered this rogue, and another one, named Christophe, five years ago. This one’s name is Borya.”

“Ah, you know his name,” Tarek said. “Good. Names have power.”

“It will help,” she said. “But I must hurry. It will not be long before he is behind this ship, and then he will fire.”

“And we will be the first ones in the path of his guns,” Tarek said.

“All the more reason to remove the threat now,” Ayisha said.

Staring intently at the enemy ship, she began to chant, softly, the two names she knew. “Borya…Koldunya. Borya…Koldunya. Borya…Koldunya.”

Her fingers began to work the threads strung on the handloom. Ayisha continued to chant. In her mind, she pictured an object located within the sloop. She had seen the ones aboard the Wicked Wench. She knew what they looked like. Wooden casks. There had been no metal about them that might strike sparks. And inside them, the black powder, the deadly black powder that propelled the cannonballs, or the musket balls, or the pistol balls. She had seen it, seen it do its deadly work, and seen the result, in crumpled bodies, emptied of life. She knew what the black powder looked like, what it felt like on the fingers, what it smelled like. Jack had shown her.

“Borya…Koldunya. Borya…Koldunya. Borya…Koldunya.”

The power was building, the spell growing within her mind. As she wove it, tightly, compactly, her fingers wove the actual thread, here and now. Ayisha felt the pressure of the target spell forming, weaving in her mind, pushing against her skull, pulsing above her eyes, throbbing, building, and weaving.…

“Borya…Koldunya. Borya…Koldunya. Borya…Koldunya.”

Never had she tried to harness this much power, to take so much from herself, from her body’s energy, its life-force, as she was doing now. But she was doing it. The black powder within Borya’s cask…she could feel it now, grainy against her frantically weaving fingers.

“Borya…Koldunya. Borya…Koldunya. Borya… Koldunya.”

Her head was pounding with the force of the spell-weaving, pounding like the surf of her island home, pounding like the running of swift feet, pounding like the slam of a hammer against a wooden peg, pounding like the Heart of Zerzura, pounding…

She had the spell almost woven. Most of the threads were in place, in her mind, the threads of power, power so intense it could travel from an object here to the grains of powder in a cask there.…

“Borya…Koldunya. Borya…Koldunya. Borya…Koldunya.”

There was but one more thread to add to the weaving, and it was not the brown of the wooden cask, or the dull black of the powder. No. This thread was bright and hot, yellow and flickering, surrounding an orange-red heart. This thread was fire. Ayisha wove it into her spell, looked at her weaving, and saw that it was good; it was perfect. It was also beautiful, as perfection must be always be beautiful. Terrible, perhaps, but also beautiful.

Shifting her gaze from the sloop that had now glided so far that its guns were aimed directly at the Wicked Wench’s stern, barely a hundred feet away, Ayisha brought her searing gaze down, down, focusing it on the candle.

The wick sparked, sparked, sputtered for a moment, then bright yellow flame leaped into being, hot and bright and perfect.

The candle burned. Ayisha poured her spell into that flame, letting the woven threads stretch from the candle to the wooden cask, and the dull black powder within it. She was a vessel for her spell, nothing more.

The candle burned, and the flame lighting its wick stretched and streaked along the yellow-orange flame-thread in her spell…and then it was touching the dull black thread.

She felt, rather than saw the black powder spark, then flame.

Power. It poured out of her, leaving her nothing, an empty vessel, drained of energy, drained of everything.

Ayisha heard the boom of the explosion, but the sound was far away, dim and distant. She tasted blood, then felt herself falling, as blackness much darker than powder swept up, seized her, and dragged her down.…

Tench, the carpenter, had just finished securing the last of the new breeching tackle to the deck in Jack’s cabin when Jack heard the voice of Parker calling. “Captain, we’re ready to shift this six-pounder!”

Jack flung open the doors to his cabin. Despite the extremity of their situation, he didn’t think he could stand to watch them bash out his lovely stern windows. He slipped outside as Parker and his men moved the gun, on its wheeled carriage, into his cabin.

Heading over to the port side, he saw Koldunya gliding slowly behind his ship. Two more minutes, three at the most, and she’d be in perfect position for a broadside, at close range. He balled his hands into fists, wishing that there were something he could do. If only he were Zeus, and could hurl a thunderbolt down from heaven, or Poseidon, able to suck a ship down into a maelstrom. If only.…

In the dimming light, a spark of orange-yellow flashed within the square outlines of the sloop’s gun ports. Jack eyes had barely time to register it, when, with a flash and a boom that knocked him off his feet for the third time that day, Koldunya blew up.

This time, Jack had to crawl over to the portside rail, on his knees and one hand, then claw his way up it to get to his feet. He hardly noticed the pain, though. Clinging to the rail, he stared at the orange-tinged smoke billowing up against the eastern sky, his mouth agape. It was real. He hadn’t imagined it. The sloop, and Borya with it, was gone, vanished.

Jack was still standing there, staring, when Robby found him. “Dear heaven,” Robby whispered, then, “Thank you, Lord.”

Jack swallowed, then found his voice, rough with smoke and strained from all the shouting he’d done today. “You really must have prayed hard, Robby.”

“I did, Jack.”

Jack laughed a little, then snorted. “Nothing divine about it, you know. One of our shots must have started a fire aboard. Somehow, nobody realized it, and it spread to the powder magazine. That’s got to be it.”

“Jack,” Robby said, in tones of excessive patience, “how many times have you had our powder magazine checked today, to make sure none of those hits came anywhere near it?”

“Nine,” Jack said, without hesitation.

“Borya was a Pirate Lord. An experienced captain. You’ll have a hard time convincing me that he didn’t check his magazine.”

“Still,” Jack insisted, “that has to be it. What else could it be?”

Robby was saved from having to give a reply by the appearance of Frank Connery.

The three officers spoke for a few minutes, deciding their strategy, then they hastened off to their duties. Jack verified that Tench and Newton were back at their repair duties. On his way back to the quarterdeck, he dared to peek inside his cabin, and was relieved to see that his beautiful windows were still intact. He made a mental note to have Parker and his lads haul the cannon out of there, as soon as they could spare the time and the energy.

While he was in his cabin, Jack lit the lantern that hung there, then took a candle with him as he trudged up to the quarterdeck to light the binnacle light and the lantern that hung by the traverse log. The tide was waxing, and he knew that, soon, Frank and Robby would succeed in kedging the Wench off the shoal. Soon they’d need a helmsman to steer the vessel.

As he finished lighting the lantern and hung it in its proper place, Jack heard a voice above his head. “Captain…”

He was so startled he actually jumped and gasped. “Who’s there?”

“I am up here, Captain,” said the voice, in accented, hesitant English. “Tarek.”

Jack stepped back, looking up, and in a moment he could see the eunuch’s head, silhouetted against the stars. “Tarek! What the devil are you doing up there?”

“Ayisha brought me with her, Captain. I need help. I cannot wake her.”

“Just a moment. My arm is hurt. Let me get some hands,” Jack said, then, turning, he shouted for help. In moments he heard running feet, then Chamba appeared, with burly William Banks and one of the gunnery crew.

Tarek lowered Ayisha, and Banks and Chamba caught her, easing her down into Banks’ arms. Jack saw that her gray shawl was tied firmly around her waist. The lee helmsman stood there as Tarek handed down a couple of items to Chamba, then slid down himself. The bodyguard held out his arms. “I will take her now,” he said to Banks.

In the lantern light, Jack looked at the princess as Tarek cradled her against his broad chest. The illusion held even when she slept, he saw. Blood smeared her disfigured upper lip, and she was as limp as a child’s cloth doll.

“What happened?” Jack demanded.

“Let me get her into her bunk, then I will tell you,” the bodyguard replied, in his slow, halting English.

Jack dismissed Banks and the gunner, then he, Tarek, and Chamba went down to the main deck. As the eunuch stooped to enter the canvas “room,” Tarek reminded Jack about Shabako. Chagrined, the captain immediately dispatched Chamba to the cargo hold to retrieve the young pharaoh, and asked his messenger to convey his most sincere regrets to the Zerzuran ruler for forgetting him.

When they were alone, and the princess was deposited on her makeshift bunk, Jack watched as Tarek gently wiped the blood off Ayisha’s face. “Tell me,” he said, quietly.

“She did what you told her to do, Captain,” Tarek said, not looking up. Jack thought he saw the big man’s eyes glisten in the light of the lantern. “She wanted to help. And she did.”

Jack stared at the bodyguard, completely bewildered. “What? What did I—” He stopped, abruptly. “You’re saying that she blew up the sloop’s powder magazine? Using magic?”

“Yes, Captain.”

Jack sat there in silence, for a long moment. “Do you think she’ll recover?” he asked, finally. “I want to thank her. Most humbly.”

Tarek shrugged. “Her heart beats. She breathes. That is all I know.” Then, after a look at Jack’s expression, he added, “She used a very powerful spell. It saps the strength. Some who use such strong magic do not recover. But most do.”

Jack nodded, then stood up. Tarek also stood up to follow him. “You’re going to leave her alone?” the captain said.

“She appears to be asleep,” Tarek said. “I know you need help, Captain, to recover from the battle. I wish to help. It is what she would wish me to do.” Hearing footsteps outside, he nodded. “I believe the Hemef will wish to help, too, or he is not the man I believe him to be.”

Jack headed back up to the weather deck, wondering how many wounded sailors in the history of the world—until tonight—would have been able to truthfully claim that they had been cared for by the eunuch bodyguard of a royal princess and the pharaoh of a lost kingdom. Not many, he decided.

By the time he returned to the quarterdeck, he found Lee Trafford on duty as helmsman. And, as if by magic, when Trafford stepped before the big steering wheel, the Wicked Wench shuddered, shuddered again, and then…they were afloat.

Jack ordered Trafford to sail them back down the little inlet, back to the Northwest Providence Channel. He called for sail handlers and men began to appear. Jack ordered them to put up the very minimum amount of sail on her foremast and mizzen. Her mainmast appeared to be mostly intact, but it was hard to be certain, because of the damaged rigging and sail masking most of its length.

By the time the Wench began moving, Robby was there, his expression grave. “Jack, I’ve got bad news.”

Jack braced himself, reminding himself that they were still alive and afloat, and that was what counted. “Go on,” he said, steadily.

“The carpenters have patched every hole except two. One of them is in the lower counter.”

Jack winced. The counter was the part of the ship that dropped down from the aft-most part of the stern. The lower counter lay below the waterline, many feet straight down from the taffrail. “Devilish hard to reach,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Robby said.

“And the other?”

“We’ve got a temporary plug in that one, but it’s still letting in water. We were unlucky enough to have two six-pound balls hit us side-by-side,” Robby said, holding up his two fists, touching, to illustrate. “We’ll need a man in a sling with a plug on the outside of the hull, and a man with a plug on the inside of the hull, and they’ll need to drive their plugs in at the same time to get anything like a tight seal.”

“Damn,” Jack said. “Tell them just to keep plugging it. We’ll have to wait for daylight to try to get to the hole in the lower counter. We just don’t have enough men to handle everything!”

Robby nodded. “I know.”

“I’ve been around the decks. Our lads are dropping where they stand. The main deck looks like the last act of a tragedy, bodies everywhere.”

“At least they’re sleeping bodies,” Robby pointed out.

“Yes,” Jack said. “At the moment, the count stands at three dead, seven wounded. But…” he added, “by morning it’s likely to be four.”

Robby nodded. One of the topmen had a broken leg that was so bad, pieces of bone protruded through the skin. The Wench had no surgeon. The leg needed to be amputated. Frank Connery had volunteered to undertake the job, as soon as he had finished his duties as second mate, but Jack doubted the poor fellow could be saved.

“How are we doing on the pump, Robby?”

“So far we’re keeping the water level even, Jack. But that’s bound to change.”

Jack nodded. Manning the bilge pump was hard work. His crew was already exhausted. At some point, it was inevitable that they’d fall behind. The Wicked Wench would take on more and more water…until she sank.

“Thanks, Robby,” he said. “I’m going to take a look around, check things over. Why don’t you stretch out in my cabin for half an hour, get some sleep?”

“What about you? Jack, you’re wounded.” Robby stared at the sleeve of Jack’s coat. The whole sleeve was wet, and if it hadn’t been dark, it would have shown red.

“I’m too keyed up to sleep, Robby, and that’s the truth. Now go lie down. That’s an order. If you can’t sleep, pray some more. We could use it.”

Robby shrugged. “Don’t think I’m not, Jack.”

Jack took a lantern to light his way, and began walking the perimeter of the weather deck. He was careful not to step on any exhausted crewmen he encountered. It was a pleasure to see them whole, not wounded. He wasn’t sure what he was checking for. To see if any of them were actually wounded or dead, as opposed to sleeping, he supposed.

He trudged along, his eyes burning from the smoke of the battle, feeling like Diogenes with his lantern. As he stepped over bodies, he wondered how long he should let these men sleep before he began waking some of them to take over on the pump.

Jack paused, squinting blearily, raising his lantern high to shed its light on one of the men who was splashed with dried blood. Was it his own blood, or that of a wounded or dead shipmate? Was he still alive?

After a moment, a deep, rumbling snore reassured him.

“Ahoy!” shouted a voice to starboard.

Jack whirled around so fast he nearly dropped his lantern. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

He blinked painfully as he made out running lights not far away, shining in the darkness, and heard the swish of water against a bow. The lights swam before him as he tried to focus his stinging eyes.

Am I hallucinating?

“Ahoy!” shouted the voice again, then continued in Spanish, “Anyone alive over there? Do you need help?”

It was real. There really was a ship out there, hailing him!

Jack hesitated. A Spanish vessel…just my bloody luck.

But at least England and Spain weren’t currently at war…or they hadn’t been, last he’d heard.

What if she’s another pirate vessel? Two in one bloody day? Should I keep silent, hope they’ll pass by?

Jack told himself not to be ridiculous. Even having everything valuable on the Wicked Wench stolen, and himself and his crew sold as slaves, was better than sinking to the bottom. And most pirates he knew wouldn’t ask if another ship needed help.

Jack put his lantern down on the deck, then cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ahoy!” he shouted, then continued, in Spanish, “Merchant vessel Wicked Wench here! Pirates attacked us today! Yes! We need help!”

He heard the voice drift across the water, no longer shouting, but evidently addressing someone aboard. He only picked up the word “Capitan.”

Clearing his throat, Jack spat over the side, wishing he had something to drink. He cupped his hands around his mouth again. “What ship are you?” he shouted, still in Spanish.

There was a pause, then, “Venganza!” floated across the water.

Jack’s eyes opened wide. He gasped, astonished, then, slowly, he began to grin. He wanted to dance a jig, but he was too tired, and his arm ached too much.

Clutching the railing to steady himself, he yelled, this time in English, “Esmeralda? Are you there?”

A different voice responded this time. “Dios mio…Jack?”

Jack closed his burning eyes, heaving a long, profound sigh of relief. Robby will never let me hear the end of this.…