n explosion and spray of water seemed to confirm Tench's words. The admiral's crews had succeeded in getting organized and drawing a line on the fleeing ship. Fortunately, the thick black smoke from the mysterious fireball made it difficult to aim the cannons effectively.

   "Cannon crew," roared Hartwell, pointing at the rear most cannon, "prepare and fire." The crew responded, hastily checking the barrel was clear of any residue or obstruction, loaded in the powder and cannonball, both of which were lying next to the cannon, lit the fuse and leapt to the side. The small, antique cannon coughed and the cannonball almost floated from the mouth and plopped into the ocean. Hartwell looked at Madrigal, who shrugged.

   "The cannons are old," he said simply.

   "And rusted," said Fitch, looking critically at the cannon. "We'd have to be right on top of a ship to hit them with these things." Unfortunately, this wasn't a problem for the Morning Star or the Plymouth, both loaded with seventy-four cannons of the latest design. Another shot exploded into the ocean, much closer than before.

   "Hard to starboard, into the smoke," ordered Hartwell. "We'll put distance between us if we can lose them in the inferno."

   Madrigal spun the ship's wheel and the old vessel, groaning in protest, swung about, pursued by the two swifter navy ships. The black smoke was still pouring upward from the sea, unlike anything the crew had ever seen before.

   "We can't risk going straight through," coughed Tench. "We don't know what that thing is."

   "We can't risk going around either," replied Hartwell. "If we do, we will be caught. Everyone, wrap a wet scarf or cloth around your face and take a deep breath. We're going through the middle."

   The crew hastened to obey, some removing jerkins or shirts and swirling them around in the barrel of drinking water, others grabbing cloths from below decks.

   Susanna used her short jacket, wrapping the sleeves around her head to make a strange mask. Her eyes stung in the thick smoke and she wished she had something to protect them. Something like a pair of thick reading glasses, perhaps.

   A few nervous coughs sounded out and soon became a crescendo as the thick smoke settled around the crew. Visibility was reduced to a few inches in the black, choking smoke.

   Madrigal held the course as best he could, hoping they were going in something approximating a straight line. Inside the cloud, it was impossible to determine any sense of direction, movement or distance.

   Many of the crew moaned in horror and fear as coloured lights flashed eerily in the black smoke. Reds, greens and purples seemed to pulsate in the air, flitting lightly to and fro. The powder monkeys cowered under the rear castle, while O'Rourke was reminded of the many folktales his grandmother had told him years before of strange and devilish creatures that lured men to their doom.

   Hartwell held his hand up and saw tiny, multicoloured lines of light spreading out over his fingers. Small sparks erupted from his skin, reminding him of the sensation he had felt whilst in the ocean just a few moments before. The strange tracing light seemed to be enveloping everything and everyone, but it wasn't harming the crew or ship, simply entwining around them.

   A shout drew his attention. One of Madrigal's crew was pointing in amazement up ahead of the ship. Squinting through the smoke, Hartwell saw that a small patch of the ocean was boiling a bright silver colour. The crew rushed forward and stared at the small patch of iridescent light which fluctuated in intensity, dimming then glowing stronger before dimming again. Thankfully, the smoke was finally clearing—they were past whatever the strange fireball had been.

   Hartwell gazed at the patch of boiling sea, trying to discern some recognizable shape or form, until the light moved once more, the perspective changed and he saw that in the centre of the brilliant radiance was a human figure, apparently floating face down. "Nets," he bellowed.

   The crew stared at him.

   "Fetch the nets and get that person on board," he commanded.

   "He must be dead," argued a member of Madrigal's crew. "We don't have the time to stop."

   "Then give me the net, damn you, and I'll do it myself," snapped Hartwell. "Mister Madrigal, hold a steady course past that figure, then make all speed away from here."

   Madrigal thought about arguing, saw the look on Hartwell's face and decided against it. "Yes, sir," he replied, twitching the wheel slightly.

   Hartwell gathered a fishing net, hastily unravelled it and then in one smooth movement, threw it over the side of the ship. The net fell perfectly and scooped up the floating body and what looked like several gallons of silver fluid which somehow swirled around the prone figure rather than dripping through the mesh. Hartwell heaved on the line, assisted by Susanna, but the figure was too heavy. Even taking into account the water enclosing it, the weight was astonishing.

   The powder monkeys ran out and grabbed the lines and heaved, gritting their teeth as their tiny arms pulled on the solid weight. Hartwell swore under his breath, repositioned himself and with a superhuman effort, pulled the netting free from the sea's embrace. The net jerked and its mysterious cargo was slowly raised up, hand over hand. Hartwell grabbed the net and gave one last heave, but misjudged the weight and fell back to the deck, the netting and the body falling on top of him.

   He bellowed in pain at the weight crushing him. He lashed out with his arms and legs, trying to free himself. In doing so, he tore the netting from the top of the figure and found himself looking at a silver skull.