Kwame moved with care, but before long he was forced to wade into the sea, the water rising a little above his waist. He pressed on, holding the musket high above his head with both hands to keep it dry.

  When at last he reached the narrow strip of sand at the foot of the cliff, he began the painful task of climbing the rocks, avoiding the steps altogether. He hauled himself upward by sheer strength of hand, fingers gripping sharp edges until the skin split and blood slicked the stone.

  At length, he reached the summit.

  Xul-Kan seemed deserted. A few torches cast their wavering glow upon scattered buildings, and from somewhere in the distance came the sound of soldiers laughing—voices in easy conversation, the strumming of a guitar, and a lone voice carrying an Andalusian melody into the night air.

  Kwame smiled. The element of surprise was still his.

  He slid along the wall, keeping to the shadows, and made his way toward the place where the prisoners were confined. He advanced silently. The guards by the granary were engaged in idle chatter at one end, inattentive.

  He drew nearer. From within came only the distant wail of a baby, the whimpering of frightened children… and the steady murmur of a man reciting verses from the Bible.

  Kwame eased the door open and stepped inside—only to start in alarm.

  All the prisoners stood upright, arranged in a line, their anxious faces faintly etched by the dim light.

  “It’s me,” he whispered. “I’ve come to get you out.”

  “Kwame—you came back!” Larry Downs exclaimed.

  “Listen carefully. Do exactly as I say and we’ll all get out of here—but not a sound.”

  The prisoners did not move.

  Then, from the shadows, Spanish soldiers emerged, muskets trained squarely upon him. At the same moment, others appeared at the doorway, lanterns raised.

  “One false move, Mr. Kwame,” said Inzunza coolly, “and this room will become a slaughterhouse.”

  Kwame closed his eyes. Slowly, he lifted his hands and placed them behind his neck. A soldier stepped forward and wrenched the musket from his grasp. They disarmed him swiftly, and then another drove the butt of a rifle hard into his stomach.

  He folded with a grunt.

  ******

  Kayin kept his eyes fixed on the battery. The enclosure seemed deserted. He could make out no movement—only steady lights, burning without flicker. He edged forward in search of a better angle, then lowered himself to the ground and lay flat to study the site more carefully.

  Then he saw them: shadows in motion.

  He sharpened his gaze… and recognized the tricorne hats.

  His heart began to pound.

  He waited a moment, then started to crawl back through the undergrowth toward the place where the party lay in wait. He sought out Trumper, who stood apart with the others.

  As soon as they saw him approach, they gathered round.

  “What did you see?”

  Kayin arrived breathless.

  “Soldiers… there are Spanish soldiers.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “As certain as I am of seeing it now.”

  The men muttered among themselves.

  “Damn it… let’s withdraw while we still can… and make off with the treasure,” Goodwin proposed.

  “No one moves,” Trumper ordered.

  “Then what do we do? Wait for a miracle?”

  Voices began to rise.

  “I say we leave now,” Goodwin pressed on. “We go back through the cavern and take that treasure.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There are thousands of doubloons in that cave—pieces of eight, reales… it could all be ours. We forget this madness.”

  “Mr. Goodwin, for the last time…” Trumper growled.

  “With that haul we could persuade the others to stand down… and if Skippy refuses, we throw him overboard.”

  All eyes turned to Trumper.

  The boatswain remained silent for a moment.

  “No one will do such a thing,” he said at last. “I shall pretend I never heard it.”

  “Well, I did hear it,” another man cut in. “We’re here for our men.”

  “Then you go for them,” Goodwin shot back. “Go on… knock on the door.”

  “The only thing I’ll knock is your damned mouth.”

  “Try it… fight fair, you swine,” he spat.

  The pirates hurled themselves at one another in a savage brawl.

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  Kayin watched in astonishment as Trumper did not intervene.

  He edged backward toward a tree… when suddenly, to everyone’s horror, Spanish soldiers and auxiliary troops emerged, surrounding the clearing.

  Kayin slipped into the bushes.

  The officer in command of the detachment, pistol in hand, regarded them with a smile.

  “Gentlemen, you are surrounded,” he said.

  The pirates raised their hands and let their weapons fall. They were taken without a single shot being fired.

  All were marched toward Xul-Kan. The boy sighed, rose to attempt an escape—but before him stood a pair of indigenous auxiliaries from the guard. Kayin lifted his hands in resignation.

  ******

  The gates swung open, and they were escorted into the central square.

  Inzunza was smiling when he saw them arrive. He made a small gesture with his hand. Kwame was brought forward in chains.

  A murmur rippled through the captives, followed by sharp cries of anguish.

  “Kwame… you betrayed us,” one pirate accused.

  “Don’t be a fool,” another snapped. “Can’t you see they’ve beaten him half to death?”—a grim reference to the bruises and blood that marked him.

  “It’s part of their little pantomime,” a third muttered darkly.

  Kayin let out a slow breath and shook his head. Then he lifted his eyes to the sky, where the stars burned cold and distant. Perhaps he alone had survived the three of them. A fleeting image crossed his mind—the day they had met in Kingsport, the wild taste of freedom in the air… and now here he stood once more, a prisoner, with fate uncertain before him.

  “Gentlemen,” Inzunza said, raising a hand to silence them. “It is unfortunate that we have deciphered your plan. Consider yourselves prisoners of the Crown. Any attempt at rebellion will be punished by death.”

  With that, he turned to Yanga.

  “Let us proceed to the final stage. Line all the captives along the edge of the ravine.”

  Yanga hesitated. “What is the plan?”

  “We shall force their surrender,” Inzunza replied. “If they refuse to listen to reason, we will loose the cannons. They will not escape the estuary.”

  Yanga watched as men, women, and children were herded toward the precipice—alongside the English pirates and the crew of the Garnor.

  “Sir…” he said carefully. “You are exposing innocents. Women, children, the elderly—”

  The lieutenant met his gaze without wavering.

  “This is war,” he answered. “They are aggressors and invaders. Those people—fugitives and criminals.”

  “But… the women and the children—”

  Inzunza stepped closer.

  “Ensign, I order you to carry out my command,” he said between his teeth. “I will assume responsibility. Now go… and fire the flare.”

  Yanga gave a stiff nod and moved to obey.

  A soldier approached him.

  “Where shall we put the new arrivals?” he asked. “There aren’t enough chains left to keep them secured.”

  Yanga studied the prisoners. Most stood with their heads bowed; some trembled. The boatswain alone kept his chin lifted. And Kayin—Kayin surveyed it all with a quiet, almost stoic bearing.

  “Send them to the granary,” Yanga ordered. “We have enough for the purpose.”

  The first group of Garnor prisoners crossed paths with the second. When they saw one another, shouting broke out.

  “If you came to rescue us, you’re a pack of useless fools!” someone cried.

  “You’d have done better to stay home knitting!” another jeered.

  “Prepare to meet your Maker, all of you… the Lord protects His own,” old Smith declared solemnly.

  “You’re welcome!” one of the new arrivals shouted back. “Ungrateful wretches!”

  “It’s not ingratitude,” Mike Hatcher retorted bitterly. “It’s just that you lot are truly useless.”

  ******

  The Spaniards escorted the prisoners from the second party and shoved them into the storehouse, where another group of captives—mostly elderly—sat resigned in a corner.

  “What do they mean to do with that whole crowd?” the boatswain asked.

  “They’ll use them as a human shield,” one of the prisoners replied after a fit of coughing.

  “By all the devils, that Spaniard’s as bloodthirsty as El Carioca…” muttered one of the pirates.

  They all sank down onto the straw-littered floor.

  “We’re doomed,” Goodwin said flatly.

  “I don’t want to die… I don’t want to die,” Ford began to whimper.

  Cade seized him by the shoulders and shook him.

  “Pull yourself together, man—” he snapped, and when Ford continued sobbing, he struck him across the face.

  “You should’ve thought of that before you started trading blows… we’re here because of you,” Kayin said.

  “I’d shut your mouth if I could see you,” another pirate growled. “But I can’t—and I’m too damned frightened.”

  The boatswain surveyed the room. A pair of narrow windows admitted a thin blade of light.

  “Take the mulatto—” he began.

  “I would prefer you call me by my name, Mr. Trumper,” Kayin said quietly.

  “Spare me the labels, Mr. King. Lift the boy up and see if he can reach that window.”

  They hoisted Kayin, who stretched toward the opening—but fell short.

  “You think we haven’t tried that already?” one of the older prisoners called out.

  They set Kayin back on the floor. The boatswain looked about grimly.

  “I refuse to surrender,” he declared.

  “They’ve got Kwame,” someone answered. “And with that shield, they’ll force the captain’s hand.”

  Several nodded.

  “We’ve more than ten guns on each side, and more on deck besides,” a pirate said. “We could easily overpower those Spaniards.”

  “You think the captain would fire with all those people exposed?” another countered.

  “I would,” came a bitter reply. “My head comes before theirs. They’re only there by bad luck.”

  Kayin listened.

  “You know full well the captain is a man of principle—not a brainless brute like you,” he said evenly.

  “You don’t get to insult me, you piece of filth—” the pirate shot back. Then he hesitated. “I understand brute… but what’s brainless?”

  Angry murmurs rippled through the room.

  “Fact remains,” the pirate went on stubbornly, “we’re here because of his principles.”

  “No one forced you,” another retorted. “You’re here for the doubloons.”

  And just as Kayin had foreseen, they fell upon one another again, trading blows until the boatswain’s roar silenced them.

  “Enough! If nothing else, let us keep our honour to the end.”

  They sat down once more, muttering curses against the captain, their fate, and the mothers who had borne every man present.

  Kayin, for his part, closed his eyes and began to pray—to whoever might still be listening. Perhaps to the shades of Sammy and Cody, who by now would be far beyond the horizon.

  ******

  Yanga made his way toward the battery accompanied by several soldiers. He walked the narrow path alert for any sudden ambush from the pirates, yet it seemed the operation had already been broken. As they pushed through branches that arched low over the trail, his thoughts drifted back to his conversation with the prisoner. He brought a hand to his chest, feeling for the medallion beneath his coat.

  “And what if we stand before a great treasure?” he murmured.

  “Did you say something, Ensign?” one of the soldiers asked.

  Yanga cleared his throat and straightened at once.

  “I said we must secure the battery,” he replied.

  When they arrived, the soldiers had already taken their positions around the captured gunners. Yanga inspected the perimeter, then raised his spyglass and swept the horizon. There, wrapped in shadow, he discerned the faint outline of the Garnor’s rigging, lying to under reduced sail.

  He smiled.

  Returning to the terrace, where one of the soldiers held the signalling pistol, he gave a curt nod.

  “Fire.”

  The man obeyed. He aimed toward the heavens and pulled the trigger. A sharp detonation cracked through the night. The flare shot upward and burst into a brilliant bloom of light.

  From the square at Xul-Kan, the pirates lifted their heads in stunned silence.

  Inzunza smiled.

  ******

  Aboard the Garnor, the lookout caught sight of the explosion in the darkness.

  “Signal in sight!” he cried.

  High upon the quarterdeck stood the captain, scanning the dim outline of the coast with mounting impatience. More time had passed than expected. Then he saw the flare’s flash, followed by the lookout’s shout. He snapped his spyglass shut and turned sharply toward the deck.

  “Raise anchor! Set sails! Open the gunports!” he commanded.

  The men’s voices rang out as orders were relayed. Sailors scrambled aloft along the shrouds and ratlines. The capstan began to turn under the strain of many hands. The anchors rose slowly from the depths. Sails unfurled and swelled as they caught the wind.

  The ship surged forward, steering straight for the rock and into the estuary.