"Is this good or bad?" Sam whispered to Bronte as they uncovered her stash of supplies.
The night was dark as pitch. Moon and stars were covered by low-lying clouds threatening rain.
"Neither," she answered as she pushed her hair from her face. "None will see or hear us, but..."
"But?"
"We won't be able to see or hear either. And we can't risk lighting lanterns until we're well out."
"Can we make it without hitting a reef?"
"You memorized the lay yesterday while you were at the helm, did ya not?"
This was followed by silence.
"Sam?" she said through gritted teeth.
"Of course! Well—mostly. I mean—I didn't know we wouldn't be able to see at all."
Bronte moaned. She wished she'd manned the helm yesterday. There was nothing to be done about it now. "Come on, cart's full. We'll have to come back for a few more loads."
In silence they made their way toward the shore, emptied the load onto the dock, and returned for another.
"Extra sailcloth, hammocks, hardtack, pistols ... where'd you get all this?" Sam asked in astonishment as more of her stash was uncovered.
She smiled though he couldn't see it in the pitch dark. "Where do you think? It was easy to collect these things from the busier harbors. No one paid any mind as long as I kept acquisitions on the light side. The sailcloth and extra line came from the shipyard itself. Blackwater isn't very good at keeping inventory."
"What about fresh water?"
"We'll get a few barrels from Blackwater. Surly he's keen to donate to the cause. Again." She threw another bundle onto the cart. "When will the other sailormen get here?"
"Anytime. We'll meet at the dock."
"I heard Blackwater say they left two guards. It'll be two against one once we're aboard."
"Four against one," Sam corrected.
"What's that? I thought you were good at numbers Sam," she huffed as they pulled the loaded cart to the dock.
"I am. One of the guards is ours!" he said jovially, obviously pleased with himself.
"Ho! You have done well, my pirate friend!" She slapped him on the back, impressed.
On their third trip to the dock, bearing the last of her hoard, Bronte stopped short. Thick clouds parted just enough to let a moonbeam fall on the water's edge. An apparition stood there, loading the supplies into a longboat. He seemed to almost glow in the darkness, making an unearthly, incorporeal reflection in the black water beneath. A breeze blew his thin, white hair haplessly about.
Bronte released the cart and clutched the grip of the cutlass once again strapped to her side. Sam grabbed her arm, holding back her draw.
"He's with us. An albino," Sam whispered.
Bronte narrowed her gaze, her brows low with suspicion. "I've never seen him before. How do you know him?"
"Fellow with an appetite like me gets to know the cooks 'round here," Sam said lightly as he rubbed his belly.
"A cook?"
"We'll need a cook, won't we?" said Sam, a hint of apprehension leaking into his tone.
"Not if we never leave the harbor! I told you to get sailors!" Bronte hissed.
"Relax. He can sail a bit—so long as it's at night," Sam said dismissively.
"At night?"
"Well, the sun, it burns him." Sam chuckled nervously.
Bronte clenched her teeth but relaxed her grip on the hilt. Together they grabbed the handles of the cart again, continuing toward the ghostly-looking man. She hoped the fellow already aboard would be more experienced.
"What's he call himself?" Bronte whispered.
"Black."
"Black?"
"I never said he was a good cook. In fact, he's famous for burning things."
They were too close to the subject to continue the conversation and Bronte's gut was tightening. This wasn't turning out to be as perfect a plan as she'd thought. Things were getting worse by the minute. But it was still going to work. She would make it work.
"Evening, Black." She stuck out her hand as she approached the albino.
He dipped his head and offered a week handshake, murmuring something that sounded like, "Hullo." He stood like a limp statue; his shoulders were rounded and his head bent toward the dock, completely impassive. But, there was an uneasiness about him, a tenseness, like he was waiting for the right moment to bolt.
"Are you sure this is where you want to be? It's not too late to turn back—so long as you swear secrecy," Bronte quickly amended.
He looked up at her then. His eyes were fathomless, almost tortured, so full of emotion Bronte couldn't name them all—fear, sadness, pain.... "No place for me here. Folks is scared of me. Always whispering...." He turned his gripping stare towered the sea, releasing her from their hold.
Bronte studied him a long moment and made a decision. "Pledge your loyalty tonight Black, and you'll always have a place with me." She would not condemn him for appearance.
He looked at his feet as she spoke. After a long pause, he gave her one sharp nod, and she didn't doubt for a minute this was as solemn a promise as anyone could give.
Sam had observed the scene quietly and now beamed at the resolution. He reached out a hand to slap the albino on the back. Black started at the familiar touch. "I told ya Bron was all right, did I not?"
He grunted softly and quickly returned to loading the longboat.
"Right you are, Black," Bronte said. "Time is short."
They finished loading without setback and rowed toward the silent ship. Its light, from a lantern placed on the bow, guided them onward and they quickly covered the distance. Rain, finally escaping its ethereal prison, pattered gently over them.
Bronte grabbed the accommodation ladder and scurried up, her hands slipping a little on the wet rungs. A hand appeared as she neared the top and she grabbed hold, hoping it belonged to their accomplice.
The small hand didn't have as much strength as she expected; instead of being helped neatly aboard she found herself sprawled atop a young, freckle-faced boy, grinning absurdly at her. Stunned, Bronte rolled off and righted herself.
"Who are you?"
"Gary. Gary Kinney. And you're Bron?"
"You're Sam's friend?" Bronte asked skeptically.
"Upon my honor!"
Bronte growled quietly. "Where's the other guard?"
"Asleep in the cabin. Told him I'd take first watch, and never woke 'im after!" the child said proudly.
"Well enough," Bronte said shortly. At least he seemed to have a head on his young shoulders. "Can you help me hoist the boat?"
He nodded eagerly.
She leaned over the rail. "Fasten the boat and come aboard."
After they hoisted and unloaded the heavy boat, Bronte said tersely, "I'd like a word with you, Sam." She nodded toward the bow.
Sam joined her there.
"A child, Sam? Have you no brains under that curly mop?" Bronte asked evenly.
"He's an orphan. Like us. He's a good lad; you'll like him."
"It's no matter whether I like him. Sailors are what we need!" she hissed.
"Look, he's been sailing 'round these parts since he was born. He may be a bit pippy but I'll lay a piece of eight to it he knows the ropes. They trusted him enough to stand guard."
A decision they were soon going to regret. At least that was the hope to which Bronte tenuously continued to hold.
"You'd better be right, or our necks are as good as stretched!" She crossed her arms and paced a moment, trying to think of a way to salvage this atrocity of a seizure. "Get the dinghy ready. We'll send the other guard on a bit of a voyage."
Bronte removed the lantern from the bow and secured it to the dinghy, so it would appear the ship was still in the harbor. It wouldn't fool anyone who more than glanced at the harbor. She was hoping no one would.
The door creaked loudly as they peered into the captain's cabin. Bronte tensed as she waited to see if the guard would wake, but he didn't move.
The rain ceased and the high keening of a thousand tree frogs carried across the water. The obscuring clouds remained. They'd only to dispatch the guard to be ready to sail.
"I tol' ya he was a sound sleeper," Gary said, sticking his head between Sam and Bronte as they peered in. "Nothin' wakes him. I all but jump on his head when it's his turn to watch."
"If it's as you say we can send him off without casualty. Raise him gently, now," Bronte cautioned. She was eager, for Sam's sake, to shed as little blood as possible.
Amazingly, the man barely stirred as they lifted him. He'd a slight build and they'd little trouble moving him. He slept on as they settled him in the little boat, shifting only a little before he was silent again.
As they lowered the dinghy the hoist slipped, and sent it crashing into the water. Sam, who'd ridden down to set it adrift, slipped and fell in the harbor with a resounding splash.
Leaning far over the ship's side, Bronte breathed a sigh of relief when Sam's head bobbed above the surface. But the crash had, at last, awakened the derelict guard. He struggled upright, confused momentarily as to his predicament, while Sam quickly untied the boat and gave it a shove as he clung to the ladder.
The man stared at Sam, then looked up at the faces peering over the side of the ship and, at last, grasped the situation.
Bronte quickly realized their mistake.
They should've tied and gagged him.
"'ELP! 'ELP! THEY'RE STEAL'EN THE SHIP! 'ELP!" he shouted into the darkness.
Sam stopped his ascent, pulled something from his belt and raised his arm. A quick downward stroke was followed by a hushed whistling and a loud THUNK!
The shouting ceased as the man looked between his legs at the knife quivering in the seat, an inch from his groin.
"Not another sound, man, or the next one won't miss!" Sam threatened.
The man nodded and sat still as death while Sam climbed the ladder, not daring to so much as lay a finger on the knife.
Bronte couldn't help but be impressed at Sam's quick reaction. Perhaps she'd been wrong to doubt his earlier choices. Time would tell. And soon.
"Well done," she complimented him. "Now get to the helm."
Sam moved off, muttering about the loss of his knife. She smiled, and promised herself she'd replace the deadly weapon at first opportunity. "Black, Kinney, slip the mooring cables!"
"Aye," they responded, giving her a burst of pleasure as they quickly followed her orders. Almost there.
They set the sails and began to move smoothly out of the harbor, cutting a white wake in the black water. The guard finally regained his senses and rowed toward shore, disappearing into the night. Letting him go might be a mistake, but they were sure to be away before he got the little boat ashore and was able to rouse anyone. She hoped. She was also counting on the man's sense of self-preservation. It'd be wiser to make a disappearance himself, rather than take the punishment he'd surely receive for such a poor performance at ship guarding.
"How goes it, Sam?" she asked through the darkness.
"It's touch and go," Sam answered from his place at the whipstaff.
The island grew more distant as they approached open water. Bronte's gut tightened with anticipation as she unfurled another sail. Almost there. Once they were in the open sea she was sure no one could catch them.
"I think we're out of the worst now!" Sam said with relief.
Bronte's response was cut short by a sharp jolt and the sound of breaking boards.
"Hard to larboard, Sam! You've hit a reef! Kinney, below to check for damage!" she shouted.
Gary grabbed a lantern and fumbled trying to light the wick. Finally he got the job done and hurried down the hatch.
What seemed hours later, but in truth must of been only minutes, his head popped up through the deck. "WE'RE TAKIN'ON WATER!" he shouted, panic coloring his voice.
"How bad?" Bronte asked as she jumped back to the deck and hurried to the piled up supplies. She rummaged through the valuable hoard, throwing what she didn't need this way and that haphazardly.
Gary looked at her, eyes wide, and slowly shook his head.
"Come now, we can fix a little hole, eh?" she said brightly, trying to calm him. He'd be no help scared stiff. She finally found the bundle she was looking for and headed to the hatchway with it. "Take this sailcloth, we'll plug the leak until Sam can patch it."
Kinney nodded, spurred back to action by the order, and together they descended into the bowels of the ship, sailcloth in hand.
Water was indeed pouring through a hole in the starboard side and they worked hard to get the sailcloth in place to slow the leak. The hole wasn't too big—Sam could repair it, but first she wanted to ensure they were free and clear of anymore threats.
"Stay here and mind the hole. I'll send Black to pump the bilge."
He nodded and hurried to the pump while she moved quickly to the main deck.
"BRON! SAILS AT OUR BACK!" Sam shouted as she gained the deck.
She sped to the stern and peered into the darkness. Indeed, a ship charged through the wake they'd left behind.
"How long till we're free of the reef?" she asked Sam tensely.
"Now! We're out now!"
"Black, let go the main!" Bronte ordered.
"Aye, Sir!" he replied as he scurried up the ratlines.
Wind filled the mainsail as it was released and the ship surged forward, cutting like a knife through the inky water, leaving a bubbling white wake behind.
The distance widened between themselves and the ship at their stern. They moved quickly for a few minutes and then the ship seemed to stall. The sleek vessel labored through the water. It was sitting far too low.
"Something's amiss! We're too heavy!" Sam shouted from the whipstaff.
"We can't be too heavy, we're carrying nothing but...KINNEY!"
"Kinney?" Sam looked askance.
"I forgot about Kinney in the bilge! Black, to the pump, water must be filling the bilge!"
Black quickly disappeared down the hatch.
"I'm going down too. Can you handle it here alone?"
"Go. If I need you, I'll whistle."
Once below the main deck and down the two ladders to the bilge, Bronte's ears were filled with the noise of water splashing into the hold, and she doubted she would hear a whistle. She'd just have to hope he'd be all right until she returned, because the scene before her made her forget everything else.
She stepped into waist deep water. The lantern hanging high above swung haphazardly, playing off the murk filling the ship. The plug had come loose and Kinney was trying to force the sailcloth back into the hole even as Black pumped for all he was worth on the deck above. The force of the water was obviously too much for the small boy and his face was crumpled with helplessness. Bronte thought he might be crying.
She'd barely taken a step toward the boy when a shrill whistle pierced the bilge, as strong and clear as if the whistler stood beside her.
She froze for a moment, wondering which need was more urgent. She would check on Sam quickly and be back in a moment to help. As she scurried up the main deck Bronte paused to shout at Black. "Black! Down to the bilge! Get that hole plugged. Then both of you man the pump!"
When she reached the upper deck, Sam called to her.
"That ship's got clear of the reef and is closing fast! What do we do?"
Bronte ran to join Sam at the whipstaff. Her mind was a jumble. What did she want them to do? The ocean stood void of any islands big enough to hide them and they didn't have enough manpower to loose all the sails and speed away, even if they weren't on the verge of foundering.
"Bronte?" Sam asked again.
A low grumble of thunder reverberated across an endless sky. They were undermanned. They were being pursued. And the ship was sinking. How much worse could things get?
"First, we keep the ship from foundering. If they try and board us—we fight."
"Fight?" Sam's eyes widened. He knew as well as she they couldn't overtake a ship full of men, but what else could they do? If they were captured they'd be hung and die anyway. And she wasn't about to give up her ship.
"Aye. To the bitter end."