Bronte was perched in her favorite spot, atop the mainmast, looking as far as she could see for relief on its way. But only an endless periwinkle sky, with nary a cloud, mirrored perfectly in the calm waters. Looking across the crystal waters she spotted a tawny spot peeking through the myriad of blue, indicating a shallow place nearby. They were caught in the Turk and Caicos islands; a place rich with conch, a large mollusk in a spiral shell that made for good eating. Diving for them would be a perfect diversion for the bored men and also help to fill their empty bellies.

Picking her way quickly down the ratlines Bronte dropped to the boards below.

"ALL HANDS ON DECK!" Bronte ordered.

Instantly the languid ship came to life as men dropped from rigging, appeared through hatchways, and climbed up and down decks to stand before their captain on the main deck. Even the albino appeared, wearing a large brimmed hat, and stood in the shadow of sail.

Sam appeared last, looking somewhat downcast (for him, that was, which would still be considered pleasant for the average person), and stood beside her, facing the men.

She looked over each man slowly. They wore the expressions of hungry men: brows pinched and faces grimacing, yet eyes still hopeful.

"Despite cutting rations, stores are near to gone," she began, but was interrupted by murmurs, groans and grumbling. She held her hand high to silence them.

They quieted, but before she could continue, someone (she couldn't tell who) raised their voice in the silence.

"What about the Mr. Dennis's?"

The corner of her mouth twitched at the expression born from such an odd superstition. "Aye, soon we shall cook up the ... pork."

This statement was followed by shouts of affirmation.

"But not yet."

This was, of course, followed with assorted oaths and epitaphs.

She chuckled. "Fear not, I don't fancy starvation any more than you. I would do a little diving."

Sam, who'd been listening with silent intensity to the discussion of food, turned his head with a curious look on his face. "Diving?"

"Diving," she acknowledged. "Since our good man Cuthbert has had ill luck catching fish,"—this was interrupted by murmuring about the dislike for fish anyway—"and we're obviously not near enough land to get turtles, I'd know which of you can swim. A near spit of shallow water will provide conch to sweeten our diet."

The men were as silent as the wind that day.

"Come now, if you swim raise a hand," she encouraged.

"I can," Sam responded.

"I know you can, Sam. What of you others?"

Still silence.

"Fire and flame! None of you sailors swim?" asked an astonished Bronte.

"No reason to," a handful of men murmured.

"No reason? Great guns, you make livin' on water and have no reason to learn to swim?

"Aye they's right Cap'n," piped in Cuthbert. "Ever'one knows, 'What the sea wants, the sea will take'."

Several men nodded in agreement. Agreement with Cuthbert!

"Sink me with the tide if that isn't utter nonsense!"

Most of them shrugged, thinking it was the captain speaking nonsense.

She shook her head and faced Sam. "Looks to be you and me. We'd better get started; it's going to take a while to collect enough to shave off starvation edge."

She took a few steps toward the capstan, but realized Sam stood stationary, his arms crossed, staring after her. "Aye?"

"Are you sure we can't eat the Dennis's?" Sam pleaded.

Bronte rolled her eyes and motioned toward the boat. "Get in there. And two of you useless lubbers can at least row us to the spot. Let's be off!" she ordered impatiently.

Two more piled into the boat and were lowered into the glassy sea. Bronte indicated the spot she wished to dive and they headed toward it.

Sam removed his shirt and stretched his arms wide, causing his muscles to ripple across his broad chest. He caught Bronte staring at him. "What? Aren't you going to take yours off? It's a whole lot easier to swim that way."

"Aye. And easier to take a fierce burning from the sun as well," she said.

He waved a scornful hand at his friend. "Bah. We'll be underwater most of the time."

They dived through the afternoon and had much to show for it. The shoal was littered with the large creamy shells and they'd certainly have a feast that evening on the fresh sweet meat hidden safely inside the solid casings.

On one trip down Bronte noticed something glinting from the sandy floor and swam over to investigate.

Gold peaked out from an alabaster blanket and she waved the sand away, closing her eyes until the cloud was carried away by the nearly imperceptible current. When she opened them she was greeted with a six-inch disk of solid gold.

She wrapped both hands around the piece and kicked hard to the surface. It was heavy and she struggled, but it was coming with her.

Surfacing beside the boat, she took a great gasp of air and hefted both hands and disk onto the side. "Take it." She handed the gold to Sorenson who swore loudly.

Sam surfaced and tipped a large conch into the boat.

"Where'd you find that?" he gasped.

"Here, just under the boat."

"Oh ho! Let's see if it's got friends!" Sam exclaimed and disappeared under the surface.

She followed and, at the same moment, they saw something forming such a straight edge in the gently curving lines of the sand, it could only be something man made. It was. A foot and a half long, three inch thick bar of silver. It probably weighed seventy pounds.

They each grabbed an end and together managed to surface it.

"What you think, Bronte?" Sam puffed out brightly. "A cargo load? Maybe the treasure of a legendary sunken Galleon?"

She smiled. "Maybe. Let's see how much there is before we bring up more. Ready?"

He grinned widely and took in a deep draft of air.

Underwater they followed a bread crumb trail of treasure to a spot where the shoal dropped off into deeper water. There lay the wooden remains of a ship, most likely a Spanish galleon, slowly rotting on the ocean floor.

Again they surfaced.

"Well?" Sam could hardly contain himself.

"Well, we can't eat gold or silver, so I suggest we finish harvesting what we can for dinner."

For perhaps the first time in Sam's life, he wasn't thinking with his stomach. "What of the treasure? We can't leave it!"

"Don't worry. We won't be leaving it. But we need a way to surface it. The two of us alone can't bring it all up piece by piece." She dived again beneath the water, this time for conch; and Sam, perhaps reminded by a growl from the bottomless pit in his middle, followed.

Finally, when the floor of the boat was more than covered, they wearily climbed back in and were rowed back to the ship.

They were met with cheers as the men at the capstan wound them up; everyone rushed to unload the night's meal and spirit it to the galley.

Then Cuthbert saw the precious metal and paused.

Bronte slapped him good-naturally on the back and nodded at him to take it.

He bellowed with delight and held the gold up for everyone to see.

A thousand questions spilled out, and after Bronte and Sam informed the crew of their good fortune they all cheered, talking excitedly of the morrow.

Bronte took the opportunity to escape with Sam and nodded for him to precede her into her cabin. When she closed the door behind him, he turned and caught her smiling like the shark who ate the snapper.

"What?" Sam asked good-naturedly.

She grasped his bare shoulder firmly. "That hurt?"

"No," he answered, confused. "Should it?"

"It will tonight!" she informed him. "You're glowing like a bed of hot coals!"

Sam craned his head to look at the white marks her fingers had left on his shoulder.

He shrugged unconcerned. "Just the part of me that was outta the water. It won't be so bad!"

"I hope not. Ask Carter if there's anything he can do for it. Now, have you any ideas on surfacing the riches?" Bronte asked.

"Easy. We rig a sturdy crate with some rope. Lower it, put in a few bars, and those in the boat use a pulley to haul it in."

"Simple enough. But what of us? By the time we put a few pieces in that crate of yours we'll have to swim up for air, and with only the two of us we'll wear ourselves out fast as you can say treasure. And there's the other problem too. We'll have to keep diving for conch."

Sam looked perplexed. "How much longer do you suppose the doldrums will last?"

"Let's hope a few days more. It will make this job that much easier."

Sam's face brightened and she could see the wheels in his head turning. "I've got it! A solution to both problems!"

"Well, let's have it."

"If we slaughter the swine, we can eat them and use the intestine for breathing tubes!"

"Sam—"

"No, hear me out. Their intestines are about twenty or so meters long. If we drop them into the sea and hold out one end, we can attach a bellows and someone could pump air down and we could suck it out the other end!" His eyes flashed with excitement.

He grabbed a pencil and paper to draw a diagram, mumbling about possible flaws. "Now, they'd have to pinch it off and take off the bellow when they opened it so they didn't suck the water up—"

"Sam."

He waved her off and muttered on, "—and of course there'd have to be a weight on the underwater end to keep it down, but not too heavy...."

"Saaam."

He waved impatiently again.

"SAM!"

He looked up.

"We're not butchering the pigs. Dennis's," she corrected absently. "And I'll not breathe through an intestine."

"Why not? And why don't you want to eat perfectly good livestock?"

"I'll explain later. Now, what else could we use to breath underwater?"

He looked stymied.

"A barrel, perhaps?" she suggested.

"A Bermuda Tub!" Sam exclaimed. "We can use a water barrel, weighted down so it'll stay under. We can swim in whenever we need a breath of air!"

"See it done," Bronte said.

With a few quick strides he was out the door, his boots making a quick staccato on the ladder.

Bronte dragged a hand over her face and collapsed into her chair. Carter's words

of the previous night rang in her ears. "I'm not the only one aboard with secrets." Was that what he'd said? No, she thought that must be her own guilty conscience coming up with that. He'd said, "I'm not the only one aboard pretending to be something I'm not." Which was the same thing, really. Or was it?

Pretending to be something I'm not. Well, that could mean any number of things. And any number of people. She shuddered. A feeling of danger prickled at her being. She lived every day trapped in close proximity to a number of men, and yet, what did she really know about any of them? What would they do if they ever found out who, what, she was? She wasn't even sure how her best friend would react to that bit of news.

A muffled bell sounded outside (the dinner bell, she decided) and as she rose she pushed the matter of secrets and pretending aside. She'd deal with it when the time came. If the time came.

She reached under the desk for her boots. She, of course, hadn't worn them diving. She touched something warm and furry. Fortune purred and came out arching her back in a lazy stretch while pulling her claws across the floorboards. Bronte pulled out her boots and stared at them.

They were all but shredded into ribbons. She looked at the cat murderously and grabbed her harshly by the nape of the neck as she strode outside to the rail, murmuring every threat she'd ever heard. She was vaguely aware of others onboard staring at her.

With the cat in one hand and the boots in the other she leaned over the water. Taking a brief moment to contemplate, she drew back one hand, wound up for a long throw, flung the boots away as hard as she could, then dropped the cat back on deck, from which place it quickly scurried out of sight. She turned around to see Cuthbert gone colorless. As she watched, his eyes rolled up in his head and he fainted dead away.

No doubt throwing the feline overboard would've been the death of them all. She couldn't keep a smirk from tugging the corner of her lips. With all the treasure they were procuring she'd have a new pair of boots custom made in Curacao. For now, she still had the tight pair from the Frenchman ... which she'd be storing in a sealed trunk.

***

After only two days of diving it became evident they'd scarcely have room in the hold for all the riches. It wouldn't do to fill the main deck with cargo that'd only get in the way of the braces or fall into the ocean at the first overhauling wave. They needed to figure out a solution before they dove again.

"What's in the hold we can lose?" Bronte asked Sam.

"Those chests of silks and dresses, and we probably wouldn't get much for those bales of Indigo."

Bronte stared off into the endless cerulean field, her eyes glazed. Sam was right; the powdered cakes of Indigo wouldn't bring a great price since they were produced in the West Indies. It'd sell for enough overseas but they were hardly going there. But the silks and dresses, now those would be coveted items. Nonetheless, all the cargo was hard earned and it piqued her to dump it into the waves.

Sam cleared his throat after a minute. "Shall we dump 'em?"

"Hmmm? Oh. No. Don't dump the silks. How much Indigo? Enough to dye our canvases?"

"Our what?"

"Our sails, man. Is there enough to dye our sails?"

"Well, I—err—suppose."

"Good. Bring them up, along with several empty barrels."

"Aye, Captain." Sam shrugged at the unusual order but complied nonetheless.

"And Sam," he turned back, "pass out as much wine and water as the men can drink, and tell them to relieve themselves in the barrels."

"Aye, I'll do ... what?

"Indigo is not water-soluble, Sam."

"All right, but what does that have to do with—?" Even as he said it a light of understanding flickered across his face. "Aww, really?" he protested.

"It'll free up space in the hold and give the men something to allay the boredom while we dive! With our sails dyed blue we'll be impossible to spot in the wide blue ocean against the great blue sky!"

Sam shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you can be certain I won't be painting them."

***

The submerged barrel of air continued to aid them and after three more days of diving for treasure and conch, Bronte and Sam stood in the hold, surmising the glittering display of riches.

Not only had they recovered dozens upon dozens of silver and gold bars, and many gold disks, small chests containing pearls and even a few pieces of jewelry (worn by passengers at the time of sinking) scattered over the ocean floor.

Bronte held up a dazzling cross on a gold chain, covered in perfectly-cut emeralds while Sam examined a handful of rings bearing rubies, pearls, emeralds and diamonds.

For some time they remained in silent awe, hypnotized by the treasure left to them by the Spanish galleon.

Bronte finally broke the silence. "It's going to take a good while to sort through all this and divide the shares."

Sam smiled. "A more pleasant task I cannot imagine! It'll be good to sit around for a few days—I'm exhausted! Every muscle in my body hurts," he complained.

Bronte nodded in agreement.

"You don't want to dive for conch again tomorrow, right?" Sam asked apprehensively.

Bronte smiled. "Sam," she put an arm around his shoulder, "I felt a change in the air today. The Trade Winds will be upon us soon and the Huntress sits too low for my liking." She waved a hand over the mounds of gold.

"And...?" Sam asked tentatively.

"And tomorrow we celebrate! With a bit of roast pork!" She slapped Sam on the shoulder as he whooped excitedly.

His whoop changed to a wince as he grasped his sunburned shoulder, causing Bronte a moment of regret; but his expression quickly returned to that of elation.

"Finally! I'll go tell Carter!" He was already halfway to the galley.

***

The following day, in keeping with Bronte's promise, Bronte and Sam sat alone together in her cabin, feasting on roasted pork. The air was stirring and they knew the doldrums were about to end.

Around a juicy mouthful Sam asked his captain and friend, "Why'd you hold off so long on slaughtering the hogs, anyway?" He swallowed and took another bite.

Bronte looked thoughtful. "So the crew wouldn't lose hope—there always being dinner aboard for the morrow; and because I wanted a pair of swine to stand between me and that dinner plate," she answered cryptically.

Sam shook his head in confusion. "All that saltwater get into your brain, Bronte?"

She smiled. "I once heard a story about a ship so long at sea, the captain was forced to reduce rations to only a spoonful of mush and corn a day. For two weeks the crew survived on this and finally, with only three day's rations left, they reached port. Later the captain discovered the crew had a pact. If they ran out of food, they'd kill and eat the captain, then follow on down the line of rank until they reached shore. I wanted more than a few spoonfuls of mush between us and the next meal."

Sam gulped. "You don't think our crew would do that, do you?"

She gave Sam a grim smile, thinking of how much he himself hated the thought of going hungry. "When a man is reduced to starvation, anything can happen."

Sam looked at his plate and uttered a prayer of thanks it held pork.

"Enough of that, now. How are we going to capture that ship in the offing? We'll be at a loss for speed with our keel so low in the water."

"Because the hulls are bursting with gold! Whyever do you still want that ship? Don't you think we should make berth as soon as we're able?"

"Sam, I'm surprised at you! Has having a full belly dulled your senses? You can't eat gold! We're after food, of course! As much as they've got!" And a bit of revenge.

Sam smiled widely. "Right! And rum!"

"And rum," she conceded. "But we have to think of a way to get them to come to us. I doubt with this load we could catch a sea cow," Bronte said offhandedly.

"I don't see why they would. Unless they think we've got something they need," Sam remarked.

"That's it! It's genius!" Bronte said.

"It's what?" Sam asked.

"We need to figure out what they want," Bronte said in an 'it should be obvious' tone.

Sam's face brightened. "What does every man want? Remember those silks?"

"Aye," she answered cautiously. "Wait, you don't mean...."

But the twinkle in Sam's eye confirmed her fears. Bronte wished she hadn't been so insistent he help with the plan. Now she had to convince him to leave her out of it.