On a Caribbean twilight when the sea was burgundy and speckled with dying stars, a brigantine ship rolled the Windward Passage between Cuba and Hispaniola. She went by the name Scourge, and she was not alone on those waters.

Martin Hamish leaned against the starboard gunwale tracing long oil ovals over the railing with a horsehair brush when the call cawed from the crow's nest.

'Sails ho! Ship off the port quarter!'

The silence had been so dense, and he so wrapped up in his own thoughts, that when the bell cracked through, he froze in place and refused to stir until the main hatch burst open behind him. He turned and watched in amazement as all the men below scurried out like fleeing rats, some trampling each other underfoot as they tried in vain to pull themselves free of their nightshirts and slip boots onto their blackened feet.

The ship, which before had been as silent as the damned, hummed with life as the topmen leapt onto the shrouds and clambered up into the rigging. Deckhands scrambled to roll out the cannons while the gunning crews kicked open the crates of powder and shot, then shouldered their ramrods for action. Martin stood there slack jawed, watching the ship come alive in an instant.

What am I supposed to do? Martin asked himself. He looked down at the paintbrush in his hand, and then back at the starboard gunwale. He'd spent all night slathering it in wood oil, and had done a good job of it too, but now his efforts seemed futile, and even a little pathetic. Why had he been so proud of himself before now? A coat of oil did nothing against a cannonball, and no one ever noticed it anyway.

Martin's heart skipped as the door to the cabin under the quarterdeck slammed open. Captain Percival stepped out; his face, as pale as bone, glowed beneath a wreath of black curls that stretched from his chin down to his chest. His black hair was slicked back behind his head with coiled tips dancing around his neck. Over his shoulder was slung a leather bandolier with four pistols, swinging like hanged men from their holsters. From under the brim of his hat, the Captain's dark eyes swept the ship from port to starboard.

'All hands to stations!' the Captain bellowed like a tempest. Martin hadn't been sure the crew could go much faster than they already were, but at the Captain's bellow, he was amused to be proven wrong. The men on deck hopped around like boiling beans, eager to be the first to complete his task and avoid the Captain's famous wrath. 'Double time! Full-sail!' the Captain barked. Then his eye fell on Martin. The boy's flesh hardened. In spite of all he told himself, his instincts forced him still, even though it was possibly the worst thing he could have done. On this, he was disappointed to be proven right.

'You!' The Captain snarled. His eyes burned and Martin shuddered as the tall man stepped forward and seized him by the collar. He growled like an animal with his teeth bared, and Martin beheld the bearded face of Satan himself. 'Put down that bloody paintbrush and get to your sorry arse to your station!'

Martin trembled, sweat thickening on his brow. 'But I don't-.'

'Now! Before I throw you to the sharks!' The Captain tossed Martin aside so hard that he tripped on his own heel and toppled backwards, his paintbrush cartwheeling through the air and into the open hold. Martin watched it bounce around the deck then disappear with a plop into the bilge water below.

Would if I could do the same, Martin thought.

'I want that ship hauled-in before sun-up!' the Captain roared over the din the crew. 'If you dogs let her slip out of our grasp, I'll find the bastard responsible and nail him to the yardarm by his ankles!'

That was all the motivation anyone needed, and Martin sprang to his feet. The Scourge picked up speed and bucked over the billowing waves. The wind stung Martin's face as he looked about him for something to do. His eye fell upon a number of his crewmen tugging desperately at a halyard, unsure of what it was they were trying to achieve. Instinctively, he lunged forward and grabbed up the length of rope that trailed, but his presence was barely noted and at least he looked busy, which meant he could keep one eye on the Captain without reprisal.

'Mister Ratchett, what's the prize?' the Captain asked as he mounted the quarterdeck.

The Quartermaster lowered his spyglass and flashed a satisfied smirk. 'Schooner, sir. Two masts. Sixty tonnes, at a guess. Trim as a sparrow but overburdened, so it looks. She's limping through the water.'

'Guns?' The Captain stared out at the dark blotch growing on the horizon.

'Ten at most, sir,' the Quartermaster sniggered. 'Four a side with two at her bow. We can take her, don't you worry.'

'Whose colours does she fly?'

'She doesn't have any.' The Quartermaster's eyes were dark with malice as he grinned up at the Captain. 'Probably a merchant vessel just pulled out of Havana.'

'That's even more reason to take her. What say you, lads?' The Captain turned back to the weatherdeck and raised his voice, not in a bellow, but in the confident snarl of a natural-born commander. 'She as good as ours?'

The crew roared with demonic glee, rattling their rusted swords and brandishing their axes. Martin reached for his own cutlass, but before he could wrestle it free of his sword belt, the cheer had died and his crewmates held their breath to await the Captain's next order.

'That settles it.' the Captain barked. 'Reef the sails to half-mast! Load the long-nines; larboard side!'

As the crew dispersed, Martin jerked his head left towards the approaching ship. Some impulse - a kernel of curiosity - pressed him to get a better look. Martin threw himself against the portside gunwale as the Scourge lurched over a wave, looped an arm around the main-mast's shroud to brace himself, and watched with nervous excitement as the schooner grew closer and closer. He decided that this should be his battle station.

'Load the port guns,' the Gunner ordered. 'Five: paper and powder. Remaining: all chainshot.'

'Warning shots on Mister Tyrell's command,' the Captain ordered. 'But be ready for a chase if they try to scarper.' He then turned to the skinny sailor at the ship's wheel. 'Mister Stigs, adjust course twenty degrees to port.'

'Aye, Captain,' the Helmsman gave a toothless grin, then dipped his bald head and wrenched the wheel around until the Scourge was on course to head off the schooner.

'Broadsides at the ready!' the Gunner cried. 'Ready to fire on my mark!'

'Aim for the rigging, Mister Tyrell' the Captain cautioned. 'We're not to sink her, just wound her.'

The Gunner nodded, then turned back to his crews. 'At the rigging! Keep her in your sights! Ready on the fuses and hold 'em steady!'

The Captain propped himself against the gunwale and licked his cracked lips. 'Wine. I can taste it already. Do you know how long it's been since I last clapped eyes on a cup of wine? Too long. Tonight, we'll feast like kings, the lot of us. I'll not have this ship escape. We'll have that feast.' He turned to the Quartermaster. 'To your station, Mister Ratchett. Ready for battle.'

'Aye, sir.' The Quartermaster swallowed, adjusted the sword at his hip and put a hand to the musket slung over his shoulder. Before descending the quarterdeck, he patted the Captain on the shoulder. 'God be with us all.'

The Captain ignored this and raised his hand. At the drop of his arm, they were ready to unleash Hellfire, and in the anticipation they all felt, no one dared to speak. The whole ship fell as silent as the grave.

As Martin watched the ship grow closer and closer, making no move to falter or turn away, his excitement had mellowed and his curiosity had soured into confusion.

They must be able to see us, he thought. Why aren't they turning to engage or run away? Usually, they'd've surrendered by now. So, what's keeping them?

'On my command,' the Captain murmured, though his voice still rolled like thunder through their chests. Only the Scourge creaked and cracked in response to her master. 'Steady, boys. Steady...'

Martin squinted towards the schooner, shading his eyes from what he thought was the flash of dawn breaking over the horizon. That can't be the Sun, he thought. Peering closer, he thought he could see the soft glow of the morning sun peeking through the gaps in the schooner's rigging. Then he realised that the orange-red light wasn't behind the schooner at all; it was inside the schooner. She's on fire...

'Captain!' Martin cried, shrill as a seagull's laugh. The Captain turned, ready to unleash his wrath on the unruly brat that dared interrupt the sacred silence, until Martin pointed towards the schooner. 'They're on fire!'

A murmur of confusion sloshed across the deck. The cannoneers peeked over their guns a little less warily, whilst the topmen hung from the masts and shrouds for a better view.

'Ratchett, your glass. Quickly!' Ratchett shouldered his carbine and handed the Captain the glass from his belt. The Captain raised it to his shrivelled, age-bitten eye and pointed it out towards the schooner.

Martin was right. At a distance, the slim-hulled ship looked no different from any other on that vast blue plain, but a closer look revealed that the lower deck was glowing, and a thin column of smoke marked their trail, more visible now that dawn cracked the sky. The schooner heaved over a white-tipped wave, sending a plume of fire and smoke billowing from every splinter and nail-hole, like tongues of flame escaping hot coals.

As the schooner listed sideways, there was a gasp that rumbled through the Scourge. The crew atop and aloft saw the truth for themselves; there wasn't a single man on board the schooner. No scout; no deckhand; no carpenter; no passenger; no cabin boy; no captain. But, most alarmingly, there was no helmsman. The ship's sails were unfurled and secure, but the wheel swayed from side to side as free as the breeze.

Before another moment passed, the schooner listed to port and her bowsprit pointed straight at them.

'She's veering into our path,' Ratchett whimpered. 'If we hold this course, she'll cut us in half.'

'Hard to starboard! Trim the sails off the wind!' the Captain bellowed without a second's hesitation.

'It's no good, Captain,' one of the topmen hollered. 'She's going too fast. She'll be on us in seconds.'

The Captain spat, cursing the Devil in a hawk of gob. Another second passed before the Captain roared again.

'Drop starboard anchor!'

'Belay that! We're going too fast,' the Quartermaster implored. 'We'll tear it off the ship!'

'Better an anchor be at the bottom of the sea than us,' the Captain said, quenching his rage. 'It's your call, Mister Quartermaster, but make it quick.'

Ratchett bit his lip and looked about the ship, then looked out to the slim schooner barrelling toward them like the blade of a dagger ready to slice through an artery.

'Anchors aweigh, lads!'

There were a few brief murmurs from the crew, but they were instantly dispelled by the Captain.

'You heard him! Drop that anchor into the brine!'

The crew blurted out their agreement. The capstan was loosed and the anchor plunged into the depths with a crash. The cable uncoiled, then hung loose as the anchor hit the seafloor and screeched like a banshee across the bedrock below.

'Come on, bite' the Captain muttered under his breath, praying to any god that would listen.

The cable snapped tight as the anchor yawned and bit into the seabed.

'Brace, lads! Hold for all you're worth!' The Captain clasped hold of the railing, veins popping in his arms, his knees bent to take the impact.

The Quartermaster, like the Captain, clung to the railing closest to him. The Gunner found a rope tangled around the rigging, which he wound around his arm. The helmsman didn't move, clinging hard to the wheel already and with his legs so bowed that if he'd bent them anymore, he would walk like a crab.

Martin's heart leapt into his throat. He looked around for something to grab, but most of the handholds were already claimed. Almost on instinct, he climbed the shroud up to the mainmast and fastened his arms around it.

An almighty moan, like the cry of a whale, rumbled through the planks. The anchor cable wheezed, and the Scourge pitched. The ship started to slow and list to port. Martin felt the masts tilt almost until the keel rose out of the water. The Scourge let out a roar of agony. A dry crack shocked the crew out of their skins and the capstan was wrenched from the deck, held on by only a few of the remaining rotting planks.

The crew were knocked from their feet. The Captain and the Quartermaster leant against the pitch as any skilled sailor would counter the roll of the deck in a storm. The rope tightened around the Gunner's bulging arm and cut into his flesh, but he was just able to keep himself upright. The helmsman misjudged the swing of the craft and the wind was knocked from his chest as he jolted forward, his rib cracked against a handle of the wheel.

Martin clung to the rigging as hard as his oiled hands would allow. He gritted his teeth as the rope peeled the flesh from his palms and his fingers threatened to snap under his weight.

A narrow-eyed Scotsman below him was less fortunate. The cannon that he had anchored himself to broke free of its binds and knocked him on his back. He screeched and cursed foul, tormented oaths as the near-four tonne gun flattened his shin. Muscle burst through his skin like the flesh of a ripe grape when squeezed, the bone crushed to powder.

Bottles, crates, and barrels rolled from their holds and crashed loudly below the deck.

The Scourge breathed a sigh of relief as it balanced itself upright again. The crew sighed too as they peeled themselves off the walls, masts or cargo they had clung to, some more successfully than others.

Before they had time to truly relax, the schooner, flames now prying through the gaps in the warping deck, rasped past, missing them by a hair's breadth. The heat of the fire wafted over them like a summer breeze.

Their eyes had not deceived them; there wasn't a single soul on board. The condition of the hull, apart from the fact it was on fire, was remarkable. There was not a hole, gouge, or scratch anywhere along its length.

It looked as though the crew had all vanished where they had stood.

The schooner limped forward a few more paces until the name on the stern – Saint George – was almost unreadable. It struck a sandbank along the shore of the nearby island, now just visible in the dawn.

As the figurehead climbed into the air, the hull moaned then tore itself in half. The bow collapsed black and burning onto the shallow embankment, whilst the stern crackled and sagged into the sea, dousing the flames but disintegrating like charcoal salts in the water.

'Heavens preserve us,' the Quartermaster murmured, forming the sign of the cross against his chest. 'What in the name of God happened here?'

'It was the Devil!' one of the deckhands whimpered. 'The Devil sails that ship! If we stay here, he'll board and take us all too! Take us to his fiery lair.'

'Belay that!' the Captain roared.

The crew straightened and bit their tongues.

Martin near jumped out of his skin.

'Ain't no devil in these waters but me, and don't any of you forget it. It were man that set that ship alight, and I see nothing but a naked ship and a cargo just itching to be took. The longer you stand here squawking like handmaids, the more of it'll be lost to the fire. Every able-bodied man to the longboats. We salvage what we can. Get to it!'

The crew bumped into each other as they hurried to pack up their tools and launch the skiffs. Martin was almost trampled underfoot in their wake.

The Captain caught the Quartermaster's shoulder, turning his back on the crew and leaning into his ear.

'Keep an eye out. If this wasn't some accident, whoever did this must be close. I'll not give them the chance to turn the Scourge to charcoal, too.'

'Aye, sir.'

The Quartermaster watched and waited to see if the line where the sea met the sky would open and spit out the harbinger of their doom.