'Two mast. Twenty cannon, nine and twelve pounders. At least a hundred men. Flying Dutch colours.' the Quartermaster lowered his spyglass and sighed. 'She's well-built, at any rate.'

'And if I'm sure of anything,' the Captain cut in. 'It's that no one aboard that ship is Dutch.'

'So, she's the ship you've been so afraid of,' the Quartermaster muttered, then caught the Captain's eye. 'Sorry, I mean, wary of. Anyway, I'm not surprised. She outguns, outmans and out-armours us. She looks a tough beastie.' The Quartermaster rested his elbow against the stern railing and watched as the nimble brig behind them skipped across the water towards the sloop's resting place. 'And I assume she won't be friendly.'

'Perhaps at first,' Black Hal remarked, chewing the inside of his cheek. 'But that's just to lure you in. Van den Berg is more cunning a devil than I first imagined. And I'm not keen on staying here a moment longer. We need to catch the wind and sail fast.'

The Captain turned on his heel, but the Quartermaster caught him by the shoulder.

'Sir, we can't outrun them. Not with the Scourge in such bad shape.'

'She'll take it. She has to. We'll cut across the Cape, hug the coast as close as possible and catch the highest wind.'

'What does it matter, Hal?' the Quartermaster groaned, a little impatiently. 'We'd be sailing the same wind. Even if we manage to cut a lucky breeze, their masts aren't rotten or battle-scarred. They'll catch us regardless.' The two men stood silent, watching the brigantine approach the sloop and pull up just before the shallows began, avoiding the same fate.

'We'll need to give the men all the options,' the Captain passed a hand through his black beard. 'The Scourge is their ship as much as it's ours, and we can't let them think they have no control. The last thing we need right now is for their morale to buckle. If we fall apart now, we're all doomed.'

'Whatever you think of, you'd better think of it quick. We can keep sailing; try and put as much distance between us and them, but within the hour they'll have collected all the survivors from the Dragon and they'll be coming for us. We can't fight them; we can't outrun them. So, what do we do?'

Black Hal swallowed, then his eye turned over to the horizon ahead, where a dark cloud loomed.

'There's a third option.'

The Quartermaster followed his gaze and went as white as cheese.

'Oh, no. No, no, no. Never. Now you have gone mad. We can't just-.'

'You have any better ideas?' the Captain interrupted.

'Anything is better that that! It's certain death!'

'It's the only hope we've got. We can't just stand around chatting. Action has to be taken, whether we're ready or not. They need all the options.'

The Captain turned and marched over to the quarterdeck balcony, putting his hands on the railing.

'Listen up!' The murmur of the crew on deck abruptly ceased. 'We don't have much time. That Dutchman is coming for us. More than likely to see us sunk without so much as a word.'

There was a distressed hum as the crew whimpered between themselves and held to their lucky charms and amulets, sending up a silent prayer to God, or whoever else they believed ruled the sea.

'Why?' Young, the Carpenter's mate, folded his arms across his chest. 'Why are they attacking us? We don't have quarrel with them. Why are they trying to kill us?'

'Shut it, boy!' the Carpenter smacked his apprentice hard across the back of the head. 'Captain's talking. Don't interrupt.'

'That's enough, Ducasse,' the Captain called down. All the fire was choked from the Carpenter, and he took on the appearance of a startled cat cowering under his master's broom. 'Mister Young asks a good question. Why are we under attack? And the answer...'

Martin followed as the Captain as he stole a glance at Emily, sitting on a crate picking absentmindedly at her peeling nails, before returning to the crew. 'The... answer... is that I don't know why. All I know for certain is that I'm in no mood to stop and ask, so the best thing we can do is get out of here as fast as possible.'

The crew all murmured their assent, which was cut short by the Quartermaster rapping the butt of his musket against the deck.

'Captain's still talking,' he yapped. There were a few sniggers, mocking the Quartermaster's attempt to play battlemaster.

'Thank you, Ratchett,' Black Hal grumbled before turning back to his crew. 'The way I see it, lads, there are only three ways we're getting out of this. The first, we run as fast as we can keeping a broad reach against the coast, and pray we can outrun them. Problem with this is that their ship is solidly rigged. Even with the best of winds behind us, she'll keep on our tail and catch us. It'd only be a matter of time. The second, is we turn and fight.' There was an instant uproar as the crew bellowed their disagreement in unison. 'Quiet!' the Captain roared. A hush fell across the deck again, broken only by a few nervous coughs. 'I don't need to explain to you why going head-to-head with two ships in one day isn't a good option, but nonetheless, it is an option.'

There was a long, painful silence punctuated by the Captain's defeated sigh.

'So... what's the third option, Captain?' one of the deckhands hanging off the starboardside shroud asked. 'You said there were three options, right?'

'That's right,' the Captain said, less powerfully than before, as if the wind had been knocked from his sails. 'And you're not going to like it. To all of you, it might sound like the most stupid option, but Mister Ratchett and myself, happen to think it's the only option.'

The Quartermaster shot the Captain a look of silent outrage at having his name hijacked.

'It's dangerous,' the Captain continued, 'but that's what we're banking on. No sailor in their right mind would follow another ship into it, even for all the gold of Spain. We'll be able to outrun them, cut-off their line of sight and hopefully slip away without a trace.'

'Then, what is it, for God's sake?' one of the gunning crew insisted.

The Captain sighed again, hanging his head between his shoulders before lifting his finger and pointing out over the bow.

'We sail... through that.'

Martin followed the Captain's gesture along with the crew to a dark spot on the sea where the clouds were black and heavy, all light sapped from the world below. There was a low rumble as a white flash burst from one of the clouds, then jumped behind another, before settling.

At this, the crew went hysterical, shouting up at the Captain with outrage.

'Lunatic! Madman!' a few cried up at him.

'That storm's a ship-killer!' one shouted. 'Nothing could survive that!'

'It's suicide, that's what it is!' another agreed. 'Sheer, ruddy suicide!'

'The Captain's lost his mind!' one of the topmen yelled. 'He'd rather see us drowned than surrender! He's choosing our death over his pride!'

'Surrender is not an option!' the Captain pounded the railing with his fist, and all again was silent. 'Surrender means certain death for us all. No quarter will be shown. They will slaughter us all one-by-one and burn the ship to ashes, just as they did the Saint George. If we are to see this through, we've only those three possibilities of surviving. So, what's is it going to be? Certain death or the roll of the dice? I know which a man with half an ounce of bravery would take, do you?'

The hiss that ebbed across the deck was mutinous. Martin felt the heat of the crew's growing fury as they mirrored Black Hal's outward temper, but he knew were tensions to suddenly break, the Captain would struggle to fight back. Not just because he would be just one man facing fifty, but from what Martin had seen of him over those last few days, his heart may not have been as black as he'd like the world to believe. In a sense, his crew were his family, and Martin understood his plight.

'Now, now,' the Quartermaster chuckled nervously as he raised his hands to divert the crew's attention. 'We're all tired, and we're all upset. We've had a long, tragic day, and none of us are in the right mind to make any decisions yet. Our situation is somewhat urgent, but lucky for us, it'll take that Dutchman a good while to salvage the Welsh Dragon for supplies and survivors. That gives us time to breath and to-.'

There was another, louder rumble.

Martin lifted his head and saw that the gunports on the portside of the Dutch Brig had burst open and were spitting flames. The crack of their guns shook the crew in their skins, the sound threatening to shake the cliff loose, as the Dutch ship bombarded the little sloop in a torrent of cannon shot. Mounted on its rock, the sloop withstood the first barrage, but after the third, there was an unholy yawn and snap as the hull twisted and shattered into kindling.

He could see the small dots of marooned crewmen waving their arms to surrender before being engulfed in a hailstorm of rock-shards and dust, their bodies to be swallowed by the foaming sea with what remained of their ship.

The Dutch brig then loosed her sails to full canvas and turned to face the Scourge.

'Thinking time's over,' Black Hal grumbled, his eyes wide and full of terror. 'We must decide now. I call for a vote. All in favour of taking our chances and sailing the coast, raise your hands.'

The eyes of the crew darted over at the brig rapidly closing the gap between them, rolling over the waves like a twig and cutting over with the speed of a jungle cat. Only about three or four stragglers at the bow of the ship, who'd only heard the announcements in whispers, raised their hands.

'All in favour of turning and fighting?'

The crew darted their gaze over to the smouldering remnants of the Welsh Dragon as the swelling sea picked up and dropped the dismembered planks, staves and bodies over the rocks. No one raised their hands.

'All in favour of braving the storm?'

The crew turned for one final look at the dark clouds that loomed out to sea, then back to the Dutch brig, which seemed to cast an even darker shadow in its wake. There was a short pause, then one-by-one most of the crew reluctantly raised their hands, Martin being one of the last.

'Very well,' the Captain said, pushing off the balustrade and nodding to the crew as they lowered their arms. 'Give her all the sail she can muster and let's make a beeline for that storm. When she's skipping, batten down the ports and hatches. Mister Ulrich will oversee.'

'Aye, Captain,' the Bosun gave a quick nod then turned to the crew. 'Come on you lazy dogs! There's work needs doing! Hop to it!'

'Pump crews work in shifts with the gunning crews,' the Captain continued. 'Double rations for those working the bilges. Any volunteers would be welcome. Report to Mister Tyrell. He'll organise the watches.'

'Aye, sir!' Tyrell saluted, then followed his gunning crews down into the bowels of the ship.

'Anything loose and heavy I want evened out and fasted down. I don't want so much as a chair rolling around the deck. Mister Ratchett, make sure the cargo and cannons are secure.'

'I really hope you know what you're doing, Hal,' the Quartermaster whispered in the Captain's ear.

'What other choice do we have?' the Captain whispered back. 'Check the cargo and cannons, and make sure the longboats are fastened and stocked with provisions... just in case.'

'Aye,' the Quartermaster nodded gravely, then jogged down the gang-way and began yelling orders at the busy crew.

'Miss Morton, I'm sorry to have to ask you this,' the Captain began. 'But it's going to be a hard fight, and I need all hands on deck, including yours. Are you up to pulling rank with the lads to help see us through?'

Emily shot a nervous glance at Martin.

He nodded and smiled in a way that he hoped conveyed without saying: "It's alright, you can do this. I believe in you."

'Of course, Captain Percival. I'll do what I can.'

He nodded appreciatively.

'Mister Hamish,' the Captain bellowed with a sternness that almost made Martin jump out of his skin.

'Y-yes, Captain?'

'I don't need to tell you that this will be extremely hard. We'll all be working our fingers to the bone to keep this ship afloat, but that won't mean Jack if you can't keep us steady. Everyone is counting on you to outmanoeuvre every wave and keep her from capsizing best you can. Can you do that?'

Martin thought about the forty-five men bustling on deck, and how every one of them could be snuffed out if he turned the wheel too sharply or didn't turn it enough. Everything hung on his ability to master the waves, and he felt whatever confidence he had in him drain out of his boots. But, as he looked up at the Captain, who gave him a warm smile and tipped the brim of his hat towards him, Martin knew that he was all Black Hal had to keep the ship afloat. Martin was as much his family as any man aboard, and he trusted him to do what was needed to keep all their lives safe.

'Aye, Captain,' he swallowed then nodded back.

'Good lad.'

***

The Scourge lurched forward, hugging close to the coast at first to catch the wind and ride the shallow waves. The Dutch brig tailed them like a shadow that grew closer as the sun rose.

They kept tight on the Scourge's tail until the first drops of rain flecked the faces of her crew.

'They're turning away!' cried the topmen from above, in the hopes that the news would convince the Captain that all was well, and they could sail for safer, dryer skies.

'Stay this course, Mister Hamish,' the Captain ordered. 'Into the belly of the storm we ride!'

The sails snapped against the yardarms and the mast began to yaw and creak.

'Reef the mains 'fore she tears herself to shreds!' the Bosun shouted as the wind picked up speed and rushed into a roaring gale.

Martin held tight to the ship's wheel. As the sky above them darkened, the rain ceased to trickle and began instead to lash at his flesh. The helm seemed to take on a life of its own, trying to pull itself free of his grasp.

Even as the darkest curtain of the storm lay as of yet undisturbed, the sea was already boiling with an unholy fury. Waves climbed to a quarter the height of the main mast, at first just rolling and rocking the ship, but when they developed white peaks, the ocean began its siege.

'Rogue!' a deckhand shouted as he pointed towards the bow at a dark, inky wall of water stampeded towards them. 'Brace yourselves!'

Martin anchored his leg under the wheel after he wrestled the ship head-on against the charging wave.

The Scourge's bow crashed through, sending suds of water splashing over the deck. The crew held as best they could to whatever was bolted down, but even those with tight grips and strong backs found their legs swept from beneath them. Crewmates with loose grips or any cargo that wasn't fastened down were thrown backwards as the ship hit the black sea with a thud, landing sharply on the deck.

'That's just for starters, boys!' the Captain cried. 'They'll only get tastier from here! Hamish, keep us breaking through those waves head-on as best you can.'

'Aye, Captain!' Martin nodded, not daring to take his hand off the wheel to salute.

'Ratchett! Get those yards lowered. We're too top-heavy. Weather gets any worse, we'll capsize in seconds.'

'A-aye, Captain,' the Quartermaster turned his eyes up at the yawning yards swinging in the wind, daunted by the enormity of such an undertaking.

The waves grew more violent. The sun was almost completely blotted from the sky. The waves tossed and tore at the Scourge, fighting like a shiver of sharks taking bites from a bloated whale.

'Heave, lads! Heave!' the Quartermaster watched the yard as the crew below tugged at the halyards and took the weight. The rain slashed their cheeks, and the rope tore chunks of bloodied skin from their calloused palms.

Emily Morton did her best to hold fast to the halyard along with the rest of the well-muscled crew. In spite of the sea spitting cold daggers at her back, the rope cutting her soft hands almost down to the raw bone, and the creaking of her own back as the yard tugged in return, she held with the rest.

It was like a fight against the sea itself, and they all seemed doomed to lose.

'Hold her steady, boys!' one of the topmen above cried down as he wrestled with the tightly wound hitch, trying to unfasten the crosstree. 'Schleckt! Unhook that rigging!'

'I'm doing it, I'm doing it!' Schleckt shouted, a rush of wind battering their ears. 'There's a place in Hell for whoever tied this!'

'If we don't get this down, we could all be rapping on the door soon enough! Cut it if you have to!'

Schleckt looped an arm around the mast, and with shaking, frozen fingers, he fumbled for his knife.

Martin squinted up at the darkened sky, then gasped when he realised that what he was staring at was not sky, but a behemoth of a wave the height of the foremast; a solid wall of water. He turned the ship to meet it head-on, and braced his leg against the wheel.

'Rogue wave! Brace up!' he called out as loud as his lungs would allow.

Most of the crew on deck held to rope, railing or solid cargo, but the warning only reached two men aloft as a shrill squeak.

'Wha's that?' Schleckt shouted down at Martin with a hand to his ear. But it was too late.

The Scourge's bow ploughed through the giant wave with a ferocious growl, water crashing over the deck.

The halyard crew held tight to their ropes, Emily's scream drowned by the flood.

Martin's chest struck the wheel again, the bruise on his ribcage now so tender that he barely he could barely feel it.

From above though, there was a cry which grew louder and louder, then suddenly shot past the crew's ears, cut off by a sharp splash, barely audible over the roaring waves.

'Man overboard!' the topman above whimpered. Martin turned his head to starboard and watched the black, churning mass of water consume all signs of life within.

'It's Schleckt!' Jacobi dashed to the starboard railing. 'Where is he?! Can anyone see him?!'

'What's it matter?' Jennes drawled. 'A fall from that height and waves that hungry. He's fish-food, now.'

Martin looked out to the pitch-black ocean, and was about to resign Schleckt to a watery grave when he heard a spluttering gasp, followed by a desperate wail.

'Help! God, someone help me! Help m-,' cut short by bubbles as the voice was momentarily swallowed by the sea, then resurfaced again gasping.

Martin craned his neck, and in the dim light he could just about see the pale visage of a man thrashing about in the depths, kicking and lashing just before another wave swallowed his head.

'Schleckt's alive!' Martin cried out. 'He made it! He's alive! He needs help!' The yawn of the Scourge and the shriek of another gust of unrelenting wind drowned his cry. He could hear Schleckt's pleas for help swimming further and further from the ship, until Schleckt had almost drifted past the stern.

Against every impulse, his heart overruled his head. He abandoned the wheel and lunged for a coil of rope hung lazily over a belaying pin.

'Help me! Please! Someo-,' Schleckt was swallowed again, this time emerging from beneath the waves in a fit of sobbing chokes.

'Schleckt! Catch the line!' Martin heaved the rope overboard. It sprang open in the air, then landed with a plop onto the abyss, seeming to come alive like a water-snake in search of its quarry. There was silence as Martin braced himself against the railing, searching the darkness and following the rope as it wormed its way across the undulating darkness.

Suddenly, the end of the coil was snatched down into the dark mire. Schleckt's head burst forth in a hailstorm of seafoam. He clutched at the rope with both hands, hugging it close to his chest as his breath shredded his throat with great, rasping wheezes. The line snapped tight against the railing and Martin felt Schleckt's weight leaning on his back.

'Hold on, Schleckt! Just hold on!' Martin passed the rope hand-over-hand as fast as he could until the line was a blur. 'I've got you; don't worry!' Martin could see Schleckt straining to keep his head above the waves, and failing miserably, as each hill swallowed him almost whole.

Then, Schleckt let out a blood-curdling whimper and Martin froze dead in his tracks.

'What is-?'

'Don't stop!' Schleckt burbled back. 'The line's breaking!' Martin looked down and saw that mid-way between them, the rope was splitting into fine hairs. With every second that passed, a new strand plucked itself free from the coil.

'Quick! Schleckt!' Martin cried out as his heart jumped into life again, yanking the rope until he felt his bones would splinter. 'Climb up from your side! Stay ahead of the break!' Schleckt, weak though he was, began to crawl up his length of line, becoming more and more panicked as it unwound and snapped faster.

'Rogue wave!' echoed the cry from on high.

Martin looked behind him to see a dark, towering wave, bigger than the previous two, out at the larboard side at a distance but rolling in fast.

'No, no, no!' Martin stared at the stampeding wave in disbelief. 'Not now! Why now?!'

'Hamish!' he heard the Captain's voice. 'Bring her about! What the Hell are you doing, man?! Get back to your station!'

Martin stared down at the rope in his hands. If he didn't let go, chances are he'd never make it in time. The wave would crash into the ship and they'd likely capsize. The ship would go down; taking everyone with her. But, on the other hand, he had a rope with a human life at its end. A life that hung solely in his hands. If he let go, Schleckt would die. No bargaining, no second chances; just a cold, dark grave. If he tried to reel Schleckt in, chances are that a lot more people would die – Emily, or the Captain, for instance – but how could he just let go of the rope and let Schleckt float away; a death for which he would now be responsible.

Martin paused a moment longer, his chest tight and his heart racing. The line was fraying. The wave was charging. Then, as he looked towards the swinging wheel, he suddenly thought: Why can't I do both?

'Keep climbing, Schleckt! I'm going to get you out of this!' Martin hauled the line over his shoulder and marched. The rope cut into his back as he strode across the deck to the helm. When he reached the wheel, the shadow of the towering wall stretched overhead. He cut the excess rope with his knife and hitched the live end onto a spoke. It snapped tight against the barrel and began to pull to starboard before Martin caught it. The tension in the wheel from the storm and Schleckt's weight almost bent his forearm double as he angled himself and pushed to port with all his might. At first, the wheel yawned in protest, then suddenly lurched into life and began to spin as if it had a mind of its own, winding the line in like a spool of anchor cable.

'Schleckt! You still there?'

'God, pull me in!' he pleaded. 'Hurry! Please!'

'Just hold on, Schleckt! It'll be alright!' Martin lied, more-so to himself than anyone else.

The Scourge turned to port to meet the towering wave. She dipped as the water swelled and Martin anchored his leg against the wheel. He stared over to the line and saw the frayed knot just peeking over the railing. His heart sank as he watched it crack and buckle.

'Oh, God!' Schleckt cried out from under the din of the roaring sea. 'The line! Someone help! Please!'

'Just... Just hold on, Schleckt!' Martin groaned as he held the wheel tight. He almost sobbed as his own bones began to creak with searing pain leaping from joint-to-joint like lightning between the clouds above.

'No, no, no! The line! Hamish, the line! It's going!' Martin stared in horror as the frayed line spun into a nest, only a few strands holding the two pieces together.

'Just... Just... Help! Someone help!' Martin cried out. No one but the raging sea responded.

As the bowsprit pierced the rushing wave, a roar cracked the sky open and the Scourge bucked with a crash. A flood leapt over the deck as the final strand of the rope snapped.

'Schleckt, no!' Martin cried out. Schleckt screamed.

There was a snap as the rope Schleckt was holding pulled tight and held him just above the water. Martin stared as Captain Percival held the line, wrapping it twice around his wrist, then looping his arm around a belaying pin.

'Brace yourselves!' he bellowed.

The wave rushed the Scourge's deck, engulfing everything but the masts in darkness. Emily's shrill squeal pierced Martin's ears just before it was drowned. He himself screamed as the white tips of the broken wave crashed over the gangway and swallowed him whole, he clawed onto the wheel with all his strength.

The Scourge was almost eaten by the sea, but against all expectations, she fought her way out of its cold embrace and rose again, breaching the water like a whale and crashed back down onto the waves in triumph.

There was a cacophony of soaked chokes as the flood drained over the sides and the crew were released from their watery holds. Emily's fox-red hair was drenched to wine, her eyes were dark with cold, but she held tight to the halyard even as some of the other sailors had slipped and flopped on the deck, gasping for air.

'Come on, ladies!' Emily cackled, breaking into a hoarse cough. 'Heave-ho! This stick isn't going to lower itself! Heave!'

The halyard's hands all looked to each other in amazement, then shrugged and leapt to their feet to join the chant.

'Heave! Heave! Heave!' They chanted together.

'Here.' the Captain held out his hand over the side. 'I've got you.' Martin secured the wheel and leapt to the side of the ship, reaching his own hand down to Schleckt to take.

'Come on, you're alright!'

Schleckt took the Captain's hand, then let go of the rope to take Martin's. It was freezing cold and shaking.

'Over you come.' the Captain groaned as he and Martin lifted Schleckt over to flop like a fish onto the deck. Schleckt slipped his hands from theirs and balled himself tight to shiver, his eyes glassy, his lips blue, his skin a putrid pale green. 'Someone fetch the Doctor! This man needs seeing to!' After he called over his shoulder, he turned and glared at Martin. His blood went icy, and his heart seized inside his throat. 'Get back to your post, Mister Hamish. Do not abandoned it again.'