'I thought I'd find you here,' the Captain tramped up the freshly flattened path to the clearing, where Martin sat on a log, poking the dew-dampened ash with a stick, trying to find a way to press the dust back into charcoal. He knew of course that it wasn't possible, but it didn't stop him hoping.

The Captain trudged through the remaining thicket and sat down in his tree-root throne.

Martin didn't look at him. He just stared at the silver dust inside the stone circle and watched as the craggy shadows of logs and twigs disintegrated at his touch.

'How are you holding up, lad?' the Captain asked, his teeth clacking on the mouthpiece of his pipe, He was content just to chew it, since there was no fire with which to light it anymore.

'Not great,' Martin muttered. He put a hand to his itching scar. The skin burned at his touch. 'I fouled everything up, just like I do with everything.'

'You did what you thought was right, there's no shame in that.'

What you thought was right. The words echoed inside Martin's head like the crack of a whip.

'Then why do I feel so ashamed?' he scoffed.

'You've nothing to be ashamed of. You were only doing what I should have done from the start; what I would have done myself had greed not blinded me,' the Captain let out a hoarse, weak chuckle. 'I should have known that money was too good to be true. She's a desperate girl, that Miss Morton. Well... Miss Ealing, I suppose. She fooled us all, and I let myself be fooled.'

'You and me both.' Martin took the stick he had been prodding the ash with and tossed it into the trees.

The Captain sniggered to himself.

'You care about her, don't you, Hamish?' Martin sat on the question for a while. He didn't have the strength to answer.

'Doesn't matter anymore. Look at what I did to her; how I made her feel. I shouldn't have opened that cylinder. I shouldn't have told everyone about it.'

'Maybe, maybe not,' the Captain pondered. 'But I'm glad you did.'

'Why's that?'

The Captain tucked his pipe into his coat, then leaned forward to catch Martin's vacant stare.

'Because it means I can trust you to tell the truth, no matter how hard or how painful. That's why I came looking for you. I want your advice.'

'Me?' Martin furrowed his brow. 'Why me? W-why not the Quartermaster or the Bosun or Doctor Cotral or-?'

'Because they are just members of the crew right now,' the Captain insisted. 'They all have their reasons to lie, or exaggerate, or withhold something, but I know from what you've done, and how you've done it, that you're the most honest of men among these salty dogs. You have a good heart and a sharp mind. You're the only man on this cursed vessel I can truly trust. So, I ask you... nay, I implore you... what should I do? What path do you think I should take? Toros or Ealing? Who do I choose?'

Martin rubbed his cheek, his finger cutting through the groove in his cheek as if it were still fresh. He felt honoured to be so trusted, but at the same time sick, his shame a reminder that he did not deserve it.

'W-w-well...' he drawled. 'Well... I... I suppose that handing over Emily would be the safest option for everyone. Chances are, she'll be allowed to live. After all, it's the cylinder Toros wants. We'll be paid, and we'll escape with our lives. No harm done.'

There hung a heavy silence.

'I sense there's a "but" in there somewhere,' the Captain punctuated.

'... but...' Martin scratched the back of his neck, which had suddenly begun to itch. 'It's also the most cowardly option, I think. And worse, if you take it, it won't just end here. How many men would tremble to a captain that traded a woman, a woman he'd sworn to protect, for his own life? Will ships still tremble in fear when they see the flag, not of the Great and Terrible Black Hal but, of Captain Percival the Coward, who let his enemy get the better of him? How would you want the world to remember Captain Henry Percival after you're gone? As the man who sold out for a handful of silver? Or as a man who charged into even the most impossible storms, and rode out the other side?'

The silence that passed between then was spent with the Captain sitting back and scratched his beard, his brow knitted, his eyes dark and searching.

Martin waited eagerly on his response.

'You're right, Hamish,' Captain Percival declared. 'Head back to camp and spread the word. We cut all losses and sail. When we're in deep waters, we'll give them Hell.'

***

Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, Captain Toros was enjoying a handful of grapes on the forecastle deck of El Terror del Mar, when he was summoned by his quartermaster. He reached the railing of the weather deck and was amazed to see that the Scourge was pulling out of the bay, dragging itself across the shallow sand until it lunged into open water. As it passed the Terror del Mar, the gunports burst open and the cannons spat shot. One of the nine-pounders bounced off the Terror's thick plated hull, while the remaining seven tore right through her bow as she passed at close range.

The Terror rocked under the power of the volley, and the crew shuddered, but Toros only grinned his terrible grin.

'And here I thought you would make it boring, my dear Captain Percival.'

He turned and barked his orders.

'They're unfurling sails!' Schleckt called down from the mast. 'They're coming!'

'At least those holes will give them something to think about,' the Captain threw his spyglass to the Quartermaster, then marched over to the quarterdeck balcony. 'Keep her steady, Mister Hamish. Get ready to turn hard to starboard on my command.'

'Aye Captain,' Martin gripped the wheel, his heart pounding against his ribs.

'Reload the guns!'

'Are you mad?!' the Quartermaster whimpered. 'We can't fight them!'

'We can't run either.' Black Hal shook his head. 'This is the only way we'll see this out.'

'You idiot!' the Quartermaster cried. 'You should have taken the deal! We could have got out of this with-.'

'Is that how you want to be remembered, Ratchett?!' Black Hal drew up to his full height and towered over the Quartermaster. 'As a coward no honour? You'd be happy to use a girl as a shield?! Be a man and have some respect for yourself! As for the rest of you sorry dogs,' the Captain leapt up onto the quarterdeck railing brandishing his sword overhead as he addressed the crew. 'Think on this. How would you like to be remembered? Would you rather be remembered by your most cowardly deed? Do we let our enemy get the better of us? Or do we fight and make them remember why they should fear us? What say you, lads? Shall we give them a taste of Hell?'

There was a horrible, heavy silence for a few seconds, before Schleckt stepped forward.

'Captain... you've got us into a damn-fool situation...'

Martin's heart dropped as Schleckt drew his sword, but then he smiled.

'But, if I get the chance to knock that bloody bastard's head off, I'll follow you once again into the jaws of death. What say you, boys?'

'Aye! I'd like my chance to knock a few heads together, why not?' Jennes raised his axe.

'Sod being cowards!' Jacobi rattled his cutlass. 'We fight.'

'Aye!' The cheer echoed across the deck.

Black Hal's broke into a smile of deepest gratitude.

'Thank you, lads. Thank you. Now... Battle stations! Let's show them what it means to cross us!'

'Aye!' this cheer was louder, broiling with fire and glory. All at once, they broke ranks and rushed about in a frenzy to prepare the charges, roll out the cannons and reef the sails.

'Miss Ealing?'

'Captain?' Emily turned and looked up at Black Hal as he took something out of his pocket and threw it down to her. She caught it, and it glinted silver in the light of a lantern.

'Keep it safe.'

She looked up and smiled.

'I will.'

'Good lass,' the Captain tipped his hat to her. 'Tyrell, get ready. They'll be coming up on the starboard side.'

The Gunner, waiting at the main hatch, nodded in answer, then turned down the gangway.

'Load starboard guns. Three; chains, the rest-!'

'All round shot.'

The Gunner stared up at the Captain in disbelief.

'A-all, sir?'

The Captain's eyes grew dark with malice.

'No mercy. So help me God, they will taste the seabed.'

The Gunner nodded, gravely. 'All round shot! Roll 'em out! We give no quarter!'

The gunports burst open. The sails reefed to half-mast. The Captain turned to Martin.

'Bring us about ninety-degrees starboard, Mister Hamish.'

'Aye, sir.' Martin used every ounce of strength he possessed to turn the wheel. First, it yawned and creaked, then, all of a sudden, sprung into life and began to twist almost of its own accord.

The Terror mirrored the turn. Their port-side gunports burst open and the eyes of ten nine-pounder cannons leering out. Both ships cornered at the same speed and their broadsides drawing parallel with agonising slowness. The guns shimmered in the evening light, the hiss of linstocks poised over their flash-pans.

Not a breath to be heard. Nothing but dead silence for what felt like an eternity.

'Open fire!' the Gunner's order rattled the silence.

'¡Abrir fuego!' A disembodied voice echoed back across the chasm.

The silence was torn to shreds by a roar, the cannons spitting fire. Round shot beat against the hull of the Terror, punching dents in her armour and puncturing her bow just below the railing.

Shots fired at the Scourge tore through her armour like crossbow bolts through paper. One of the shots screamed over the weather deck, gouging a groove in the forecastle and dismembering the leg of one of the deckhands. The other shots bore into her with deadly precision.

Martin ducked as shards of wood flew like hailstones through the air.

Emily screamed as a shot whistled past and snapped the rigging over her head.

The mast yawned, boards creaking under its weight.

Now it was a race to reload; gunner against gunner.

The crew of the Scourge scurried for the cannonballs and powder.

The Gunner yapped like an excitable dog in their ears.

'Pack it down! Load the shot! Roll it out like your life depends on it, cos it bleeding does!'

The carriages were wheeled into position, the weight of their guns too great for most men - bar sailors - but the crews managed to roll them forwards, every second seemed to stretch into an hour.

The fuses fizzed and the cannons roared. The crew above and below jeered with glee, then faded as their barrage bounced off the armoured hull with cruel ease. Then, the eyes of the Terror's guns leered out of their portholes again. Martin's heart leapt to his throat as fused touched the wicks.

The cannon-fire thundered in his chest. Smoke and flame clawed at the Scourge's hull, pummelling it to dust and sending men screaming head-over-heels into the water.

'Hamish! Hard to starboard!' the Captain bellowed as he ducked beneath the railing.

'Aye sir.' Martin tried to wrench the wheel around to port, but before he had completed a full turn, it suddenly stopped.

The Quartermaster held the wheel still. 'Hard to port.'

'W-what?'

'Get us out of here. This madness has gone far enough.'

'But the Captain-.'

'To Hell with the Captain. Hard to port. Now!'

'No,' Martin snapped, trying to wrestle the wheel back under his control.

The Quartermaster's eyes darkened and held fast. 'You still haven't learned your place, have you, you little-'

There was another peel of gunfire.

'Chains! Look out!'

Martin instinctively ducked and covered his head with his arms as a chain-shot whistled overhead. It struck with a sickening crunch, and the Quartermaster disappeared in a storm of shrapnel, reappearing as a mangled corpse as the dust settled.

The mast wailed, and the rigging above snapped like straw, until there was an almighty rasp and the ship listed to port.

The mast was torn in two.

Martin's blood ran cold, his lips trembling, as the three topmen in the rigging cartwheeled into the sea below, the sails tumbling after. The yards slipped into the water and hooked them in place like an anchor, the waterline almost reaching the railing.

'Captain!' the Bosun staggered. 'We're taking on water! The guns are out of action, we can't fire back! Your orders?'

The Captain stared out at the Terror. Instead of rolling out its guns to fire again, she turned back and reefed her sails.

Martin thought he could spy men at the Terror's railing preparing lengths of rope and tightening knots onto grappling hooks.

'They're coming back for the cylinder.' Black Hal reached for his sabre. 'Tyrell!'

'Captain?' The Gunner thundered up the gangway, breathless.

'Open the magazine and spread as much powder as you can around the hull. If they're stupid enough to board my ship, they can go down with it.'

'But... sir. The Scourge... she'll be...' the Bosun couldn't bring himself to finish.

The pained look on the Captain's face, that same look that he had when he told him about his wife, was too much for Martin to bear.

'S-she... she'll be okay. She's just a ship. Ulrich, get whoever we can spare off this sinking tub and get to shore. Swim if you have to. Don't let them find you there. Tyrell, to the powder magazine. They who remain will stand with me and make sure they can't get down to the hold before it's ready to blow.'

'And if they do make it down before we have a chance?' the Gunner asked.

The Captain gazed gravely down at him.

'Do whatever you must.'

'A-aye sir.' And with that, the Gunner and the Bosun skittered about to their work.

'Hamish!' the Captain barked. 'Get Miss Ealing and the cylinder to shore! They'll not have it if it's the last thing I do.'

Martin stared at the Captain and noticed, through all the chaos, something even stranger; Black Hal's hand was trembling. His eyes were no longer filled with fire, but with ice. He was frightened, this time more frightened than his carefully cultivated mask could hide.

'No, Captain,' Martin puffed out his chest. 'She can get to the shore on her own. You need me here.'

'Hamish, that's an order,' the Captain growled, stepping him Martin. 'Get Miss Ealing-.'

'No, Captain. I want to fight.'

'Hamish... Please, get to shore.'

'You need fighters. I can fight at your side.'

'Martin...'

'I'm not going to abandon ship. I-I'm not going to abandon you. Not now, not-.'

'Martin.' The Captain's arms closed around his shoulders as he held him tight. 'Martin... get to shore, please... for me. I need you on that shore. I need you to look after everyone in case...' His voice trailed off and he swallowed. 'Get to the shore. You're the only person I can trust to see everyone through.' He pulled back and smiled, even as Martin's face held a look of despair. His thumb traced the scar on Martin's cheek, and his smile widened. 'You're a good man, Hamish. I would have been proud to call you my son. Now, go!' He drew back and hurried down the gangway.

***

The next few minutes were chaos as Martin scoured the ship for Emily, even as he heard the Terror drawing up, scraping against the hull.

'Emily!' he cried, climbing into the lower deck. 'Emily! Where are you?!' He could see boggy-green water gushing in from the gunports where it burbled inside the belly of the yawning ship. 'Emily!'

'Martin?!' a muffled female voice begged.

'Hamish, is that you?' a stronger, male voice asked.

'Doctor Cotral?'

'Yes, we're both here!' Emily pleaded. 'Help us! We're trapped!' He could just see, shining out from the darkness, an ice-blue eye peering from a gap in the door to the Doctor's office. A stray cannon barred it from opening wide enough for their escape.

'For God's sake, get us out of here!'

'Alright! Hold on, I'm coming!'

'Hold on?! What else could we do?!'

Martin dashed to toward the door. Broken free of its binds, the cannon had rolled back and snagged on the corner wall. When he tried to roll it away, he found it gave no sign of surrender. Its weight rested too heavily against the wall to move.

That's when he noticed there was still powder in the pan; it was still loaded. Martin looked about him and found a linstock still smoking on the floor. He took it up and poised himself ready.

'Stand back from the door and cover your ears!' he shouted, touching the linstock to the wick.

The cold metal sprang into life, and there was an unholy flash of light. The cannon screamed and the planks around it whined as it flew across the deck, tearing the door from the frame in its wake and crashing into the hull where it came to a rest.

Emily rose from the corner by the cot where she had been balled up, then stared at the shattered doorframe in awe as the smoke began to clear.

'Well, that's one way of doing it.'

Martin wafted the smoke away, then offered her his hand.

'Are you alright?'

'Yes, yes. Fine, thank you, Hamish,' the Doctor pushed past Martin, choking.

'I'm alright, too,' Emily blushed, then climbed out of the surgery. 'Thank you for rescuing us.'

'Does this make us even again?'

'Now's not the time. We need to get out of here.'

'Right, sorry,' Martin shook his head. Bloody fool. 'We're not in the clear. Captain's ordered us to go to shore. Can you swim?'

Emily nodded.

'What about the cylinder? Do you still have it?'

Emily tapped the pocket of her breeches.

'Good. Let's get out of here.'

'Don't have to tell me twice,' the Doctor spluttered, then stumbled for the stairs.

As Martin followed after Emily, he caught a glance at the Gunner alone in the dark of the magazine, pouring powder into smaller barrels ready to spread throughout the hull.

***

They burst forth into the daylight, the sound of grappling hooks whistling through the air greeting them. Gunfire popped from the rigging and smoke rose into the air.

The Doctor, without much room for hesitation, dove overboard, joining the few black specs in the water clawing their way to the island.

'Quick, Emily!' Martin cried over the din of battle. 'Jump!'

Trembling, Emily stood up onto the listing balustrade. She took a deep breath, then stepped off and plunged into the dark water below.

Martin was about to follow, when a roar from the forecastle stole his attention.

The first of the Spanish privateers scaled the hull, and were met with what remained of the gunning crew, and Captain Percival swinging his sword aloft.

'Aye, come on then, ya pox-ridden bastards! Come and taste some English steel!' Even as the Captain hacked and slashed left and right, spattering himself with blood, enemies falling at his feet, their numbers grew and infected the deck. Before long, the gunning crew had vanished in a flash of silver and smoke.

Martin watched in amazement as the Captain held the rest at bay. None of the Spaniards dared approach him, favouring instead to leap over the bodies of the fallen gunner crew and dash for the gangways to flood the bowels of the ship.

'None of you dare face me, eh?' the Captain swept their blades aside with his sabre, splitting the gut of a man wielding a butcher's knife as he slashed. 'You cowards! Come forward and fight if you're man enough!'

The Captain backed against the forecastle as they closed in.

Martin felt a sudden, powerful urge to dive in, draw his sword and hack the men to pieces like a maddened bull. The Captain needed help, and in his own words, he was the only man he trusted. He would not fight alone; not anymore.

He reached for his cutlass, but as he took the weight in his hand, he noticed a flash of gold and purple leap over the bow of the ship. The blur of colour lunged forward, and Captain Percival slashed. The blur caught his wrist and, with the same motion, plunged a thin-bladed rapier through his chest. Black Hal gasped.

Time stopped. Martin felt deaf to the world around him. It was as if the blade had been pushed through his own chest, and his heart seized. His breath was robbed from his lungs, his blood ran cold, his vision darkened, and everything around him faded into a dull haze.

The Captain dropped his knees, groaning and clutching at his wound. He let out an agonized scream as the rapier was ripped from his body. The sabre fell from his grasp, and Toros picked it up, turning it in his hand, an ugly, evil grin cracking his face.

'A beautiful weapon.' He pointed the curve of the blade at the Captain's throat, tucking him under the chin with the flat. Black Hal's face pale, his lips trembling, his breath weak, looked up at the hideous grin. 'You should have taken the deal, Percival. Such a pity. We could have been such good friends. But no matter. If I cannot have your friendship, your head will do nicely instead.'

Martin gasped as Toros tapped Captain Percival's neck with the edge of the sabre, then coiled up and raised the blade over his shoulder, concentrated menace in his eye.

'CAPTAIN!' Martin screamed.

The sword hissed across the air and found its target.

A flash of white blinded Martin, a ring like church bells filled his ears. His feet lifted from the deck and his body hurtled through the air, before plunging into the water below.

Darkness consumed him. He didn't feel a thing.

***

The next thing Martin knew was the cold. His clothes were soaked with water clinging to his body like a second skin. Something sharp rasped against his bare shins.

He realised he was being dragged up a beach. His calves carved a trail in the white sand leading up from the undulating shoreline.

Schleckt and Ostrid gently lowered him down onto a crisp bank of dry grass, leaving him to stare up into the black-blue canvas above, the first stars twinkling through the veil.

'Martin? Martin? Martin?' a voice, soft and distant, echoed through his head. At first, he thought it was a dream. Then, Emily's face appeared over him wearing an expression of shock and fear, her ice-blue eyes wild, her hair damp, her lips trembling.

'Doctor, is he alright?'

'I think so.' The Doctor's face appeared, calmer, but still ebbing with terror. 'I-I think he's coming round now.'

'Hamish?' Schleckt's face lurched into view, and the pain in his head thudded as his hand patted his cheek. 'Hamish? Can you hear us? Ham-?'

'I...I can hear you,' Martin groaned.

'Thank God,' Emily breathed a sigh of relief.

'You're alright, Hamish. Can you feel anything broken?'

'N-no... nothing broke-.' Then he remembered what happened before the flash of light. His heart ebbed a dull beat in his chest, and he was overcome with a feeling of panic and dread. 'T-The Captain...'

He sat bolt upright, narrowing avoiding headbutting his companions. His eyes adjusted to the light, the horizon ahead shredded by the sun, but as things came into focus, he realised that the ominous, orange glow was the light of a fire.

The burning remnants of the Scourge lay twisted and mangled in the sea, standing proud from the surface like an effigy to a terrible protean god. The powder store had gone up and torn her open from the inside.

El Terror del Mar, charred but otherwise unscathed, bobbed merrily beside her, the crew jigging and jeering. Even from all that distance away, and in the dark, Martin could have sworn he could see gold and purple pacing about on her deck. His chest burst with rage and despair. Every vein in his body burned. He darted up, and the Doctor caught him by the wrist.

'Easy, Hamish. You're not-.'

'Let go of me!' Martin snatched his wrist back and stormed towards the shoreline. 'He needs me!'

'Martin, stop,' Emily begged. 'Where are you going?'

'Back to the ship. The Captain's in trouble.'

'The Captain's gone!' she shouted back. 'He's gone! You can't help him!'

'Shut up!' Martin screamed, tears streaming down his face. 'You don't know anything! He's still on the ship! He needs my help! I said, let go of me!' He wrestled himself free as Emily tried to take his hand.

'Jesus, Hamish.' Jennes shouted. 'Don't go out there. You'll drown.'

'I don't care!' Martin continued to march until the water reached his ankles. 'I won't abandon him!'

'Martin, please,' Emily's voice trembled. 'Come back!'

'Hamish, get back here. It's not safe,' the Doctor ordered, but he was too far gone to listen to anyone. His heart thundered with anger, his blood cold, his hands tingling. He would walk the seabed to reach that ship and he would slaughter every last man on her deck, including that cowardly Toros. He would burn their ship like they did the Scourge and the Saint George, and he would make Toros watch as everything he loved went up in flames.

But what good would that do?

Martin pushed through his doubt and pressed on until he dove into the water and wrestled the waves.

'Captain!' Martin was half choked by the tide. 'Captain! Hold on! I'm coming! Captain! Capt-.'

A stampeding wave swallowed his head and pulled him down into the depths. He fought with all his might against the current, but his strength was waning. Before he could go any further, something strong and powerful caught the back of his neck and dragged him back to shore. Schleckt yanked Martin by the collar back onto the beach, both choking out seawater. Once he had cleared his lungs, he lashed against Schleckt's arm.

'No. No! Let go! I have to get to him! They won't have him! He's lost without me! Let go of me! Let g-!' His face was thrown into Schleckt's shoulder as his big, ham-like arms coiled around the small man.

The warmth and comfort melted Martin's anger until only despair remained. He started to weep, which ended in bawl that made his body tremble, his fingers clawing into Schleckt's shirt as he hugged him as tight as he could.

The two men knelt together on the beach, one sobbing into the other's chest, whilst the other patted him on the back and sighed.

'I'm sorry, kid.' Was all Schleckt could bring himself to say. 'I'm... so, so sorry.'