Martin dashed through the alleyway like a hound after a fox. He tore past a band of drunken sailors, scarcely slowing to avoid their flailing bodies. As the buildings grew from shacks to houses, he turned a corner and narrowly avoided colliding with a flock of parishioners herding themselves out of a ramshackle church. An elderly couple staggered into his path, and in an effort to avoid them, he tripped on his own feet and toppled forwards, taking out the legs of the cleric on his way down. The cleric fell face-first to the road with a splash. The parishioners gave a squawk and scattered like flustered hens, then cooed with worry as the holyman pulled himself from the gutter, his black habit painted with a fine brown veneer. Shocked and deeply ashamed, Martin felt the urge to stop and apologize profusely before helping the poor man until he was sure he was alright, or until the cleric stopped yelling at him, but there was no time. He picked himself up, gasped: 'sorry' at the congregation, and dashed away, the snarls of the angry priest trailing after him.

It wasn't until he reached the ruins of the old shipping district, towards the mouth of the bay, that he stopped running.

'Odd sort of place to keep a ship, isn't it?' he heard in a familiar, cut-glass accent. Faint though it was, the sound of Emily's voice made his heart flutter with relief, but sank again to hear a much darker voice answer her.

'She's for repairs right now, but they're almost finished; be raring to go by morning, on my honour.'

'I should hope so. I expect you to earn that thousand, sir. The last men who promised to take me to Barbados were overpriced and asked far too many questions.'

'Questioning is a dangerous habit, miss, you may lay to that,' a second voice, more nasal but still fierce, said. 'My old dad died from asking too many questions, he did. Well... that, and the pox.'

Martin poked his head around the corner and saw Emily, glowing bright with her copper-red hair and sapphire dress, a leather satchel over her shoulder, in the company of two men. Both of them were tall and just as drunk as the other, judging by their pink complexions, though one was significantly more muscular than the other. The broad-shouldered one, with a dragon tattoo of Far-Eastern design running from the top of his shaven head to his neck just below the collar, walked just ahead of Emily. His companion, a rat-faced, lanky sailor with a receding hairline and one ear swollen like a plum, followed close behind.

They ambled down a narrow passage towards the reinforced courtyard door of the abandoned dry docks. Even from a distance, Martin could see that the gate was bolted with a heavy lock securing it.

'You know,' the man with the swollen ear put his hand on Emily's shoulder and pointed her to a disused cobbler's shop to the side of the passage. They turned and, in panic, Martin ducked a little more behind the wall. 'This place used to be so pretty, once. My old dad used to work in this here shop, fixing boots.'

Cautiously, Martin peaked around the corner and watched as the man with the bald head took hold of the padlock and drew a long knife. The blade winked and Martin's heart seized. His desire to leap out and reach Emily, to tear her away from them and run, was overwhelming but his legs stubbornly refused to move. He tried to call out to her, but his voice caught in his throat.

Bald-head struck the padlock with the butt of his knife and broke it with a hollow thunk. Before Emily could turn around, he slipped the blade beneath the fold of his jerkin, then grinned over his shoulder.

'These locks, eh? Don't make 'em like they used to anymore. These new-fangled ones sometimes need a bit of encouragement.' He prized the lock away, letting it clatter uselessly to the sand, then slid the bolt and opened the gate with a bow. 'After you, milady.'

Emily gave a gracious curtsy. 'I must say,' she remarked, 'you're both much more courteous than the other crew.'

'We aim to please, miss,' Swollen-ear smiled, then when Emily had disappeared behind the gate, his face darkened as he took one final glance behind him before he too slipped behind the gate.

Martin's voice escaped his throat as a hoarse whisper: 'Don't. Don't go.' It was drowned out by the sound of a bolt scraping shut on the other side of the gate.

Free from his paralysis, Martin dashed towards the door and tried tugging at the handle. It didn't budge. Pox on it! There's got to be another way through. Frantically, he looked around for a gap in the wall, or a handhold he could use to scale it; anything to get him inside. Then his eyes fell upon the cobbler's shop behind him, and the upturned cart that had been driven through the front window. Martin wrestled the cart free of the glass and propped it lengthways against the cobbler's porch, using it as a ladder to reach the roof. The walls of the courtyard were lined with metal spikes, which for any sizeable man would be hard to avoid, but with his skinny frame, vaulting between them proved no difficulty for Martin.

He dropped onto the scaffold of a wooden crane on the other side, a pallet of plaster bags suspended from its arm. They must have had plans to renovate the place before the dry dock was abandoned. It was in desperate need of it. The yard was sectioned off from the rest of the town by red brick walls on three of its faces, with the fourth side open to the sea. Rotting timbers and rusted tools littered it, and the flooded drydock at its centre was overrun with weeds and shellfish. Martin crouched behind the tower of the crane, and watched the two men circle Emily like sharks as she looked around her, puzzled, but apparently ignorant.

'So,' she said, 'where is your ship, captain?'

Swollen-ear grinned. 'I thought you wasn't the type for questions, miss.'

'I-I'm not,' Emily stammered, either flustered or anxious, Martin couldn't quite tell. He was too busy racking his head, trying to figure out how he was going to get her away from here safely. 'I just thought, you know, it's rather strange, all this. This place doesn't look like it's seen use for years, and what's more, I don't see any ship docked here. So, where is your vessel?'

A smile parted Swollen-ear's thin lips. 'Well, well,' he said, 'she isn't stupid after all.'

Martin seized up and held his breath as Bald-head reach into his jerkin.

Emily's eyes widened and, before anyone could blink, she took off like a startled rabbit towards the door. Before she was even within spitting distance, Bald-head had grabbed her by the roots of her hair. She opened her mouth to scream, but before she could, Bald-head clapped his hand over her mouth and put his blade against her throat.

'That thousand-pound promised us,' Swollen-ear sniggered as Emily struggled in vain against Bald-head, 'will go a good way to buying a ship of our own, wouldn't you say?'

'Aye, right,' Bald-head nodded. 'No more taking orders from drunkards; we'll be our own masters.'

'Right, hold her steady,' Swollen-ear reached down and drew his own knife from his boot. 'Let's see if this oyster has a pretty pearl for us.' Emily gave a muffled yelp as Bald-head pressed the knife against her neck. Martin could have sworn he saw a thin thread of blood trickle from the knife's point and down its face.

As soon as Swollen-ear took a step towards Emily, Martin snapped out of his shock and immediately put his hand to his pistol. Then, he stopped.

Don't be a bloody fool, he thought. You're just as likely to hit Miss Morton at this distance. Even if you do put in a lucky shot, what then? There'd still be one more.

Martin rung the hem of his shirt and frantically looked around for something – anything – that he could use. Billhooks, nails, rivets, timber, rope, hammers; all of it was useless.

'Let's see what we've got.' Swollen-ear slipped the knife under the strap of the satchel, and in one swift motion, sliced it in two. He held the bag aloft like a hunting trophy, and Emily, seemingly forgetting about the knife pressed to her neck, struggled against Bald-head, reaching to grab the bag back. 'Oh, she's got spirit, this one. Must be something valuable in here.' Swollen-ear lifted the flap of the satchel and reached into the bag. After a brief pause and a rummage, his eyes lit up. 'Well, well. What's this?' He pulled out something shiny, the polished silver glistening in the light of the moon. It was the cylinder.

For a moment, Martin was too stunned to think. How did she-? He thought back to the ship, to the Captain's cabin. The sneaky little..., he thought, then shook it away. There's no time. If I don't do something now, they'll take the cylinder and kill her. But what can I-? Something caught in the back of his throat. His heart leapt into his mouth as he struggled to stop himself from coughing. He knew if he choked, and they heard it, both he and Emily would be as good as dead. So possessed was he on trying to hold in his cough that it voided his mind of all other thought, and then he realised what he was choking on.

The wind had rocked the crane and a thin ribbon of plaster dust had fallen from a tear in one of the bags. He looked up at the pallet swinging from its arm, then followed the rope suspending it down to a chamber with a locking mechanism at the base of the tower. The catch was rusted but with a little effort it looked as though it could be knocked free.

'What is it, boss?' Bald-head asked.

'I'm not sure,' Swollen-ear said, 'but it looks pricey. Shall we find out what's inside?' He put his hand to the lid of the cylinder and Emily struggled once again to free herself.

No time to lose. Martin picked up one of the hammers lying on the scaffold and struck the catch as hard as he could. Metal rang against metal and the mechanism came free. The chamber span wildly as the rope hissed through the feed.

'The 'ell?' Bald-head said as all three of them turned their eyes to the sky. Before any of them could do anything, the pallet exploded beside them. All at once, the bags burst and a thick cloud of choking, grey-pink dust billowed into the air. They all choked and rasped as the dust shrouded them from view.

Martin heard a faint clatter and saw the cylinder bounce across the cobblestones, half-burying itself in a pile of sand.

'Christ, it's in my eyes!' he heard Swollen-ear wheeze.

Emily, her blue dressed now caked in pink dust, collapsed out of the dust-cloud and onto the floor, where she rasped and choked so hard that her face went red. She kept her eyes firmly closed as she dashed at them with her sleeve.

Martin saw his chance and leapt from the scaffold like a monkey, covering his face with his shirt to guard against the dust, then reached forward and took her arm.

'Miss Morton!' he cried. 'Come on, let's get out of here!'

'M-Martin?' she heaved. 'What the Hell are you-?'

'No time,' Martin dragged her towards the gate. 'Quickly. Run!'

'Wait!' She spluttered as she yanked her arm away from Martin's grasp.

'What are you-?'

'The cylinder!' She dropped to her hands and knees, still choking, and felt about in the sand. 'I need it!'

'Do you need it more than you need to live?!' Martin cried. 'We stay here, we're dead!'

'If I don't have that cylinder, I might as well-.' She gasped in delight as she raised the cylinder to her face. 'Got it,' she cried. 'Let's go!'

'You little-,' Swollen-ear choked as he staggered from the dust cloud. He made a mad grab for Emily, who only just avoided being snatched by the hair again. 'Come back here!'

Martin slid the bolt aside and heaved the door ajar, and Emily made a dash for the opening, the cylinder stuffed under her petticoat. Just as she disappeared through the gap, Martin heard the two mean choke their final coughs and scramble to their feet.

'Come back here, you bitch!' Swollen-ear screeched as Martin slid through the gate, and pulled the door to as Emily bolted it shut. They both stood back away from the gate, waiting for something to happen.

'W-will it hold?' Emily's voice quivered.

'I don't know,' Martin swallowed. 'I-I think so.' He half expected the bolt to snap in two or the gate itself to come flying off at the hinges. He wasn't entirely sure what he would do if that happened, but it gave him comfort to fear the worst in anticipation for reality, which usually wasn't as bad.

'He must have come over the wall,' he heard Bald-head from beyond the gate. 'Look! Up there! That scaffold!'

'Right, get over it.'

'Oh, my God,' Emily's eyes widened with fright.

'Leg it!' Martin cried, pushing off his heel.

'W-what the Hell does that mean?!' Emily shouted after him.

'Run!'

'There!'

Emily started when she saw Swollen-ear's head appear over the iron spikes.

'Get them!'

She turned, picked up her skirts and ran after Martin, who had slowed to let her catch up.

'Martin, they're chasing us!' she whimpered.

'Then run faster!' Martin didn't dare to look back. His chest felt as thin as a butterfly's wing as his heart beat against it, and every muscle in his body burned as he pushed himself on.

'I can't!' Emily panted. 'My shoes are slipping.'

'Then take them off!' Not stopping to argue, though Martin was sure that under different circumstances, she would have, she hoisted up her ankles one by one and kicked off her shoes. She hobbled as the cobbles dug into the soft flesh of her nearly bare feet, but at least she ran faster without the shoes.

'Come on. This way,' Martin turned down an alley off the track they were running down.

'Where are we going?' Emily cried.

'The tavern. We can bar ourselves in.'

They wound down the empty streets and dirt alleyways, Emily's face drenched in sweat as she tried to keep pace with Martin, who strode like a grey-hound. Even so, they were still faster than the two half-drunk sailors, and while they had put a considerable distance between them, it wasn't nearly enough to stop them from wanting to run faster.

'Give up, you little rats!' roared Bald-head, his voice dripping with menace.

'You're not going to escape us!'

'Don't listen to them,' Martin said, as much to himself as to Emily. 'Just a little further, we're close!'

To his relief, he was right. They turned the next corner and the dim glow of the tavern greeted them like an old friend. The sign above the door bleated as it swung in the breeze.

Together, Martin and Emily leapt for the door, slamming against it with all their weight. It didn't budge. Martin jerked at the handle and pushed as hard as he could.

'No,' he shook his head in disbelief. 'No, no, no. I-it's locked.'

'Of course, it's locked!' Emily spat, derisively. 'You didn't think they'd just leave it open all night, did you?' Emily beat her fist against the door until it rattled loosely against the frame. 'Help! We need help! Open the door!'

'Open the door!' Martin yelled with her, beating both his fists against the wood panels. He shot a glance over his shoulder and saw the two shadows in the alley behind them bob and sharpen, the sound of thunderous footsteps ringing in Martin's chest more than the beat of his own fists. 'Open up! Let us in!'

There was a scrape and a thud from within. The door suddenly snapped free and creaked open. A woman, the waitress from the bar, poked her wrinkled, sleep-scarred face out of the gap.

'Here,' she yawned, 'what's all this? What do you want? Don't you know what time-?'

'Thank you!' Martin pushed passed her, spurred on as the shadows in the alley sprouted men, and their bloodshot eyes clapped on the tavern. Emily slipped in behind and slammed the door.

'Well, blow me down,' the waitress gasped, more alert now. 'Who do you think you two are that you can just barge your way in-.'

'Martin, the table,' Emily barked, pushing the bolt across the door into place and barricading herself against it. 'Barricade the door with it.' Martin grabbed the heavy oak table. It felt like it was nailed to the floor, but it moved slowly as he grunted and ground it against the flagstones. His efforts were too little, far too late.

The door thundered against the frame. Emily screamed and retreated as it splintered with a loud crack. Martin held his breath as he watched the shadows reel back for another ram. He begged the door would hold. The waitress watched with opened-mouthed amazement as the door thumped a second time, then a third, then a fourth, and on the fifth, the wood around the bolt splintered and exploded, and left the door hanging from a single hinge. The two sailors stood framed in the doorway with wide, malicious grins stretched over their faces.

'Evening all,' Bald-head chortled, murder in his eyes.

'What'd you think you're doing 'ere?' the waitress snarled. 'Clear off now, before there's real trouble.' She shrank into herself and backed up against the bar as the two men strolled over the threshold, the light of the fire blinking in the polished blades of their brandished knives.

'No trouble, good woman,' Swollen-ear sneered. 'Just looking to have a quick chat with our friends here.'

Martin saw their fists tighten around the handles of their shivs and the muscles of their legs drew taunt, ready to pounce. Dark glee twinkled in their bloodshot eyes. His hands tingled with fear and his breath staggered in his throat. As Swollen-ear stepped forward, blade raised, Martin stepped back and felt the pistol in his belt shift against his leg. He drew it and cocked the hammer back with a punctuating click. Both men skidded to a halt before him.

'Woah!' the Swollen-ear gasped as he raised his hands. 'Woah! We said "friendly". Now, that's not very friendly, is it?'

'Get... back,' Martin hissed through clenched teeth. 'Turn around. Walk out that door. Never... come... back.'

'Or what?' the bald one asked, a weak grin of a bad gambler stretching across his cheek. 'You gonna shoot the both of us? With one pistol?' He took a step forward, hands raised in surrender.

'I don't have to shoot you both.' Martin puffed out his chest. He had no idea what kind of gambler he looked like, but he hoped he was a better bluffer than the bald one was. The truth was he had no idea if he had it in him to pull the trigger; to watch the bodies fall to the stone. 'I just have to shoot one. The other I can finish off with my sword, if I don't decide to show you mercy.'

The Swollen-ear cackled, though Martin could sense his unease.

'Blimey! The kid's got balls, I'll give 'im that.' He tried to take a slow step forward but was cut short when the pistol swung towards him, though Martin took a step back himself. 'W-why don't you just put that down, son? We can all be friends. It doesn't have to go like this.'

'If you were my friends,' Martin ground his teeth, sweat beading down his neck, his finger tightly coiled around the trigger, 'you'd know what's good for you and leave while you had the chance.'

The Bald-head cocked a half smile, taking another step forward. Martin swung to meet him and he stopped as still as a gravestone.

'I said: Get. Back!'

'Just put the pistol down, son,' Bald-head stammered, the mask slipping. His fear was naked on his features. 'We're all men of the sea, right? We're practically brothers. Let's talk this out like gents, eh? No-one need die over a whore.'

'Don't call her that,' Martin spat, brandishing the pistol in Bald-head's direction.

'Martin, why are you still listening to them?' Emily trembled. The pair took another step closer. 'Just shoot them.'

'Now, now,' Swollen-ear stammered. 'Let's not be hasty. Think for a second, mate. She's loaded. We three, we could take that silver tube thing of hers, sell it and split the loot even. What do you say?'

'You're not listening,' Martin's voice cracked as he raised it. 'I said: Leave!'

'Come on, matey. It's your choice. Coin, or the whore.'

Martin sucked air through his teeth, the words stinging like a raw wound. They crossed the line, He thought. It was now or never. Either one of them drops, or we do. His soul seemed to peel itself from his body, floating a few feet behind him, peering over his shoulder. He could see his own arm trembling under the weight of the gun, see the sweat around his collar, hear his breath escape in short, shallow bursts. It's now or never.

He rolled his shoulder in its socket, took a deep breath, and looked Bald-head dead in the eye. His voice was controlled and tempered like steel. 'I told you...not to call her that.'

Martin raised his arm and pulled the trigger. The mechanism clicked, the hammer arced, the flint fizzed and flashed as it struck the frizzen pan. Both men flinched... but nothing happened.

Emily let out a short gasp and clapped her hand over her mouth. Martin returned to himself in an instant, only to feel his blood run even colder. He frantically snatched the trigger, then pulled back the hammer and tried again. The click, the arc, the fizzing spark... nothing.

Martin shuddered. His eyes met the eyes of Bald-head, whose lips had cracked into a victorious grin.

'Oh... dear,' he beamed through gapped teeth. 'Oh, dearie me. How long's it been since you changed the powder in that pistol?'

'I, uh...' Martin's stammered, his mouth gloopy with tar-like spittle.

Bald-head tutted and shook his head. 'What a silly mistake.'

Swollen-ear darted for Emily. Without thinking, Martin dropped the gun and leapt to intercept. Emily screamed as the sailor came towards her. Martin rammed Swollen-ear in the ribs with his shoulder, sending the sailor hurtling into the fireplace. Swollen-ear yelped as he tripped against the grate and toppled back into the hearth itself, kicking up a cloud of charcoal dust. Martin then turned to Emily, huddled with her back against the wall.

'Run, Emily!'

A blur darkened the corner of his eye, and as he turned to meet it, there was a roar and a flash of white. A great shooting pain travelled up his face. His vision blurred. His ears rang. His legs went weak, and before he knew what was happening, he felt his shoulder hit the floor. It didn't hurt. For some reason, everything was numb.

'Martin!' Emily's scream was distant; distorted, echoing, faint, but strangely distinct. Martin closed his eyes, but the warm, dull ache in his cheek exploded into a sharp, searing pain like hot coals. When he opened his eyes again, he found one lid was coated with something warm and sticky. A viscous ooze poured over his cheekbone and across his upper lip until the smell of iron burned his nostrils. He put his hand up to soothe his swollen cheek, only to find it was not swollen. Across the length of his face, from his ear almost to his lip, was gouged the trench of a deep, thick cut.

Martin's limbs were weighing him down, forcing him to roll from his side to his back, the cold flagstone beneath him like soft grass on his skin. In spite of the pain that throbbed inside his skull, he felt remarkably sleepy, a yawn welling up from the pit of his chest. Then, the sky above him went dark, the light blotted out by some shapeless cloud that drifted overhead. He was just beginning to drift off, letting the current of sleep embrace him, when from the cloud came rain, but only one drop that sharpened as it drew closer.

His vision focused as his heart throbbed into life, just in time to catch the wrist before the knife ploughed into his chest. He pushed with all his might, fighting so hard against it that he thought his arms would bow and snap like dry kindling. He looked up to see the bald one on top of him, both hands on the handle of his knife, his teeth bared ready to sink into his prey, all his weight pressing down on the blade. The point was less than an inch from Martin's chest, and even as he pushed for all he was worth, that gap only kept closing.

'Get off me!' Martin heard Emily's voice just before the side door to the tavern was slammed shut. She screamed, first freely, then muffled as a hand was clasped over her face. The sound of fingers rasping against hair shot through Martin's spine like lightning. His vision began to blur, the throb in his cheek growing worse, his head spinning, his arms turning to wet clay. The bald one smiled a wide, malevolent smile. This is it, Martin thought. The last thing I'm ever going to see is that evil smile. Whether I go up or down, that smile will haunt me for eternity. He shut his eyes to stop the room from spinning around him and used the last of his strength, praying to any god that would listen.

The door above their heads slammed against the wall with an almighty wallop. Everything went still for a second. Martin felt Bald-head's grip relax as he looked up to follow the noise. Martin opened his eyes and listened. Footsteps, heavy and slow, made the floorboards above them creak. He traced their path along the landing, then to the stairway where the creaking of the boards only grew louder. Each step against each stair was like the sound of a judge's gavel echoing through a courtroom. Then, a pair of boots emerged in the corner of the room, followed by a pair of sleek black slacks, then a white shirt with a bandolier slung across it. Finally, the bearded face of Black Hal emerged from the doorway, drowsy but none the duller or more menacing for it.

Martin sensed the bald one tense as his eyes fell upon the tall captain with six guns hanging from his chest. His jaw opened and closed over and over again, like a fish dropped on deck gasping for air. Black Hal's dark eyes surveyed the room, studied the carnage, the woman held by the hair in the grasp of a swollen-eared man, a bald man pinning a young lad to the floor with a knife whilst a pool of blood swelled around them, but his face did little more than betray a slight annoyance. All eyes in the room were on him, some in relief, and some in mortal terror.

The Captain yawned, stretching his arms over his head and clicking his back. 'Is there a problem here, gents?' he asked as he lowered his hands, his thumbs coming to rest against the hammers of two of his pistols. He cocked them. The snap of the mechanism falling into place punctuated the silence, and drew a whimper from both the intruders.

'N-n-no, no problem here, Captain Percival,' the bald one stammered, releasing his grip on the knife, letting it clatter to the floor, then raising his hands in surrender. 'No problem at all, sir.'

'Y-ye-yeah,' the swollen-eared one loosened his grip on Emily, who fell to her knees and held her throat as she choked the breath back into her lungs. 'J-just a misunderstanding... obviously...'

'Obviously,' Black Hal muttered, nodding his head. His gaze fell upon Martin, steely and cold. 'Hamish. S'there a problem?'

Martin, still lying on his back on the floor, looked up at the Captain, his left eye forced shut from the throbbing pain in his cheek. Martin looked to the two men as they backed slowly towards the door. The expressions on their faces were enough to warm Martin's frozen blood and thaw his petrified heart. All he wanted to do now was sleep. He was so tired.

'No, Captain. There's no problem here.' The words hurt as he forced them out, trying hard not to stretch his sliced cheek.

The Captain nodded.

'Miss Morton?'

'Mister Hamish is right, Captain,' Emily said, she too satisfied by the cowardly look on their faces under the towering terror of Black Hal. 'I think these men were just lost.'

The pair of sailors shot confused, but thankful, glances at both their victims, then looked up at Captain Percival, almost ready to crawl begging on their knees for mercy as they waited for him to consider his verdict.

Black Hal smiled his devilish smile.

'This here house is closed for the night, lads. You'll have to take your patronage elsewhere.'

The pair nodded, and almost bumped into each other as they turned to leave.

'Just another minute, boys,' Captain Percival called. Martin watched the colour drain down their necks, the plum-colour of their skin turning milky white as they turned back. 'I want you to take out whatever coin you have in them pockets of yours, stack it on that counter over there, apologise to Missus Kiddley for the disturbance and for the damage to her front door, then leave quietly and don't come back. Am I clear?' His hands tightened around the handles of his pistols until his skin rasped against the treated wood.

The pair nodded and gulped, glancing at the brace of slim-barrelled pistols. They reached into their pockets, dumped all the silvers and coppers on the countertop, bowed and murmured their apologies to the barmaid, then turned and walked out the door, their heads hung between their shoulders like scolded schoolboys.

When they had disappeared into the shadows, Black Hal loosened his grip on his weapons and disarmed the hammers, before marching over to the door, swinging it shut and barricading it with the same table Martin had tried to move earlier.

Emily dashed over and knelt beside Martin. She held his head and pressed a hand to her mouth.

'Martin. Martin, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen.' Her eyes ran the length of the slice carved into his cheek. Her pity, in many ways, hurt more than the actual injury.

'Miss Morton,' the Captain muttered without looking in her direction. 'I believe Mister Hamish requires medical attention. It's too late to wake Cotral now, but there should be plenty of rags in my quarters to at least keep the wound clean. As soon as dawn breaks, I'll call for the Doctor. In the meantime, give him a brandy, take him up to my room and let him sleep it off.' Captain Percival righted a chair that had been toppled in the fight and set it beside the fire. He drew two pistols from his bandolier and placed them crossed across the table nearby. 'I'll keep watch in case our new friends get a bit more rum-courage and decide to try again. Is that understood?'

'Ye-yes, Captain,' she stammered, nodding emphatically and dashing away the tears that were rolling down her cheeks. 'Thank you.'

'Maggie, I'll take a few tots of your strongest coffee off your hands, if you please?'

'Of course, Captain Percival.' The Barmaid nodded and tottered off towards the kitchen. 'How much?'

'Biggest vessel you have. Don't so much care if it comes in a vase, just make it hot and strong.'

'One barrel of coffee, it is.'

Emily took Martin's hand, carefully lifting his arm over her shoulder and hoisting him onto his feet. Martin was embarrassed to be held in such a way, not because he thought it was beneath him, but because she felt so fragile and delicate that he feared he would crush her. But as she took his weight, whispering her apologies and saying sweet things in his ear, it was clear that she was made of sterner stuff than china.

'Oh, and Miss Morton?' The Captain's voice pierced her like a bullet. She froze and turned around to look at Black Hal, sitting in the glow of the dying fire, an empty tankard with dregs of old coffee in one hand and a pistol across his lap.

'Yes, Captain?'

'I think it'd be safer if I had that cylinder back.' The Captain stretched out his meaty palm.

Her eyes were wide with bewilderment, which faded as she joined the dots and understood his logic; the same logic Martin had used. The Captain bore a pleasant, soft smile, his eyes not filled with malice or malevolence, but with concern.

'Don't you agree?'

'For once, Captain Percival, I do.' She took the cylinder from under her petticoat, where she had tried desperately to hide it, and placed it on the Captain's open palm. His strong, nut-brown fingers closed around it, then he gave her a warm smile and nodded.

'Good lass.'