Just as Sammy’s calculations had predicted, the tide began to rise at midday. All eyes remained fixed on the hull as the water slowly closed around the Garnor inside the cove. After a few hours, the ship began to float, and the ropes tied to the surrounding trees were cast off. The vessel righted itself with a series of lazy creaks as it found its center of gravity.
Below deck, the carpenter and his men inspected every seam for leaks. On the beach, meanwhile, everyone waited for the signal to begin loading back aboard.
The captain climbed onto the ship and descended into the hold to inspect the work himself.
“There are no leaks… dry as a bone,” the carpenter reported.
Skippy nodded and turned to the boatswain.
“Mr. Trumper, commence the boarding operation.”
As he turned to leave, he noticed a religious print nailed to one of the wooden pillars in the hold, placed there by one of the crew. He frowned but continued on deck. Outside, the boatswain followed and began barking orders at the top of his lungs. The entire camp burst into motion.
Skippy returned to his cabin. Inside, several books and objects had fallen to the floor. He surveyed the mess with a scowl, dragged a chair back to the center of the room, and dropped into it, visibly exhausted.
A knock sounded at the door. The boatswain entered.
“We’ve started bringing the cargo aboard, Captain. Only one question remains—what are we to do about the prisoner?”
Skippy leaned back and produced a coin from the pocket of his coat.
“Bring him aboard… and place him in the forecastle.”
The boatswain nodded and left to carry out the order.
Soon, the boat began making repeated trips from the shore, laden with supplies that were hoisted aboard using pulleys rigged to the tackle. The constant squeal of ropes blended with the men’s shouts and the boatswain’s commands, offering no moment of respite.
With the tide at its peak and the ship fully loaded with crew aboard, the boat—manned by twelve men—advanced while dragging the thick hawser tied to the Garnor’s bow.
“Pay out the towline!” Trumper shouted.
From the deck, dozens of hands pushed with long poles, while others on shore hauled on the same cable. Sammy stood at the bow of the boat, casting the lead line and calling out the depths as the pilot studied the chart.
“Don’t turn too sharply… or we’ll run her aground,” the pilot warned.
“Hold your strength!” the boatswain yelled.
Men pushed while others pulled from the opposite side of the channel. The Garnor began to move, slowly rotating.
“Bottom!” the pilot called.
“She’s clear!” Sammy shouted back.
“Turn the damned ship!” Trumper roared.
The hull answered with a slow groan, sliding inch by inch.
“Tension the port spring line!” Skippy shouted from the quarterdeck.
“To the towline!” Trumper echoed.
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The men on shore leaned their shoulders into the ropes, while others in the boat rowed furiously. The hull groaned again as it slid over the mud. On deck, sailors pushed with long poles to keep the bow straight.
“Correct with the port spring!” Skippy ordered.
The bow swung, aligning with the channel’s exit.
“Bow clear!” the helmsman shouted.
“Hoist the foremast sail!” Trumper cried.
The sail caught the wind, and for a moment the ship shuddered—then responded.
“Cast off the lines!”
The ship moved forward, slow but steady.
At last, the helmsman announced, “Channel open to the wind!”
“Hoist the foremast!” Trumper repeated.
The sails filled with a dry roar, and the Garnor began to move under her own power.
“Cast off!”
With one final heave on the ropes, the ship was free.
The open sea stretched before the bow. The men on deck murmured among themselves, and a few let out cheers.
Once clear of the cove, Skippy ordered the sails lowered and the ship anchored at a short distance. The anchor was dropped; the chain shrieked as it ran through the hawse until the iron bit the seabed, and they came to rest facing the coast, waiting for the boat and the last men to reach shore.
The captain breathed out and allowed himself a smile, keeping his composure. He descended from the quarterdeck and walked the length of the ship, watching as the crew resumed their tasks while waiting for the stragglers.
He glanced toward the forecastle.
“What’s the plan regarding the men and the prisoner?” Trumper asked.
“We’ll decide together,” Skippy replied. “Make sure everyone gets aboard… and send Mr. Kwame to my cabin.”
With that, he withdrew to his quarters.
The elf entered and took note of the disorder still scattered across the floor. He gathered a few books and set them aside, then walked to a cabinet and opened it. Pieces of chalk and an eraser spilled out. Skippy crouched, picked them up, and placed them neatly in the chalk tray.
A minute later, there was another knock. The boatswain entered, escorting Kwame, whose hands were shackled. Skippy motioned them inside and pointed to a chair.
Kwame entered warily and sat in the baroque chair.
“Remove the man’s shackles, please,” the captain ordered.
“He could be dangerous, sir.”
“I can defend myself.”
The boatswain removed the restraints and remained standing beside the prisoner.
“Thank you, Mr. Trumper. That will be all for now,” Skippy said. “I’ll call for you if needed.”
The boatswain hesitated, glanced from the captain to the prisoner, then withdrew. When the door closed, Skippy turned his gaze back to Kwame.
“Very well, Mr. Baptiste,” he said, gesturing toward the chalkboard. “Tell me everything—the infiltration plan, the details, possible obstacles, risks… together we’ll conduct a full analysis.”
Kwame pressed his lips together, surprised.
“I’d be more than happy to explain,” he said.
“But first, tell me your conditions.”
Kwame nodded.
“Free my people… and yours. And if circumstances allow, sail with you to the next destination, far from New Spain.”
Skippy pursed his lips.
“That’s fair,” he conceded. “Now, let’s talk about what you mentioned—your access to Rafael’s funds.”
He folded his arms and leaned against the chalkboard.
“My primary interest is rescuing my men,” Skippy said. “However, once we’re out there, not everyone shares my empathy. I’ll need to offer something that motivates the crew to undertake such a dangerous operation. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, Captain,” Kwame replied. “And I assure you—there’s more than enough to compensate them.”
Skippy handed him a piece of chalk. Kwame rose, walked to the board, and began sketching lines and diagrams, laying out the first details of the plan.
In the boat, they continued rowing, leaving behind the anchorage and the remains of the wreck, which loomed like a specter watching them from its grave.
“Let’s hope the planks used in the repairs don’t bring us bad luck,” one of the men muttered.
“Hold your tongue… it’s enough that we’re carrying a ghost aboard,” another replied.
“Speaking of which…” one of them murmured. “One of the lads from the repair crew told me something—” the pirate lowered his voice. “Something they found in the bilge… but I can’t say more, or I’ll be hanging from the mast.”
“If you can’t tell it, then why bring it up?” another pirate snapped, and soon they were all arguing.
Sammy, seated at the bow, pricked up her ears as she watched the mouth of the cove where the Garnor awaited them. From the beach, a few men waved and whistled, urging them to hurry back for the rest.
“What do you think will happen to the men left behind?”
“Ach… forget them. They’re probably dead already.”
“We can’t leave them,” Sammy said. “They’re our comrades.”
Everyone turned to look at her.
“Truth be told, I won’t miss old sanctimonious Smith… maybe chubby Mike, though. And as for Knox—poor bastard was a decent fellow,” one of the pirates said before spitting into the sea.
They fell silent. Only the rasp of breath and the steady splash of oars breaking the water could be heard.
“Well, I’m willing to take the risk and go back for them,” Sammy said at last.
“Good luck with that, Mr. Worthy,” several voices replied.
