2 months earlier, somewhere in the Indian Ocean.
The noon sun struck the Bay Hound with the intensity of a blacksmith's hammer, each blow of light forcing beads of sweat from the sailors' brows. The ship rode the swells of the Indian Ocean like a restless creature, her white sails straining against the blue horizon. The scent of salt and pitch clung to everything: ropes, timber, and the men who worked them. Below deck, where the air was thick and warm as a kiln, First Mate John Halsworth sat in his quarters, sleeves rolled up and eyes fixed on the last page of the cargo manifest.
The cabin reflected his family's middle-class sensibilities, though tempered by the realities of the sea—a narrow bed, a desk with an inkwell and papers stacked neatly, and a brass lantern swinging from a hook above. A small chest near the foot of his cot held a few books, mostly on trade and navigation, their spines worn from long hours of reading in uncertain light. The wood creaked faintly with the motion of the ship, as if murmuring the endless dialogue of the ocean against the hull.
John leaned back in his chair, stretching his stiff shoulders. Two weeks had passed since they had left the port of Mombasa, and yet he could not shake the sense of being an interloper on his own ship. The Bay Hound was a proud vessel, her crew seasoned and loyal, but none of that loyalty extended to him.
He could still recall the first day he'd stepped aboard, the murmur of the men when they learned he had been appointed by his father's influence rather than by Captain Pembroke's choosing. "A gentleman first mate," he'd overheard one of them mutter. The words had clung to him ever since.
Despite it all, he had tried to earn their trust. He had learned their names, shared their grog, and even climbed the rigging during the squalls to show he was not above the labor. Some men had softened to him; most had not. And Captain Pembroke? The man regarded him as one might a stain on an otherwise spotless ledger.
John's lips curved in a wry smile. "A fine adventure you've found yourself in, Halsworth," he murmured aloud. "Your father's 'good way to see the world' may yet see you drowned in it." He chuckled under his breath, pushing back from the desk.
The air filtering through the porthole carried the tang of brine and something else, a dampness, as though it had rained somewhere beyond sight. Rising, he crossed to the small round window. Beyond it stretched the sea: endless, glittering, alive. The sky was clear save for distant clouds, and the water caught the sunlight in blinding flashes. The faint shimmer of moisture on the wood rail told him the deckhands had likely washed the planks earlier that morning.
He was just turning to close the window when a muffled cry reached him from above, followed by hurried footsteps and the clanging of metal on metal. John froze, listening. Another shout rang out, sharper this time, urgent.
He was halfway to the door before the third cry came, this one unmistakably from the lookout.
"Dhow to starboard! Dismasted!"
The words sent a prickle down his spine. He seized his cap from the hook and strode swiftly through the narrow passage to the companionway, climbing into the blaze of sunlight.
The deck was alive with movement. Men rushed to the starboard rail, pointing. Beyond the waves, barely visible through the glare, a shape drifted: low, dark, and limping on the sea. As John lifted the spyglass hanging from his belt, the details sharpened: a small Arab dhow, its mast splintered and hanging by its rigging, and the sail torn to ribbons.
"Looks near dead in the water," muttered Bosun Crighton beside him.
"Signal the helm to bring us about," came a cool, level voice. Captain Arthur Pembroke emerged from the quarterdeck stair, his coat immaculate despite the heat. His blue eyes swept the horizon before settling on the damaged dhow. "We'll have a closer look."
The order set the crew into motion. The Bay Hound's course shifted gracefully, her prow cutting a new path through the water. John stood by the captain, watching the dhow grow clearer. Its hull was scarred, its deck slanted dangerously low. Even from a distance, he could see men moving weakly aboard her.
"Likely lost their mainmast in the storm we skirted last night," John offered.
Pembroke gave a short nod but said nothing. His gaze remained fixed, his jaw tight.
As they drew nearer, voices in Arabic carried faintly across the waves: desperate, pleading. The Bay Hound slowed, drifting to within a few dozen yards of the stricken vessel. The smell of wet wood and oil reached them.
Pembroke called out to the deck. "Bring up one of the translators!"
A young Goan sailor hurried forward, bowing slightly before the captain. "Aye, sir. I speak some Arabic."
"Then make yourself useful," Pembroke said. "Find out who they are and what they want."
The translator cupped his hands and called across the gap, trading words with the dhow's crew. The exchange was animated but civil, punctuated by gestures toward their damaged hull and the small chests lashed to the deck. After a few minutes, the translator turned back.
"Their captain says they belong to a wealthy trader in Mombasa, sahib. They were sailing from Aden, but a storm struck last night. They lost one ship in the fleet and much of their crew. He asks if we might take their cargo to Mombasa, promises his master will reward us handsomely."
Pembroke's brow arched slightly. "Did he say what the cargo is?"
The translator shouted the question, then listened to the reply before turning again. "Silk, sahib. And a chest of gold."
A murmur rippled through the Bay Hound's crew. John's fingers tightened on the railing as he glanced at Pembroke. The captain's expression changed, subtly, but unmistakably. The glint in his eye was not the kind that spoke of charity.
John felt a cold unease twist in his gut.
Pembroke leaned closer to the bosun, muttering something in a voice too low to catch. The bosun nodded and signaled a few men over. John watched as they conferred briefly, then turned their eyes toward the dhow again.
Moments later, the translator was waving his arms cheerfully, relaying the captain's consent. The dhow's crew erupted in relief, bowing and shouting thanks. Ropes were thrown across the water, and men from both vessels began the careful transfer of goods.
John exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest easing. Perhaps I misjudged him, he thought. Perhaps there's decency yet in him.
But as the last of the cargo came aboard and the dhow's deck cleared, he saw it, the quiet signal Pembroke gave, a slight flick of two fingers. The men nearest the rail bent down, drawing rifles from behind the barrels.
John's breath caught.
"Wait—!" he started, stepping forward.
The first volley cracked through the air like thunder.
The dhow's crew toppled before the echoes had even faded, their cries drowned beneath the roar of gunfire and the crash of waves.
John stood frozen, horror washing over him.
"By God, Captain..." he choked.
Pembroke turned toward him, his face unreadable. "You'd do well to remember your place, Mr. Halsworth," he said quietly. "I'm the captain here. And if you raise your voice to me again, you'll join them."
The words struck like a slap. The men around them watched in silence, some uneasy, others smirking, all complicit. John's fists clenched, but reason chained his anger. He was alone among them, the unwanted officer, and Pembroke knew it.
The captain motioned to the translator. "Fetch the key from the dhow's master."
Minutes later, the small brass key was brought forward and fitted to the chest's lock. With a sharp click, the lid lifted, and the glow of gold flooded the deck. Coins, bars, and jewels, enough to make a man's fortune ten times over.
Gasps rose from the crew. Pembroke smiled thinly.
"No one speaks of this," he said. "We'll divide it once we're clear of these waters."
The cheer that followed made John's stomach turn.
He stepped back, the laughter and glinting gold blurring in his vision. For the first time since leaving England, he understood what kind of voyage this truly was.