The Bay Hound cut through the waves once more, her sails full and her hold far heavier than before. Behind her, the sea stretched clean and silent, with no sign of the shattered dhow save for a few splintered planks that bobbed in her wake like ghosts refusing burial.
By dusk, the sun had melted into the horizon, and a strange stillness hung over the ship. The laughter that had erupted earlier when the chest was opened had long since died, leaving behind only the whisper of ropes and the soft slap of waves against the hull. The men moved about their duties, but their voices were subdued, their eyes darting often toward the captain's cabin and, occasionally, toward John Halsworth.
He stood by the mainmast, hands clasped behind his back, watching the horizon burn with the last of the day's light. The faint hum of the rigging carried like a lament through the air. He could not rid himself of the image of the dhow's crew collapsing under the rifles' fire, the way their bodies fell, the shock frozen on their faces. It gnawed at him, that sound, that instant.
"Mr. Halsworth, sir," came a voice from behind. It was young Samuel, one of the newer deckhands, his freckles darkened by sun and salt. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but… was it right, what we did today?"
John turned to face him. The boy's eyes were wide and fearful. He wanted to tell him no, that it was murder, plain and simple, but the words caught in his throat.
"It was the captain's order," he said finally. "And aboard a ship, the captain's word is law."
Samuel's lips pressed together, unsatisfied by the answer, but he nodded all the same and scurried off. John watched him go, a sour taste in his mouth.
He remained on deck long after night had settled. The stars stretched out in their familiar constellations, unbothered by the blood spilled below them. A soft breeze rose, tugging at the corners of his coat. Somewhere forward, a man began humming a sea shanty, low and weary. The tune carried briefly before fading into the dark.
When at last he returned to his quarters, he found the air close and heavy. He sat at his small desk and drew his knife, carving absentmindedly into an apple while his mind circled the day's events. His father's words echoed again: "A good way for you to travel the world, John. Learn the business."
He snorted bitterly. What business, Father? Murder and theft?
The lantern's flame flickered as the ship rolled. Outside, footsteps passed along the corridor, hurried and hushed. Then silence again. He tried to read, but the letters blurred before him. It was no use. He could not shake the feeling that something had been set in motion, something that could not easily be undone.
He had just laid the knife down when the faintest sound reached him, a creak, like a door eased open slowly. He froze, listening. The Bay Hound made many noises in the night, timbers shifting, ropes groaning, but this was different. Deliberate. Near.
Then, clear and sharp, a single gunshot split the silence.
John was on his feet in an instant. He seized the rifle from its mount on the wall and burst through his cabin door. The corridor beyond was dim, lit only by a swinging lantern. Another shot cracked above, followed by shouting.
Mutiny, he thought, heart pounding.
He bounded up the narrow steps to the deck and stopped short at the chaos before him.
Two groups of men faced each other across the deck, rifles raised, the glow of lanterns casting wild shadows across their faces. The smell of gunpowder already tainted the air.
"What in God's name is happening here?" John shouted, stepping between them.
No one answered. The tension was thick enough to choke on. Then a slow, deliberate clapping sounded from behind the foremost group.
Captain Pembroke emerged from the darkness, his expression one of cold amusement.
"Well," he drawled, "I should have known it would be you, Halsworth. The gall of trying to steal my gold."
John blinked, stunned. "What? That's absurd—"
Pembroke gestured toward the rail. John followed the motion and saw it, a small rowboat hanging just off the side, the chest of gold already loaded within. Around it stood half a dozen men from the watch, faces pale in the lantern light.
Realization dawned like a slow, sick tide. The men behind him weren't loyalists; they were thieves, trying to make off with the treasure while the captain slept. And now Pembroke had his scapegoat.
"Captain, this is madness!" John began, but Pembroke's hand moved faster than thought. He snatched a pistol from his second mate and fired.
The shot tore through the air, slamming into John's abdomen. The force knocked him backward, the deck tilting crazily as he fell. For a heartbeat, the world was soundless. Then it erupted.
Gunfire roared from both sides, the sharp cries of men caught between loyalty and fear. The lanterns shattered, plunging the deck into half-light and chaos. John crawled toward the railing, clutching his wound, his hand slick with blood. The smell of smoke and salt filled his lungs.
A fire had started somewhere near the sails, a bright orange tongue licking hungrily upward. The gunpowder in the air made the flames dance higher. Through the confusion, he saw Pembroke shouting orders, face red with fury, but his words were lost in the cacophony.
John knew one thing: if he stayed, he was dead.
He dragged himself to the rail, pain exploding with each movement. With one desperate heave, he threw himself overboard into the dark.
The sea closed over him, cold and merciless. For a moment, he sank, the weight of his boots and soaked clothes pulling him down. Then he kicked upward, breaking the surface with a gasp. The Bay Hound loomed above, her sails now blazing like torches against the night sky.
Floating a short distance away was the rowboat. With what strength remained, John swam for it, each stroke agony. He gripped the edge and hauled himself aboard, collapsing against the side, chest heaving.
Behind him, the Bay Hound burned, a silhouette of ruin against the stars. The shouts faded, swallowed by the wind. He looked down at his hand, still pressed against the wound, and felt the warm, wet pulse of blood through his fingers.
In the bottom of the boat lay the chest of gold, gleaming faintly in the firelight reflected off the waves. John gave a broken laugh that turned into a cough.
"Well, Father," he rasped. "It seems I've found my fortune after all."
He leaned back, eyes fluttering shut as exhaustion and blood loss dragged him toward the dark.