The seas just off the coast of Jamaica sat fairly still for the first time in several days; the waves brushed along the coastline like an artist painting a picture, and the powerful sun illuminated the water and the islands for hundreds of miles around.

Jamaica had become somewhat of a playfield for pirates lately, and the captain of the ship 'the Devil's Anvil', one Nolan Francis Kirkwood, fully intended to take advantage of the ever-increasing British trade in the region. The Devil's Anvil was a somewhat modest brig with a less-than-modest name; she bore 18 guns and simple, plain white sails. Her figurehead, bearing a naked man carrying a trident and shield, along with a Corinthian helmet, was easily one of the better-designed pieces of the ship.

In many ways, Kirkwood, or 'Old Ironwood' to his crew, was like his ship; rugged but sturdy, and he carried himself with a bearing more befitting an ancient king than a pirate. All of his crew looked to him for guidance and even purpose.

The crew stood at their posts, many wearing bored and disinterested expressions. After days of waiting for the weather to calm down, they were ready to hunt for merchant ships which so far, had failed to show themselves.

Captain Kirkwood stood beside his helmsman, keeping a watchful eye over the deck of his ship. His eyes were currently following a small girl in her late teens. She was carrying a small barrel of gunpowder to a pair of cannons, when she suddenly tripped over. The barrel flew out of her grip and landed on the deck with a thud, breaking its top off and spilling its valuable contents all over the wooden boards.

A rancid odour quickly began to fill the air, and Old Ironwood grimaced at both the smell and the waste of propellant. He walked down the stairs from the helm and towards the girl, who wore an expression of total dread. Kirkwood walked with his head held high and his left hand on the hilt of his sabre, and his long jacket fluttered in the breeze.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked with a noticable edge in his voice. His eyes, full of fury, stared directly into the girl's own; she immediately averted her gaze to the deck.
She hardly ever spoke on the best of days, but with a man like Kirkwood one wrong sentence from bursting a vein standing right in front of her, she felt like she didn't have a choice. "I-I tri-"

She was silenced immediately by a vicious backhand, which already left a stinging red mark on her face. "Did I say you could open your whore mouth, Chambers?" his face was red too, though the cause was much different. "Clean that up." he spat, before turning on his heel and heading back for the helm. The other pirates on the Devil's Anvil paid the interaction no mind, and continued working at their posts like nothing had happened.

Chambers preferred to avoid contact with everyone else on the ship, but of course it wasn't ever that simple. Some pirates would simply rant at her if they didn't ignore her completely, and other pirates used her for... well, different things. She sighed quietly and did what she was told, trying to avoid nursing her bright red cheek or give up due to the eggy smell of gunpowder still in the air.

All was quiet on the Bucephalus as it softly rocked in port. Most of the crew were in their bunks, or at the bar; celebrating after the successful looting of a Spanish galleon. On this breezy summer night in Nassau, everything seemed calm. Even the sea became halcyon, however brief it was.

Adolfus Erikkson hummed to himself as he was cleaning the ship's stash of firearms, the smell of alcohol and grease emanated from his workshop below deck. He stopped to take a swig from his tankard, and finished up his work. Adolfus then noticed most of the ships inhabitants were at the bar, and prepared to follow suit; draining the last of his warm beer and making the long hike to The Old Albatross.

Co-written with @Luftwaffles, @Maki the Finn, @surebeens, and @Mardox.

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The Old Albatross Tavern, Nassau

The air was thick with the stench of tobacco smoke and stale beer, the flickering orange glow of candles and lanterns barely penetrating the evening gloom. Tankards clinked, dice clattered across sturdy wooden tables, and the shouts of patrons both joyful and belligerent formed a cacophonous racket. But alas, that was the music of Nassau; a home to thieves, drunkards, whores, and pirates of the very foulest kind. A republic of pirates, some saw fit to call it, and it was hardly an ill-fitting accolade - the law had long since fled this place, turned it over to those who made their livings at the tip of a cutlass or the muzzle of a cannon. But most of the scarred, vicious men in the tavern saw it not as a new Sodom or Gomorrah, but simply as home.

John Lysander Blackett, the infamous 'Black Jack' who captained the pirate frigate Bucephalus, was one such man. Waving over a bar wench burnened with a heavy tray of overflowing tankards, the captain laid a pair of cards face down on the table as he passed a fresh round of drinks to the other fellows gathered around him. Scanning the table with a single blue eye, the pirate ran a hand through his short beard, before pushing forward a gold coin towards the centre where a small pile of similar currency waited. "Raise. One doubloon." he grunted, gesturing to the burly, greying man sat to his left. "Your go, Gresham."

The old quartermaster sighed, taking a large swig of ale, a few drips clinging to his moustache. "Fold." He threw his own cards down with an air of exasperation.

The ship's surgeon, Cato Valentinovna, reviewed her cards. She raised her eyebrow, watching the rest of the officers as she decided her next move. "Such an uncivilized game. Leaving it all up to chance, just silly." She sighed. "I will match your bet." She threw another coin into the centre of the table, keeping her cards close to her chest.

"The game isn't uncivilized; it's a show of wits." Adolfus tossed in two coins. "I raise two doubloons." He took a swig from his flask as he looked around the table, stone-faced, and focused on the Quartermaster. "I thought you were good at numbers?" He said in a half-joking tone.

"Aye," the grizzled officer responded with a shake of the head. "But the numbers aren't being good to me tonight." As he drained the last dregs of his ale, the two crewmen to the left of Adolfus threw down their own cards, sighing frustratedly.

Captain Blackett chuckled, giving a good-natured nod to both his surgeon and engineer. "And then, there were three." He slid a second coin over, followed by a third, and then a fourth. "I'll see your bet and raise you two more."

"I sure hoped you saw my bet, one-eye." He said, as he raised his eyebrows and let out a sigh. "I fold, good Kapitän." Adolfus then got up from the table, wiping his mouth,"I'm going to go find something that resembles an outhouse in this god-forsaken place. Good luck, Jack."

"Much obliged, Adolfus," replied Blackett. "Although I can't imagine I'll need much luck now." He shot a wry grin at Cato. "Care to bet? Or were you planning on following these fine gentlemens' examples?"

Adolfus chortled as he exited the building. The ship's surgeon reviewed her cards, maintaining her frown. After a moment of hesitation, she pushed her entire pile of doubloons forward. She looked up, looking around the table with a small smile on her face.

A dark man sitting in a booth in the corner watched Adolfus leave, then returned his gaze to the poker match. He studied the attire of each player, their mannerisms and the way they interacted with each other. He raised an eyebrow when the woman piled all of her gold into the center of the table, curious to see how this would play out.

His name was Raphe Alan Leverett, a mercenary currently working as the Master Gunner of The Zodiac's Warning, under Captain Theodore de la Cruz. He had been watching the patrons of this tavern for hours, as was his custom before his captain entered any establishment their first day on land. Why this particular group had caught Raphe's eye, he did not know.

The Captain chuckled as he saw Cato's money slide into the middle of the table. "Well, you've got more bollocks than the rest of these fellows." He pushed his own coins forward. "Alright, I'll bite. All in. Let's see your hand."

Cato put her five cards down, pointing at each of them individually. "I have three sixes. That is quite a high hand, is it not?"

"A higher hand than you think," Blackett replied. "You have two threes - that's a full house." He placed his own cards down; all clubs, but without sequence. "Which beats my flush. Well played."

"Aha!" The surgeon smiled broadly and dragged the pile of coins towards her side of the table. "I'll be taking all of that, thank you very much." She immediately began to order her new prize, stacking the doubloons in columns of three.

"Verdamnt! There's no pisspots around here." Adolfus said as he walked over to the bar. "do you have any lager? also, buy one for this fellow besides me and.." He scanned the room for a sober soul, "That brooding fellow over there!" He points at Raphe, and nods to the barkeep as he pours Raphe's drink. He then took his tankard, and sat back down at the poker table. "Wheres the game at- hahaha! You let the Russian frau beat you, Jack?" The fates aren't on your side tonight."

A minute later, Raphe looked at an approaching barmaid, confused. "I didn't order anything." he roughly asserted. The maid placed a tankard of beer in front of him. "Courtesy of Old Smokey there," pointing to Adolfus. Raphe nodded at the man, surprised.

He nodded back, sauntered over to Ralphe's booth, and took a seat; as he initiatied a toast with the man. "Not everyday we see a new face around here. They usually die on their first voyage. My name is Adolfus, or Ady. What's yours, stranger?

Raphe eyed the man suspiciously before slowly raising his tankard. "Name's Raphe."

"Good to meet you, Raphe. So tell me, are you here for business or pleasure?" He clinked his mug into Raphe's and took a swig of his drink.

Raphe lowered his tankard without taking a sip. "Business. What have I done to earn your attention?"

"Seeing a sober man in a tavern of miscreants is a suspicious sight indeed. Plus I saw you eying mein compatriots."

"More suspicious is a man who's too kind to strangers," Raphe replied, "But if you must know I'm waiting for my captain."

"Well I can understand that, with all the cutthroats and backstabbers, a friendly face may seem a bit strange. But I have good reason; 'cause you see, I'm something of a craftsman. And I am in the market for things you may deem unvaluable. Raw ores, ingots, pitch, cotton, hardwood, et cetera. So my friendliness is simply me, extending my hand in a possible mutually benefical deal; and if your captain is showing up, I'll buy him a drink as well, and we can all talk business." He explained, as he drained the last of his warm beer.

It was then that a slightly overweight Spaniard with an ornate captain's uniform and an almost comically large mustache walked through the tavern doors. Rather than take a seat, he chose to address the mostly-drunkern crowd of ruffians. "Good evening ladies and gentlemen! I'd like to buy each of you a drink and discuss grand opportunities for fame and fortune!"

Adolfus pointed at the entering spaniard and tapped Raphe,"That your captain?" He nodded, and went back to swirling his drink. Adolfus whistled and waved Cruz over to their booth.

Theodore de la Cruz, captain extraordinaire and self-anointed Prince of Adventure, swaggered over to the pair and took a seat. "My good sir," he asked Adolfus, "are you interested in the wonders upon the sea that I have to offer?"

"Not at all, good captain; I have my own crew. But, I did want to talk to you about future trade opportunities that could be profitable for both of our ships." He repeated the spiel that he told Raphe just moments ago and ordered the captain another beer, the same as Raphe's.

Captain Blackett took the first sip of his latest pint of ale, raising a hand to carefully wipe away the frothy white head from his moustache. He subtly gestured in the direction of Adolfus. "Our engineer seems to be getting awful friendly with that Spaniard, doesn't he..."

Cato looked over at the German with less subtlety. "It certainly looks that way. Perhaps he's..." She raised her eyebrows. "Sexually inverse. Far from any sort of civilisation here, I suppose one could be bolder."

The Englishman chuckled, glancing over again at the pair. "Now there's a disturbing thought that will require something far stronger than ale to erase." His face grew more serious. "But it is far preferable to the alternative, which is that our friend is either knowingly or inadvertently entangling this crew in Spanish business."

"You are the captain, aren't you? I thought it was you who decided what this crew is entangled in." Cato shrugged. "He's probably just talking. We're in a tavern, after all."

Blackett sighed. "You are probably right. I do apologise; I have a nasty habit of assuming the worst." He dragged his eyes firmly away from the far table. "Anyway, it is probably time I took my leave. I have courses to plot and books to pore over, as usual. Enjoy the rest of your evening, and be ready to sail by noon tomorrow." He gave Cato a polite nod, and then repeated the gesture to each of the other officers who lined the table. Picking up his black tricorn and placing it atop his head, the Captain turned and headed for the exit, weaving his way through the crowds of drunken and rowdy sailors until he had disappeared from sight.

Adolfus watched as Blackett left. "Alas, I must take my leave. Though if you want to follow up on my offer, just give a letter to the bartender. I'm a regular here, so it'll make it to me." He sidled out of the booth, gave the men a bow, and headed for the ship.

1 June 1715 - St. John's Town, Antego

A cloud smoke obscured the bustling shanty. It smelled of tobacco, warm beer, and musky sailours, yet not a single complaint could be heard over the drunken revelry. Men of many classes collected in the humble little tavern so that the well-dressed Spanish officer only looked a touch out of place. Still, like any man so distinguished, the Spaniard conducted his business with his assistant and the Englishman across from them smoothly.

"Eso es demasiado para un mapa," scoffed Capitáno Avecedo. He slammed a fist against the wooden table. It wobbled from the force and tipped the tankards until beer spilt out.

The Englishman grimaced and looked at the captain's servant. Francisco met the gaze quickly, hoping his confusion escaped notice. He found a mix of judgment and aggression in the man's eyes that gave him pause. The man's worn, sun-faded long coat was patched and stitched heavily. It added an otherworldly look to the Englishman that made his unkempt beard and hair all the wilder.

"This is too much for a map," Francisco translated, finally.

"You must be misspeakin', groid. We're talkin' about more than a map," the Englishman retorted in a hard, gravelly voice. He leaned closer until his worn, sun-faded coat soaked with beer. "P'haps yer monkey brain can't grasp it. This's safe passage tuh riches. E'erthin' from sea dragons tuh whirlpools tuh known patrols. Should be askin' for more, really."

Francisco blinked and gripped the handle of his tankard tighter. He took a drink, glancing to the captain over the rim. Avecedo sat back and let his arms fall to the sides of his chair. The Spaniard looked larger than before in his fine, layered coats, but something Francisco could not quite put a finger on also appeared off.

The Englishman cleared his throat. "Listen, if business in't goin' tuh happen I can think of bettuh ways tuh waste muh time."

"Siéntate, maldito perro."

"Sit down, dog."

"Scuse me?" the Englishmen barked as he jumped to his feet. A brief, yet sharp scrape of wood-on-wood earned the gaze of others around the bar.

Capitáno Avecedo pulled a pistol from beneath the table. Looking down the barrel of the Spanish blunderbuss, the Englishman's face paled. "My asistente speaks to you politely, though he clearly fails to grasp that such modales are wasted on the likes of you. Now, señor, shall we continue negotiating?" The Englishman nodded and Avecedo nudged his head toward a chair closer to himself. "Mullato, relieve nuestro amigo of his pistols, por favor."

Without meeting the Englishman's eye, Francisco did as instructed. One wheellock a little larger than the capitáno's blunderbuss and twin flintlock pistols that seemed, to him, more suitable for an officer. Avecedo noticed as well. Francisco deposited two of the weapons into his satchel and kept a flintlock in hand.

When the Englishman took a seat Avecedo responded with a smile. "Beautiful pieces, señor. If I return them to you, that should over the map, sí?"

The Englishman grew red in the face. He made to speak then his eyes flicked to the blunderbuss and his jaw tightened instead. He nodded and reached inside his coat. By the time Francisco raised the pilfered flintlock the Spaniard's blunderbuss was already in place. Its barrel pressed against the Englishman's mouth as if a comical mask. Slowly, he revealed a rolled piece of parchment.

"Gracias por hacer negocios."

Leaving the tavern, Francisco allowed the captain to walk ahead. He'd learned early on to play how others' viewed themselves and Spanish officers, naturally, preferred to lead. It helped that Capitáno Avecedo walked briskly. Despite being more than twice Francisco's age, his speed revealed a man full of vigour. He was roughly the same height as Francisco with arms and legs thickened by the demands of the sea. However, despite all the characteristics of a man still in his prime, Avecedo could not stop the greying hair or wrinkling skin others less fortunate never saw. It wasn't until now that it occurred to Francisco the captain was growing old. He thought of his father.

They walked deeper into the town until the docks, and La Cadena Negra, was no longer in view. St. John's Town sprawled out further than Francisco expected. Buildings of sun-bleached stone and wood-lined relatively decent roads giving clear access to the bustling markets, farmstands, and entertainers. Merchants exclaimed their wares, eyes following sailors who looked heavy with coin. While the captain ignored it all without so much as a smile, Francisco was enamoured. This was a proper town, after all. More than a shanty bar with watered down beer and hay beds and whores boasting itself a grand isle. He imagined St. John's Town had all of those things, of course, but it was the charm that delighted him. His eyes wandered toward a building with roses woven over a decorative metal frame above the door and a British woman looking out. Their gazes met, her's longing and his curious. She curtsied, revealing much of her breasts, and she waved him toward.

"¿Estás escuchando?"

Francisco's attention snapped back to the captain. "Lo siento."

"Where is your focus, Mulato?" Avecedo glanced around the street until he found the brothel. As if on cue, the woman repeated the scene. "Oh. Well."

"Mis disculpas. How can I be of help, Capitáno?"

Raising a hand to his eye, to his assistant and shook his head. "No apologies. I..." he paused and smiled. "I understand. I trust your attention is stronger than your impulsos?"

"Sí."

"Muy bien. I need you to find el cartógrafo by the name of Josiah Kenway. Él puede verificar que el mapa sea verdadero. Do not lose either of these, entiende?"

Avecedo scanned the street then stopped. Following suit, Francisco found many walking about the street, but none paying them more than a brief glance. The captain handed him the rolled parchment and a small coin purse making sure each were firmly grasped before letting go. It might have been the closest thing to payment he'd received since boarding La Cadena Negra.

"Entendido. Where shall I find you after?" His assistant looked at the woman in front of the brothel as she enticed others passing by. She appeared successful.

"Diablillo," the captain replied. His voice sounded soft, but he wore a stoic expression on his face. "I have other business. Find me by the dock by nightfall."

"Is Señor Kenway expecting me?"

"No. No te preocupes, he is an old friend. A gentle heart. No mas preguntas. By nightfall, no later."

Without the captain catching eyes hungry for coin, Francisco found he disappeared into the crowd. Merchants and whores saw him for a second before focusing on the fat purses and fine coats. He watched with amusement as bolder folk grabbed the sleeves of those walking near with one hand and displayed their goods in the other only to be shrugged off or rewarded with attention. More compelling, though, were how many let go of the sleeve and slipped their fingers into the pedestrian's pocket. He made to say something, but thought better.

The market continued further than Francisco cared to venture. He turned off the main street onto a quieter path too small for horses or carriages. He saw the wooden signs waving over doorways with illustrations and letters identifying each shop. A needle and thread for the tailour, two crossed rifles for the gunsmith, a vial for the apothecary. Francisco walked the road leisurely, noting each sign, until he arrived to the cartographer. Over the door the wood placard displayed black checkered lines and a red teardrop flipped upside down. Francisco shook his head in confusion as he pushed the door open.

"Don't be a fool! It's a well-known fact a serpent roams those waters," said the spectacled man.

A second man, this one without spectacles or hair, replied, "A serpent off the coast of Porto? He's blood Portuguese, I think he might've noticed a big bloody snake swimmin' about."

"Excuse me," Francisco interjected. Neither man looked up from their tables. "My name is --"

"Say he has noticed and you adding the serpent confirms your authority. Might not be a dependable map if you miss so big a feature."

"Would you return to a city terrorized by a sea serpent, Josiah? By ship at that."

"Pardon my interruption. I am --"

"I would not," Josiah replied with an eyebrow cocked as he thought. "But I deal in maps and navigation and only sparingly go out into the unknown. This Portuguese is a sailour. Bit of danger suits him. To the real question, Henry. What if the serpent is friendly?"

Mouth agape, Henry ran an ink-blotted hand over his head. Dark black streaks from his fingers lined the bald skin, a near match for faded ones. "You want me to put a sea serpent off the coast of Porto, but it'll be mint because he'll be grinning ear to bloody ear?"

"Please, I am here on behalf of --"

"Well that's rich, Henry. Here I thought we were being serious. You know full well snakes do not have ears."

"Capitáno Miguel Avecedo."

The chattering cartographers paused and finally observed their visitor. Henry, mouth still wide open, sat his quill down and walked out from behind the large table that separated the entry from the work area. Fresh, white parchments stacked on top of far older, yellowed ones all around their work. So much clutter in a place producing such precision.

"Thought you'd be older, Captain. And forgive me, I thought a man of your station might dress --"

"He is not Miguel," Josiah interrupted, rising from his stool and wiping his hands on the cloth hung from his apron. "Too young. Miguel would not come in person, anyway."

Francisco cleared his throat and decided to, once more, attempt an introduction. "My name is Francisco Bagua. Capitáno Avecedo asked me to bring this to Mister Kenway." He pulled the parchment from his satchel and handed it to Henry. "He asks you confirm what it shows."

The mapmakers exchanged glances. After a moment, Josiah replied, "The last time I saw Miguel he was a lieutenant. Your visit comes as a surprise."

"Bloody hell, I'll say it," Henry exclaimed. The man placed his hands on his sides and leaned forward. "Don't look like you keep the company of Spanish captains. How do we know you aren't a privateer seeking free help?"

"Capitáno Avecedo took me slave ten years ago."

Josiah nodded and took the map. "This must be difficult for you. I have no power over your situation, but I can offer you coffee and a food in the least."

"Am I missing something?" Henry replied, grabbing and opening the map. "This Miguel some kind of slaver?"

"When I apprenticed, my Lord, some thirty years ago now," Josiah sighed. "Miguel came in on behalf of his captain for a map to Africa. The specifics made it quite clear they were in pursuit of, well, merchandise. I was a boy excited for work. It's not something I'm proud of."

Francisco pulled a corner of the map out of Henry's hand. On the right the West Indies and there ports were clearly illustrated with red and green marks pointing to them. Dotted lines with arrows moved between the ports and around the map, some south, others north, and a few ultimately leading east toward Africa. Small, black bodies appeared across the African coast. Neither of the mapmakers uttered a word as he observed the map.

"Slaves," Francisco whispered. His face paled suddenly. "How long would the trip to Africa take?"

Josiah fumbled with his spectacles. "I'm no sailour. Maybe two months. Longer with bad weather. Mister Bagua, you, uh, you weren't there were you?"

Blinking back tears, Francisco replied, "No. But my father was."

The Devil’s Anvil sat in wait for another four agonisingly slow hours; the crew were promised action and riches, and neither of which were to be found. It was the middle of the evening now – the sun was beginning to disappear over the dark orange horizon. Many merchant ships wouldn’t risk arriving into Kingston at night, so it was now or never.

Otherwise, it’d be yet another day without any profit.

“Take us south-east, full speed!” Kirkwood yelled; his crew relevant to the order began scurrying the ship, climbing the rigging and the like. They moved quickly and with a purpose, which wasn’t exactly surprising considering that their livelihoods were on the line; wealth - or the lack of it - always was a great motivator.

Old Ironwood had retired to his cabin in the following minutes, no longer content with standing by the helm. He stared at the map of the Caribbean on his ornate wooden table. In fact, most of his cabin was the same; it looked more like a British officer’s bedroom than a pirate captain’s quarters. He was so absorbed in the large piece of paper that he visibly jumped when he heard a knock on the door – it wasn’t even that loud. Good thing nobody was around to see his second of weakness. Kirkwood scratched his short blonde beard before clearing his throat. “Come in! If ye bloody well must.”

At his barking, the door began to open slowly, as if the person opening it didn’t wish to awaken a sleeping monster. Chambers stood at the doorway once again the very picture of fear. “C-Captain…” she squeaked out, almost as quiet as the smallest mouse.
Captain Kirkwood made no attempt at hiding his irritation. “Don’t waste my time, girl.” He growled. “Speak up.” He rested his head on his fist and slouched in his cushioned chair.
The girl shrunk away a little more, but she had no desire to raise her captain’s ire again. “We… we’ve spotted a ship heading towards Kingston… she’s a merchant ship. I… I think.”

Kirkwood raised one his eyebrows. “Who’s ‘we’? Don’t you mean ‘they’? Don’t tell me you’re taking some credit for the crew’s work?!” he slammed one of his fists on his table; Chambers jumped in fright, despite the fact she saw it coming a mile off. “Tell ‘em I’ll be out in a minute, and to intercept that damn ship.”
Chambers nodded meekly and began closing the door as slowly as she’d opened it.
“Now!” After she left, he gave out an exasperated sigh as he rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and finger.

Sure enough, he was out of his cabin after a minute with all his equipment; his sabre, jacket and two handguns. The Devil’s Anvil was already on an intercept course with the ship they had spotted minutes earlier. Kirkwood approached his first mate, a Yorkshire man called Nicholas. He was in his late twenties with short black hair and had a surprisingly well-kept beard. “What are we looking at?” Kirkwood muttered so only Nicholas could hear him.
“Merchant ship, Captain; flying the British flag. She’s a big‘un, too.” He handed his Captain a telescope.

Sure enough, a large merchant ship was in sight; from a quick glance at how low her waterline was, she was full to the brim with something. An almost imperceptible grin appeared on Ironwood’s face. Normally he’d be wary of such an obvious prize, but he couldn’t afford to be picky at this point. “Take us in!” he yelled as loud as he could to his helmsman- the poor man cringed; he was only a few metres from the Captain anyway.

The Devil’s Anvil was advancing towards her prey at full speed; she would end up with her broadside facing the merchant vessel’s bow at the current rate. Such a plan would have been obvious to anyone watching, and the crew of the merchant ship must have seen them by now…

However, the ship continued its heading. Some of the Anvil’s crew were beginning to grow suspicious, but the rest weren’t the types to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

The ship’s British flag quickly began to descend once the Devil’s Anvil got close to completing its admittedly simple manoeuvre – if all victories were going to be that easy in the future, Kirkwood and his crew were going to live as kings. Just as cheers began to ring out amongst the crew of the Anvil, their target began to turn sharply to her left and started raising a different flag – a red and gold Jolly Roger. Hidden ports on the ship’s broadside began to open, revealing several rows of cannons. The ships were about to cross parallel to each other.

Kirkwood’s expression went from one of arrogant smugness to barely concealed anger. And… was he afraid? “Oh… fuck.” He whispered so nobody else could hear him. The Devil’s Anvil didn’t have the firepower to last long against the monster that stood before her and Ironwood knew it. Unfortunately for him, it was too late to back out now. “Turn to starboard, now!” his helmsman once again cringed at his captain’s yelling, but nevertheless complied.

The Anvil turned to her right, hoping to have a clear broadside shot at the back of their enemy. That said, she’d have to survive her adversary’s own broadside first…

Alajandro huddled deep in the back corner of El Oso Mareado's hold. He'd tucked himself behind a pair of smoked out barrels of Spanish wine, now crinkling his nose in disapproval of the liquor's bitter stench. Remnants of sea spray laced in algae that had landed on board and trickled down through the ship's woodwork lapped at his toes and backside, soaking into his breeches and through the now worn soles of his boots. he felt like crying but couldn't for fear of being found.

Fortunately for him, it was midday and all hands had to be on deck on one as turbulent as this had turned out to be. Wind whistled through the topsides and the masts could be heard groaning from below deck while stamping footsteps raced about suggesting the sailors were attempting to brace the sails. There wasn't much for living quarters on a boat as small as this, but the hold was used mostly for storage of wine, rum, and salted meats. The sailors slept in hammocks hanging from belowdecks. Alajandro slept on the floor.

After huddling in the same corner for four days and counting -- only coming out to snatch scraps of food where he could -- Alajandro was left wanting that he could grow numb to the aching in his gut. He was dehydrated, only having access to beef stock pilfered from the ship's cook. He wasn't accustomed to drinking alcohol and it had not helped his thirst much at all when he'd attempted it. He couldn't believe he was thinking it, but the conditions the Cinturones Morados had kept him in now seemed like luxury compared to this.

Alajandro could not have chosen a worse ship as his vessel out of La Isla de Culebra. The ship's title had proven a red herring. It was manned by Italians and Portuguese who had commandeered the ship from enemies of Portuguese investors. he'd only been able to pick up on a few words here and there, either the same as or similar enough to his mother tongue. "Norte," "Oeste," and perhaps the most revealing, "Britânico."

Of course, none of this meant anything to him. Recognized, yes. Significance, absent. In spite of having a detailed map of the Caribbean inked onto his back he had never known how to read it. His parents had never given him any such education despite their blatant capability to afford him one. When they poured over his back, plotting routes to the Treasure Cove, he'd heard words such as "Havana" and "Port-au-Prince," but as far as Alajandro was concerned, El Oso Mareado was sailing straight for the beautiful land of Algarabía -- Gobbledegook. It sure wasn't headed home to Tenerife.

Then all at once, it seemed that Alajandro's luck might finally be in the throws of redirection. A word resounded from overhead and then was reiterated and reiterated again. It was a word that Alajandro not only understood, but that actually meant something to him. A promising word that sent his heart leaping into his throat with exhilaration. "Terra!" But it was quickly followed by words out of the captain's mouth, ones that raised question marks in Alajandro's head. He did recognize one but it was about as helpful as any city name he'd ever heard before. Nassau.

Unable to contain his curiosity, Alajandro slowly lifted himself to his feet, feeling them tremble a little bit as his tired muscles slowly returned to life. Cautious not to let his footsteps make any sound against the floors, he slipped out from behind the barrels and over to the bottom of the stairs leading up to the lower deck. Slowly he tiptoed up the stairs until he could just peek his nose over the floorboards. Spotting no one in sight, he finished the ascent and then hastened over to one of the portholes through which the carronades would protrude during combat. He was met with sprawling empty ocean and so grasped a rope securing the cannon in place and leaned out the porthole to squint up toward the bow. Sure enough the ship was making a beeline for the coast. The fuzzy outline of tropics could be spotted from where Alajandro was leaning.

"Ei!" Alajandro's exuberance, tasting freedom on the tip of his tongue, was quickly smothered by panic. He stared up along the flared sides of the ship to see a sailor hanging from the rigging staring down at him. "Quem é tu, garoto?" The man shouted down at him as soon as they made eye contact.

Quickly, Alajandro slipped back through the porthole and bounded toward the stairs down into the hold, hastened by the sound of a thundering stampede of outraged brigands. He whipped his head around in a frenzy. The sight of a canvas keeping salted fish off the floor caught his eye and he made a break for it. He threw himself into it, holding his breath and plugging his nose so as not to make a sound or smell the rancid fish.

"O que está dizendo, Diogo?" Alajandro could hear one of them saying to the other from what must have been exactly above where Alajandro hung now. "Não tem ninguém aqui, homem!"

"Eu sei que vi alguém." The pirate who'd spotted Alajandro, who was now identified as Diogo, sounded adamant about finding him. Alajandro squeezed his eyes shut praying they wouldn't think to look downstairs. His prayers were in vain as he heard footsteps taking to the stairs down into the hold. He was biting into his lip so hard that he was starting to draw blood. However, he didn't even notice. All he could think about was how close his pursuers were standing to his impromptu hiding place.

"Nao tem ninguém aqui." Another of Diogo's companions repeated, sounding annoyed.

A strange silence hung in the air for a moment, only interrupted by the sound of surf hitting hull. "Acho que está certo." Diogo responded at last.

The sound of footsteps growing quieter sounded promising to Alajandro and he opened his eyes, hanging for a second in disbelief that he'd gotten away. After a moment, he leaned over and pulled at the edge of the canvas. As soon as he'd done so he froze in abject terror. Wide blue eyes framed by a wrinkled forehead and drooping jowls hovered inches away from Alajandro's own face. "Te encontrei, garoto." Diogo growled, followed by a foreboding, wheezy cackle. Alajandro didn't have to guess at what he'd said.