Skippy sat on a folding camp chair while listening to the ship’s carpenter report on the progress of the repairs and outline the strategy for refloating the Garnor. Kwame was brought forward and seated on a crate directly opposite the captain. The prisoner narrowed his eyes at the excessive show of security surrounding an unarmed man.

  “How much longer until the repairs are finished?” Skippy asked the carpenter.

  “Captain, we’re already applying the pitch. We found a few more cracks deeper in the bilge, so we removed some rotten frames and planks.”

  At that moment, Mr. Wells arrived, followed by Sammy, who carried the charts, the almanac, and several navigation instruments.

  “Well, well… the hero of the hour has arrived,” Skippy remarked. “Didn’t I ask for him more than twenty minutes ago?”

  “I informed him as soon as you requested it, Captain,” Trumper replied.

  “Forgive us, Captain… the mulatto—” Wells began.

  “Mr. Worthy,” Skippy corrected calmly.

  “Mr. Worthy had left without notifying me, and I required his assistance.”

  Skippy pressed his lips together. Sammy waited for the captain to look at her, but he merely turned back to the crew.

  “Very well. When does the tide come in?”

  The pilot cleared his throat and shuffled through his papers.

  “According to the almanac…”

  He flipped a few pages.

  “Based on the calculations, the tide should rise between eleven-thirty and twelve-thirty, giving us a working window of roughly four hours, Captain,” Sammy said.

  Everyone turned toward her, then glanced at the pilot, who was visibly uncomfortable at having been displaced.

  Kwame smirked at the scene.

  The one who found no amusement in it was the boatswain. Jaw clenched, and taking advantage of the captain’s turned back, he shoved Sammy lightly.

  “When you want to speak, raise your hand,” he muttered.

  Sammy narrowed her eyes but said nothing.

  “With those numbers, we have our timing,” Skippy continued. “Mr. Perkin, I want that ship ready for the high tide, just as Mr. Worthy indicated.”

  He then turned to the gunner, the quartermaster, and the men in charge of ropes and canvas.

  “And the rest of you: be ready to load the moment I give the order.”

  He addressed everyone again.

  “Now then—let’s assume the Spaniards dispatched a patrol to track us. How long would it take them to reach this cove?”

  The men exchanged uncertain glances. Trumper pressed his lips together while the pilot pretended to review his documents. Sammy raised her hand.

  “Sir, if they departed from the citadel after seeing us leave, they wouldn’t arrive until dusk. The shoreline isn’t continuous—they’d have to cut inland before reaching the sea again.”

  “That can’t be right, Captain,” Trumper interjected. “Those men know the region like the back of their hand. They could arrive at any moment.”

  Skippy scanned the group.

  “All the more reason to accelerate the repairs, Mr. Perkins,” he ordered the carpenter, then turned to the gunner and the boatswain. “Mr. Holst, Mr. Trumper—are we ready for a surprise attack?”

  No one replied.

  “Am I to understand that I can’t rely on you?”

  Silence followed, broken only by the pounding of hammers and the rasp of saws outside the tent.

  “No patrol will come, Captain,” Kwame said. “If they had set out at night, they would have arrived when the boy said. But I can assure you—no Spanish force departed before dawn.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “And how can you be so certain?” Skippy asked.

  Kwame smiled wryly.

  “No Maya, no inhabitant of the redoubt or the citadel would venture into the jungle at night without being heavily armed.”

  “For any particular reason?”

  “They fear the demons that dwell in these lands.”

  Uneasy looks passed among the men.

  “Demons or not,” Skippy said firmly, “I want the Garnor afloat at high tide. Is that clear?”

  They all nodded. The gunner and the carpenter withdrew.

  “Moving on,” Skippy continued, turning back to Kwame. “You spoke of survivors.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “If I were to authorize a rescue party… what is the defensive situation of the citadel?”

  Kwame drew a deep breath.

  “The Spaniards have reinforced the walls. There are constant guards, auxiliary native patrols in the jungle sector, and coastal batteries with two cannons facing the shore, in addition to the battery protecting the estuary entrance—as you’ve already seen.”

  “With that description, it’s clearly a suicidal undertaking,” Trumper said.

  Skippy studied Kwame carefully.

  “But if we divide their forces,” Kwame added, crouching and tracing lines in the sand, “the situation changes. A ground party attacks to draw troops to the walls, while the ship enters the estuary and opens fire on the coastal battery. It’s only two cannons. That would sow confusion and weaken their defenses. Meanwhile, an infiltrator enters the citadel, allowing me to begin freeing prisoners once their vigilance is scattered.”

  “If it’s that easy,” Trumper sneered, “why don’t you go alone?”

  Skippy rubbed his chin.

  “I see several problems. The jungle auxiliaries would detect the ground party… and the cliff battery would block the ship. We couldn’t withstand more damage.”

  “I know the terrain,” Kwame insisted. “I can guide them through caverns whose entrance lies at the base of the cliff—where I gave you the signals. Do you remember?”

  Trumper said nothing.

  “From there, you reach the cliff temples’ enclosure,” Kwame continued. “There’s a hollow that places the auxiliary guard behind us. Neutralize the battery, the ground party advances on the walls, and I begin freeing the prisoners.”

  Silence fell.

  Sammy, who had followed the plan in her mind, raised her hand.

  “Captain, high tide will be between six and seven tonight. An attack this very night would be feasible.”

  “It would be a disaster,” Trumper replied.

  “It’s an extremely risky plan,” the secretary added. “We’re risking men and ship over something we don’t even know exists.”

  “Explain yourself,” Skippy said.

  “We don’t even know if they’re alive,” Paine replied.

  “Exactly,” Trumper agreed. “We have only this man’s word—and he could be a Spanish agent.”

  Skippy looked toward the Garnor’s hull through the tent opening.

  “If he were a Spanish agent, we’d already be under attack. We’re completely exposed,” he said. “And those men are my crew. I won’t abandon them.”

  “They’re already dead, Captain,” Trumper growled. “Why risk more?”

  The argument erupted until Kwame raised his hand.

  “There’s a way to compensate the effort financially.”

  “How?” the secretary asked.

  “I have access to Rafael’s treasure. I’m willing to hand over a portion—enough to cover the lost cargo.”

  A murmur rippled through the group. Paine swallowed hard.

  “That… changes things.”

  “This isn’t about money,” Skippy cut in. “It’s about my crew.”

  “Even so, my offer stands,” Kwame said. “I will honor it.”

  Skippy rose slowly.

  “Gentlemen, prepare everything so that once the Garnor is afloat, we can reboard. By then, I will have made a decision.”

  “Captain,” Kwame said confidently, “this plan will succeed.”

  “Perhaps,” Skippy replied. “But there are more factors to consider.”

  He gestured.

  “Take him away.”

  Kayin and Pete escorted Kwame out. The men returned to their work.

  “Sir,” Trumper growled, lingering behind, “I advise you not to listen to that Black man.”

  “Allow me to decide that myself, Mr. Trumper. You may go.”

  Everyone left. Only Sammy remained.

  “What is it, Mr. Worthy?”

  “I just wanted to say that… if you decide to do it, I volunteer.”

  Skippy regarded her silently, then motioned for her to leave.

  Once alone, the secretary spoke.

  “Captain, I don’t agree with this.”

  “I know, Mr. Paine.”

  “But the compensation—”

  Skippy closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Before he could respond, the carpenter burst in.

  “Captain, could you come for a moment?”

  “What is it, Perkins?”

  “There’s something you need to see.”

  Skippy rose and followed him.

  Once aboard, the captain and the carpenter crossed the slanted deck carefully to avoid losing their footing and sliding over the side. They descended the ladder into the forecastle mess, then deeper into the tilted hold until they reached the bilge. By lantern light, Skippy saw the men standing in absolute silence, faces tense with anticipation.

  One of them pointed toward the far end of the hull. Skippy climbed down the narrow ladder into the lowest part of the ship—the bilge. The smell was foul, stagnant water pooling underfoot. The carpenter led the way, lantern raised, until they reached a low point.

  “There, Captain,” the carpenter said, pointing.

  Among the ballast stones lay a skeleton, scraps of clothing still clinging to the bones.

  Skippy stepped closer and illuminated it with the lantern.

  “It looks like it’s been aboard for many years,” the carpenter said. “Possibly from the old crew, back when this ship was still Dutch.”

  “Maybe it’s the corpse of Price’s ghost,” one of the sailors murmured.

  An uneasy whisper spread through the group.

  Skippy examined the remains carefully and noticed something hanging from the skeleton’s neck. He grasped the chain and uncovered a medallion. Slowly, he tried to pull it free—but with a slight tug, the skull detached and rolled among the stones, provoking a collective gasp.

  Even the carpenter, pale with fear, raised his voice to impose silence.

  Skippy held the medallion up to the light. It was covered in elven characters, and on the reverse was engraved the image of a kraken.

  Without a word, he straightened and climbed out of the bilge. Once on deck, the men gathered around him.

  “What should we do with it, Captain?” the carpenter asked.

  “Leave it there,” Skippy ordered. “I won’t demoralize the crew with this macabre discovery. I demand absolute discretion.”

  He looked at them one by one.

  “One word about this on deck—and it will cost you your necks. Is that understood?”

  They all nodded.

  Without adding anything more, the captain withdrew.