The Garnor was running before the Caribbean swell. The lookout watched the horizon with care; the holds were crammed with barrels of rum taken from their last prize, and he had to stay alert for rival hunters—and, above all, for the Carioca, a name spoken with dread throughout the region, whose fame reached as far as Madagascar.
Then, far off, he sighted something as worrying as another pirate: black banks of cloud shouldering in on a northerly wind.
"Storm to starboard!" he bellowed from the mainmast head, and the bell clanged three times.
Men looked up and crowded to the rail. The horizon darkened; the sea turned choppy, and the ship began to roll as gusts smote the canvas, setting ropes and rigging to creak and groan.
The boatswain, Mr Trumper, mounted the forecastle and raised his glass.
"Mr Knox!" he called, and the boatswain's mate came trotting. "Make the ship ready for foul weather."
Knox's voice rang sharp along the deck, and soon the bell tolled and commands flew in every direction. Hands shortened sail, lowering or furling the principal canvas lest the wind tear it, leaving only the smaller headsails—staysail and jib—set, to keep way on the helm. Seamen swarmed up the ratlines into the rigging to harden up the shrouds, re-secure the knots and lash the gaskets fast.
Sammy, Cody and Kayin were among them. Cody clung to the yard, the swing and heave of the mast turning his legs to water.
"I mustn't look down… it's all right," he muttered as he edged along the spar, while Sammy, a few steps away, checked the seizings.
"Sammy," Cody said, "I think I'm going to faint."
"Hold on tight—and don't look down," Sammy answered. "If you go overboard, that'll be the last we see of you."
"If I fall to the deck, it'll be worse," Cody panted—when, all at once, his foot skidded on the damp spar and he all but dropped into space.
"Gods—Cody!" Sammy cried, edging carefully towards him.
"Help me, please… I don't want to die."
"Stop shouting—you're making me nervous."
Sliding his feet along the spar, Sammy reached, caught Cody's wrist and pinned him safely to the yard.
"My life flashed before my eyes," Cody gasped.
"I'm seeing mine right now. Come on—easy does it."
They began to climb down towards the running rigging, but when Cody set a foot on the ratlines, it slipped through and left him hanging by one leg. He grabbed at the step above; Sammy tried to help, but the wet rope fouled, leaving them both in a dangerous knot of rope and limbs.
"Damn it… I should have let you fall," Sammy hissed, while Cody groaned. Then a firm hand caught Sammy's arm, bracing one of his feet on the ratline and the other against a shroud. Sammy looked up into Kayin's cool, indifferent face.
"And I was the parlour slave," Kayin said drily, "yet I move better aloft."
"Maybe playing the harpsichord and serving Aunt Betty tea gave you better balance," Sammy shot back, just as dry.
"Will you stop talking nonsense and get me down from here?" Cody yelped, verging on hysteria.
Between them they eased Cody shakily down the ratlines, which shivered and sprang under wind and ship's motion. At last they reached the deck. Cody collapsed, grateful for the wet planks beneath him; he crawled to the rail and was sick. Sammy clapped his back while Kayin, faintly amused, lifted his eyes to the sky.
"A good blow coming," he observed, glancing about. "Even so, I'd rather be here."
"What in God's name are the three of you doing down here? Shall I fetch you a nice cup of tea, ladies? You should be aloft—now!" the boatswain roared.
Sammy turned to Mr Trumper and gestured. "Mr Harris was seasick and near fell from the rigging."
The boatswain grimaced. "By now you should be used to it," he snapped. "You told me you'd plenty of experience… or was that a lie?"
"Beg pardon, sir," Cody said, "perhaps… it's one of those days—ill humours."
"You'll have ill humours if you don't pull yourself together and get back aloft," Trumper growled. "Or you'll be polishing the heads with your tongue."
The ship gave a lurch and heeled; wood and cordage groaned. A hand came pounding up.
"Cap'n Skippy's ordered the cargo made fast, sir. He'll have no barrels stove."
Trumper nodded and fixed the three youngsters with a stare. "Go to old Frank for lines—then down to the hold. Lash the rum and the rest of the cases before they start dancing. And you, fair-locks—try not to swoon at the smell of rum… or at the rats."
They left the weather deck, crossed the between-decks and reached the compartment where old Frank kept coils of rigging and spare canvas. It was a dark den, tar-scented, hemp-reeking and damp, the preserve of the ship's technical hands. Surrounded by ropes, the old man lifted his one good eye and spat.
"What d'you want, brats? If it's not to hang you with, these lines aren't your size," he muttered.
"Tell that to Mr Trumper," Sammy said. "He's sent us for cordage to make the cargo fast."
The old man grinned, showing a raw gum with two lonely teeth. "Ah, well, that's clear enough." He heaved up, threw lengths of rope over his shoulder and handed them across.
"When my leg aches, there's a storm in it," he growled. "The sort that lets the drowned take their vengeance on the living."
The lantern hissed as if in agreement, throwing his shadow across the ropes like a man already half-ghost.
Sammy slung a coil across a shoulder. "Say no more, Mr Frank, or Cody will lose his nerve."
"Mind you don't run into Old Price," the ancient added, passing them more lines.
"Who's Old Price?" Cody asked.
"A damned ghost that haunts the hold… If he shows, pretend you don't see him. Those who've met his eyes went mad—and over the side."
Sammy smiled. "I don't believe in ghosts, Mr Frank."
He studied her in the wavering lamp-light, the flame sharpening his gaunt, seamed features. "You'll learn to fear 'em. Best keep your distance."
Kayin arched a brow, but Cody felt a chill run his spine. With no time to waste, they took the stairs down into the ship's belly, gripping the handrails to keep from tumbling as the steps creaked beneath them.
They went down through several decks, passing ranks of guns that the crew were muffling and lashing with tar-wet canvas, while other men nailed planks across the gun-ports. At last they reached the hatch that gave onto the lower hold and peered down a stair that seemed to fall into perpetual night. They paused. Sammy and Kayin hurried to take lamps from the pillars, while Cody peered into the gloom. From below came the deep, dull thud of cargo shifting with the ship's long, uneasy heave. He swallowed hard — it was like staring into an open grave.
Sammy tapped his shoulder, making him start, and grinned as she pressed a lamp into his hand. "What is it, dimwit? Afraid of the ghost?"
Cody cleared his throat. "Only checking… that it wasn't flooded," he said.
Sammy narrowed her eyes and shouldered past to start down. Cody watched her, gulped—then felt a light cuff to the back of his neck. He looked up. Kayin stood with the lamp under his chin, casting a knife-edged, sinister mask of shadows across his face.
"Boo," he said, smiling to show his white teeth.
"You're a pair of bloody idiots," Cody snapped.
Kayin shut his mouth on a crooked smile, shouldered past and began to descend. Cody glanced about: ordered cases, light guns without their carriages, other gear stowed in neat ranks. His lamp swung, throwing capricious shadows that seemed to creep like watchful spectres.
"Cody—we've not all day," Sammy called.
He hurried down into the hold.