Skippy ordered the bilge pumps manned.
In the hold, four men seized the chain pump's crank, turning the mechanism until it began to shriek, hauling the briny water up through the pipe. Another six set to work on the piston pump; the long handles rose and fell amid grunts, splashing the deck with every foul-smelling discharge—water that had to be swept at once toward the rail.
With the bosun and his mate absent, Mr. Pete Nightingale took command, making sure everyone stayed organized and in rhythm.
"Come on, lads… put your backs into those cranks," he called to the men working the pumps on deck, his voice calm but firm.
"What's Pete's story anyway?" Kayin asked at one point, sweat running down his neck as he worked the pump.
"He's a mystery…" said a fat pirate, dripping with sweat. "Some say he's the son of a preacher who kicked him out for thinking too much; others say he was a Boston bourgeois who maybe killed someone."
"He killed a redcoat he caught with his wife," another added.
"Ah, Chuck, you and your stories…" several men scoffed.
"Most likely he ended up drowning in debt," said another. "Same thing happened to my father-in-law… and look at me now."
"Shut it—we all know you ran off from your wife and your mother-in-law," someone shot back, setting off a round of laughter.
At the sound of Mr. Pete's whistle, everyone changed shifts just as the carpenter arrived.
"How's it looking down there?" Pete asked.
"We've patched the hole as best we can, but the hull's still crying like a babe at full voice…" the man replied before heading toward the captain's cabin.
Pete glanced back at the crew.
"You heard him, gentlemen… if you don't want to feed the fish, keep those cranks turning!"
The carpenter knocked and stepped into the cabin, where the captain, the bosun, and the members of the landing party were gathered. In one corner, the pilot bent over a chart spread on a small table, wobbling on his chair; Sammy kept nudging him to stop him from tipping over. She split her attention between the navigator's hands and the discussion at the captain's desk.
"So, as I understand it… the confirmed casualties are Knox and two more men…" the captain said.
"They're the ones we saw lying on the beach… and Knox at the foot of the cliff. The rest… they were likely executed up there," one of the men replied.
The captain listened with his arms crossed; at those words, Sammy felt a hollow open in her chest.
"But what are you doing just standing there, mulatto?" the pilot snapped. "Pick up that compass off the floor."
The girl startled and hurried to retrieve the instrument.
"You're useless… I don't know why the captain had you called in," the pilot muttered, letting himself fall back against the chair before discreetly pulling out a small bottle and taking a swig.
"Mr. Wells, that's going to get you in trouble," Sammy warned.
The pilot fixed her with a hard stare.
"Worry about your own troubles… mulatto," he spat.
Meanwhile, at the captain's desk, the tally continued.
"So… is there any chance of survivors, yes or no?"
The men looked at one another.
"I don't think so, Captain," Trumper said. "The Spanish execute pirates on the spot."
"But…" one of the men objected. "Mike Hatcher is alive. I saw the Spaniards hauling him up the stairs, shoving him along."
"Maybe to throw him off the top," Trumper insisted.
"And why waste time when they could've killed him right where he lay?" another pirate cut in.
The captain regarded them all with a deep frown.
"Captain, as bosun and leader of the landing party, I can tell you… those men are dead. There's nothing we can do," Trumper said.
"And what about the cargo?" the secretary asked.
The captain walked over to the stern skylights and stared out at the sea, wrestling with his decision.
"Begging your pardon, Captain," the carpenter broke in. "Despite all the oakum and pitch we've packed in, the hole's still leaking. Even with constant pumping, the bilge is flooding."
Skippy drew a long breath.
"Gentlemen, you may go. Mr. Trumper… I'll send for you shortly. Make sure the pumps keep running."
The men filed out. The bosun turned after them, drew his dagger, and flashed it ominously.
"If anyone else contradicts me, I'll gut him like a pig," he growled.
"Sir, but… our mates… some of them were right bastards, sure, but they're still part of the crew. We can't just leave them," one pirate protested.
A few nodded.
"Silence! You've been warned—now back to your posts!"
When they were gone, the bosun spat on the floor, seething.
Inside the cabin, the pilot remained before the captain, swaying as Sammy straightened his chair again and again. In a thick voice, he described the coastline while Skippy listened, stern.
"As I was saying, Captain… I haven't seen anything that might give us shelter. No estuaries, no lagoons. No rivers run through these lands, so there are no mouths to slip into…"
"Then what option do we have, pilot?" Skippy demanded. "Sail all the way to Tortuga with the bilge flooding? Is that what you're telling me?"
The pilot cleared his throat.
"It's my best attempt…"
"The only attempt I see, Mr. Walter Wells, is pretending I don't notice you're drunker than any sot in Wapping," Skippy said coldly.
The pilot drew in a breath.
"You know I ought to hang you, Wells."
"And you'd be without a pilot—and run aground the moment my rope went taut," Wells shot back, defiant.
The secretary and Sammy swallowed hard as the pilot stared the captain down.
"Mr. Wells," Sammy ventured, "do you remember the cove you told me about…?"
"I don't know what you're babbling about, you mulatto—"
"Yes, sir," Sammy pressed on. "You mentioned a small cove we might try."
The pilot glared at her, then turned back to Skippy.
"Show me whatever Mr. Wells supposedly told you," the captain ordered.
Sammy stepped closer and traced the coastline with her finger.
"Here… it's a small inlet," she said.
The pilot pulled a lens from his pocket and inspected it.
"Indeed… that's the Caleta del Hundido. But according to the notes… damn it, mulatto, make yourself useful and read."
Sammy bent over the map.
"It's navigable at high tide, but at low tide there's only a narrow channel with barely a few fathoms of depth."
Skippy listened carefully.
"Captain, it may be all we have," the secretary said. "Otherwise, the ship will sink."
Skippy studied Wells, then Sammy.
"Any Spanish settlements nearby?"
"There's none marked on the chart," Sammy replied.
"Shut your mouth, wretch," Wells snapped. "No, Captain—there are no settlements… and it's far enough away that the Spaniards won't notice us."
Skippy exhaled slowly and pressed his lips together.
"Mr. Worthy, send for Mr. Trumper."
Sammy left the cabin. She paused, listening to the constant screech of the pumps and the shouts of the crew. The coastline ran almost parallel to the ship, so close she could see the dark jungle silhouette as the sun sank into the sea.
"Cody…" she whispered.
Then she saw him again, amid the frantic motion of the crew—floating motionless above the deck. The ghost raised his cadaverous hand and showed her three fingers.
A sudden blow struck the back of her neck.
"Hey, vermin. You're needed in the cabin," Trumper growled as he strode past to bark orders.
Sammy hurried to obey.