Peace Ocean
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“The wind’s changing, sir.”
Cockburn stared at his lieutenant. “No, it isn’t. It was steady from the start.”
“Yes sir, but I feel it now too,” the lieutenant insisted, squinting against the wind that was blowing hard out of the north. The sails had to be reefed before long if they hoped to stay on course, or else they’d risk losing their bearings in these uncharted waters. But he couldn’t say that aloud, for the very reason Cockburn feared: he didn’t know what he was talking about.
He turned back to survey the deck. The crew was all hard at work. There’d been no time for leisure since leaving the port of Boston; they needed every available hand to make up for a lost time.
Even so, with the new breeze and fresh seawater from Cape Cod Bay, they might have made some headway by now, but there were still a hundred men on the poop deck and another hundred spread between the decks below, most of whom would be required to man the pumps when the ship was underway again—if they ever got underway again.
As usual, he looked over his shoulder to the bow where his first lieutenant stood with his spyglass trained on the horizon, but he didn’t see any change in the landscape ahead. He could just barely see the whitecaps rolling along in a steady rhythm, which meant nothing.
He knew he was wasting his time looking at the horizon, however; all that mattered right now was the sky above. A dark cloud massed overhead like an unbroken sheet of slate gray. If it stayed put for a few hours, he wouldn’t worry too much. But if it blew in as fast as it did yesterday, or worse yet, broke and scattered into a storm … He swallowed hard.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to face his second mate. “Sir?”
“What is it?” Cockburn demanded, trying not to let the concern show on his face.
His second mate cleared her throat before answering. “Mr. Smith tells me the weather gauge says we’re due for a strong blow soon. The barometer has dropped more than four inches since dawn.” She glanced to either side to check with her lieutenants and nodded once more to him. “I don’t think we can take another hit like yesterday unless we reef now.”
That wasn’t the news he wanted to hear. They were already close to their topgallant sail limit; any further damage to that sail would spell disaster—as well as endanger the lives of the men. And then there was the question of getting underway again. How many pumps would they need? Where would they put the men who manned them?
He rubbed his eyes as a headache formed behind one of them. “How far off are we?” he asked, though he knew exactly how bad things were.
“We’ve traveled maybe fifteen miles in two days.” His first officer sighed. “There’s a lot of good-quality timber around here, Captain, but there are plenty of rocks, too. We could lose a mast or two before we find some decent deepwater channels that would let us get underway again.”
“Then what do you suggest?” he asked, hoping for a better plan. The alternative was for him to send orders for the boatswain’s mates to take over the pumps and move everyone below decks. He couldn’t leave those men out here exposed while the ship rode out another storm.
“It’s only ten bells, sir,” said his first officer. “If we run to larboard, we can catch a bit more slack before the blow arrives. Then we’ll reef our topsails as we ride it out, and after the rain passes, we can set the mainsail again and make a run for it.”
Cockburn nodded slowly. As far as plans went, it was better than he’d expected. If they could reach the channel before the storm broke, it wouldn’t matter how badly the ship took the blow. At least he would have a chance to recover whatever damage they suffered before continuing their voyage. “Aye aye, Lieutenant. Let’s run to larboard. Mr. Smith, you have the helm!”
He walked down the quarterdeck steps to join the rest of the officers who were clustered around the chart table to study the map of the area they were in. He was just about to ask the first mate to tell him how much distance they’d covered when his attention was distracted by a loud crack.
“What was that?” he exclaimed, turning to look at the bowsprit, where a large piece of timber had broken free of its rigging and started falling toward the main deck below.
The first mate shouted, “Watch your heads! It’s coming down!”
But even as the word left his mouth, Cockburn saw what was happening and understood why his first officer and her lieutenants hadn’t seen this problem immediately. The piece of wood was too heavy to fall straight down, so it was spinning slowly through space.
When it came closer to the ground, it started dropping faster, its rotation speeding up the descent. By the time it hit the main deck, it was moving too fast to stop. Instead, it spun out sideways in a shower of splinters that cut a bloody path across the deck from bow to stern.
As the pieces rained down in front of him, he heard cries go up among his sailors, followed by the sound of several men crashing against the bulkhead. He ran to the hatch and yelled down to the men inside. “Is everybody all right?”
The reply came back instantly, but he couldn’t understand most of the words because they were being shouted past the pain in his ears. He looked over to see what happened. Several feet away, his helmsman and bosun were lying on the floor beside their pumps.
Both were moaning and shaking violently. There was blood everywhere, but he couldn’t tell where it was coming from. He grabbed one man under each arm and dragged him to the hatchway, then lifted him up and tossed him into the boat with the other injured man.
Once they were both in, he turned to the captain of the watch. “Sir! I’m going up on deck!”
“Yes, you damn fool!” the man answered with a grunt. “Don’t you know what just happened?”
“No, sir!” Cockburn cried back. “What did happen?”
The man’s voice was filled with anger. “You should be on deck, instead of wasting your time in here.”
“I don’t have—” he began, then stopped suddenly as another sharp crack sounded.
He glanced up sharply. He could just barely see the bowsprit now. That huge piece of wood must have snapped loose from its rigging at the same time the storm broke. The top half of the spar had fallen into the sea, but the bottom half had come down across the ship’s hull, trapping a large section of the lower part of the stern.
As soon as the mast had come down, it sent a shudder through the whole vessel like nothing else he’d ever felt before.
“Sir?”
His first officer’s voice startled him as she stood in the doorway of the forecastle. “We’ve lost some yards, Mr. Cockburn!” She didn’t wait for him to say anything; instead, she stepped back into the quarterdeck and yelled up to the mast, “Mr. Mowett! How many of my yards are gone? Answer me, if you please!”
He watched as his second officer climbed onto the weather side of the mast to answer her, then waited patiently while the men scrambled up the mast behind him. When Mowett was standing next to the captain, he pointed to the damaged portion of the yard and called out in an almost conversational tone: “Two of them, sir!”
He looked over to see whether the captain was angry at the loss of her yard, but she seemed perfectly calm. In fact, her face looked rather pale. “Mr. Mowett, take your men down to the carpenter’s chest. Have them build us four new yard staves—one for each of my fore and aft topsails! We’ll replace the other two once we get clear of this storm.”
Cockburn stared at his first officer, wondering why she had changed from being scared and confused to acting so calm and competent in such a short time. Then he remembered that it was only five days since the crew had been forced to abandon the frigate.
If there was one thing he knew about women it was that they hated to be frightened—especially when they were the ones who’d caused the trouble. It was obvious that something very serious had happened to frighten Lady Penrhyn so badly that she would leave a warship full of men alone at night without telling anyone.
And now he was seeing his first officer put on an act as well, pretending to be calm while everyone around her panicked and worried. He wondered again why she had done what she’d just done, then decided he really didn’t want to know. He needed to concentrate on getting his men to safety as quickly as possible. So he said simply, “Very good, Captain Penrhyn.”
She didn’t speak as he went back to the forecastle, but he knew his answer had pleased her by the way she gave him a slight smile as she returned to the deck of the quarterdeck and resumed watching the mast.
***
For the past three hours, Captain William Mowett and his thirty seamen had been laboring to make repairs. But even though their efforts were proceeding smoothly, the men on deck were still nervous and anxious after hearing those last few terrible sounds that had come from the forecastle.
For more than half an hour, nobody spoke a word, all of them too frightened to even think about talking.
When the crew heard the sound of footsteps coming up the ladderway, everybody froze in place until the figure stepped onto the deck quarterdeck. A moment later, everyone saw the captain and his officers standing there, staring up at the sky.
“Well,” the captain finally said with a sigh. “It seems as if our troubles are over for now.”
After a brief silence, his first lieutenant asked the obvious question. “How long will the wind hold steady for us, Mr. Mowett?”
Captain Mowett turned toward his first mate. “If the breeze holds at this rate, we ought to be able to make Barbados in a week or so.”
The second mate looked up at the captain. “That’s excellent news, sir!”
“Excellent indeed,” the captain agreed with a grimace.
A moment later, the first mate turned back to the others and raised his hands dramatically as if he was speaking to someone in the crowd. “But it does mean we can’t waste any more time trying to find Lady Penrhyn!”
“So we’re going back to search for her, sir?” Cockburn asked.
The first mate nodded emphatically. “I don’t like leaving her here alone on a strange island, not knowing where she is. I think we should go back, just in case something else has happened to her.”
“Yes, let’s go back,” the captain concurred. “There must have been some reason why she ran away from the ship, and I think we ought to find out what that reason was.”
“But what about the other frigate?” Mowett said as he shook his head sadly. “We’ll never find it.”
The captain shrugged. “We won’t worry about that anymore. We’re going to Barbados no matter what happens. As soon as we repair our mast—”
“No!” one of the men called out. Everyone started to look around at who had spoken—not because they couldn’t guess who was talking—but because the voice sounded different than they’d expected.
They realized that they hadn’t even recognized the man speaking; in fact, he was dressed differently than the men aboard the ship. He wore a long green jacket with high cuffs and white stockings, instead of the sailor’s trousers and boots they’d all gotten used to seeing. The man also wore a broad-brimmed hat, which he’d pulled down low over his eyes.
Cockburn looked up at him in amazement, wondering why he hadn’t noticed the stranger before. After all, he’d seen him climbing over the rail onto the deck of the mainmast moments ago.
Then, realizing his mistake, Cockburn quickly corrected himself: “No, Captain! Not the other frigate!”
At the mention of her name, the new arrival turned toward the captain, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied him curiously. He seemed to be sizing up the man standing before him, as if thinking how he would best deal with him if he were planning to attack the captain. Then, suddenly, he grinned at the captain.
Cockburn stared at him in astonishment, unable to believe his good fortune at having this mysterious newcomer join them. After all, they didn’t know anything about him, or even if he could help them with their quest to find Lady Penrhyn. If they couldn’t find her anywhere, then what good was a strange man who might know where she’d gone?
The tall man’s eyes narrowed again as he studied the group of sailors. It seemed as if he was trying to determine whether they would be useful to him somehow, or if they posed some sort of threat to him. At last, he smiled once more, then spoke up with a voice that rang out across the deck of the ship.
“You’ve met my master, Captain Mowett?” he asked.
“Who are you, lad?” the first mate demanded. “And why do you speak with such authority?”
The boy shrugged as he looked around at the others. “My father told me all about the adventures of Captain Mowett when he sailed on the Blue Jacket many years ago. So now I feel like I already know the captain, just because of that.”
“I’m surprised your father knows much about sailing,” another sailor replied. “I thought it was just a woman who was interested in those sorts of things.”
“It wasn’t really a woman,” the boy explained, turning back to Captain Mowett. “Her name was Grace O’Malley—or so I’ve heard, anyway. She was one of the most powerful and feared pirates ever to sail the seas. You can read all about her in books.”
“Books?” Captain Mowett echoed as he frowned. “I don’t recall reading anything about pirates in any book I’ve ever owned.”
“Oh, you probably haven’t,” the young stranger replied calmly. “I doubt your library includes any of the stories that tell the true history of piracy and seafaring.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cockburn demanded angrily.
“Captain Mowett is right,” the first mate cut in. “There’s no way you could have known Captain Mowett or Lady Penrhyn, unless—”
“Unless you were there when the two of them were on board,” the strange boy finished.
“You knew them both?” Cockburn cried. “How did you know Lady Penrhyn if you weren’t even with us when we found her?”
The stranger grinned at him again, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile. It sent shivers racing along Cockburn’s spine because he felt sure that he would never feel safe again—no matter what happened, not while the stranger still lived.
The other sailors were all staring at the young stranger now, too, for it was obvious that they, too, had questions.
“Who are you, anyway?” Mowett finally managed to ask, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Where did you come from? And how did you know so much about what’s going on aboard this ship? We all saw you climb onto our mainmast moments ago, didn’t we?”
“Yes, I suppose we did see you do that,” the young stranger agreed amicably enough. “But that’s no reason for you to assume I came aboard on purpose. After all, who could predict what might happen after jumping off a tall mast into the ocean? I must admit that, had I not done what I did when I did, there’s little chance that I would be sitting here with you at this moment.”
As he said this last part, he nodded toward Captain Mowett, who was staring at him in utter amazement. The boy smiled broadly at the captain’s obvious disbelief.
“Well, well,” he mused softly. “So it seems I do owe you an apology, Captain Mowett—though it’s not something I’ll say out loud, mind you. After all, who would believe me?”
“I should think there’s plenty of people who would,” Captain Mowett replied grimly.
“Including you, of course,” the stranger continued. “You’re a sailor yourself, aren’t you, Captain Mowett? A first mate by trade, correct? Yet, despite being the most experienced officer on board the Blue Jacket, I’d guess you’ve never seen me before today.
How could you? For I have traveled quite far away from the shores of Ireland, and even farther away from the sea. No, it’s much more likely that you were the one who rescued me.” He paused for effect, then leaned forward slightly and whispered conspiratorially into the captain’s ear, “Or, perhaps you were the one who threw me overboard.”
“That’s right!” Cockburn blurted suddenly as he looked up from his spot against the railing and glared at the stranger with a look of rage. “We saw you toss poor Lady Penrhyn over that side of the boat! Why else would we all be here? What else could possibly explain this?”
The young man laughed again. This time, however, it was an evil laugh. Then he stood up from his seat on the deck and stared around at the others, waiting for their reactions. But, when none of them seemed very willing to reply, the stranger turned back to the captain, still standing with his head bowed and his hands folded before him.
“So tell me, Captain Mowett,” he asked in a voice that seemed almost to echo inside the cabin, “what sort of tale will you weave to try to convince these men of your innocence and mine? Will you claim that you were merely returning the unconscious Lady Penrhyn to shore, only to discover my unconscious body lying on the rocks?”
When he said this last part, he glanced at the boy who was leaning against the rail just behind Captain Mowett.
This time, however, the boy didn’t move. He simply kept staring silently down at the waves below while Captain Mowett sat up straighter and frowned thoughtfully at the stranger.
“No,” he finally answered after several seconds had passed in silence. “I don’t think I’ll do anything like that.”
“Then why did you do it?” the young stranger asked. “Surely you must realize that the crew of this ship would never accept your explanation for why they’re all here—or for all those bodies floating nearby.”
Captain Mowett shook his head. “Perhaps not,” he murmured slowly, “but there’s always a chance that someone might believe you.”
He gazed at the young stranger with an expression of intense hatred, then added, “If only for fear of what you might do to any man who tried to stop you. If you hadn’t killed Lady Penrhyn and thrown me into the water—and if I didn’t find her drowned body on the rocks and bring it aboard ship—then I’d have had no choice but to do what I did to save myself.”
At that moment, Cockburn realized that Mowett’s story actually made a good deal of sense. There was certainly no way to deny it now; the facts were plain for all to see. All that remained was for the captain to admit what he’d done. And when he finally did so, everyone aboard the Blue Jacket knew it wouldn’t end well for the young Irishman.
As Captain Mowett watched him closely, the youth stared back calmly, then spoke quietly. “Then it’s fortunate for you, Captain Mowett, that your confession will never be heard by anyone. For you are the very last person I intend to tell about it.”
The words hung there between them for several seconds—an accusation and a threat both delivered in a single sentence. When they ended, it was clear that neither man would speak another word until the young stranger left the cabin. Then, after looking around at each of the men, in turn, he turned to face the captain again.
“Now,” he said in a low voice, “do you want me to go or not?”
For a brief instant, Captain Mowett appeared frozen in place. Then, without saying another word, he rose to his feet and strode out of the cabin. As soon as the door closed, all eyes in the room went immediately back to the young stranger.
He was sitting calmly on the floor, still wearing his black coat, but his gaze was fixed on the young boy who had been watching him just moments earlier.
After staring at him for several seconds, the lad turned toward his captain. “Did you say something to him, Master Bower?” he asked in an urgent whisper.
“I didn’t think it was important,” the boy replied in a calm tone as he studied the stranger. “But I should have told you, sir. He’s not really a stranger at all. His name is James Keats.”
“And where does he live?” Mowett growled quietly.
The young lad swallowed hard as he glanced nervously at the stranger and replied, “I haven’t seen him since we arrived in Port Royal. But I’m sure he lives somewhere in New Providence. At least… that’s where he said he was headed.”
The young man nodded slowly, then stood up and began to make his way down the narrow aisle that ran between the chairs on either side of the cabin. The other men watched him curiously. They had never seen him leave before, and none of them were quite certain how long it would be until he returned.
A few minutes later, Mowett was standing in the sterncastle with his hands behind his back, trying to decide whether or not he should give orders to his officers.
In front of him were the remains of his crew: Captain Cockburn, First Mate Cuffe, Bosun Johnson, and several others who had somehow managed to survive the night. They were huddled together in a group at one end of the deckhouse, whispering and shivering and occasionally glancing furtively over at the stranger.
It was obvious to all of them that he wasn’t going anywhere. In fact, he appeared to be doing his best to ignore them completely.
Cockburn, however, noticed the captain watching him and turned away sharply. “What?” he demanded angrily.
Mowett took a deep breath, then let it out in an annoyed sigh. “I just wanted to ask you a question, Mr. Cockburn,” he began, speaking carefully so that he wouldn’t anger the other man again.
“About what?”
The captain looked pointedly at him and answered, “Do you know how many people are on board this ship?”
Before the first mate could reply, Mowett continued. “How many? Do you know?”
He waited a few seconds for the answer but got none. Finally, he snapped, “Yes!”
Captain Mowett shook his head, then gave a frustrated laugh. “No, I don’t suppose you do, Mr. Cockburn. Not anymore anyway. I can tell you that we’re carrying nearly twenty times as much cargo as we were when we left Plymouth.”
The first mate’s face darkened as he realized what that meant. He’d always prided himself on keeping close track of the cargo on board each of the ships under his command, and even though he hadn’t been at all pleased with the arrangement, he’d never thought twice about it.
Now, suddenly, he knew he couldn’t count on his own numbers ever again. If only he could remember how many slaves they had loaded into the hold of their last ship, or even how much more than usual they had packed away in barrels.
But he couldn’t think straight enough to concentrate on it now. What he could feel was cold and bitter rage at Mowett for making them lose their livelihoods, no matter how much the captain claimed otherwise. After being forced to serve him for so long, it hurt far worse to hear him talk about how well they were being treated compared to the crewmen of the other two ships.
The captain’s voice interrupted his dark thoughts. “So what I’m asking is whether any of us has a clear idea how many slaves we might be taking off of Tortuga Island?” he asked quietly, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
For a moment there was silence, punctuated by occasional shivers from the crew members who had gathered around the stranger. Then someone called out, “There are hundreds of them on the island, Captain! And if we leave them there, those bastards are likely to come after us again!”
At that, a murmur swept through the crew.
Mowett ignored their muttering, focusing instead on the man who had spoken. He was obviously the leader of this group and probably the only one who could have guessed how many slaves the captain and his officers were actually planning to take off of Tortuga.
“And how do you know so much about it, Mr.…”
“Keats,” the captain cut in with a sneer. “Thomas Keats. And since when did you start calling me ‘sir’ anyway? That’s just something your father picked up, isn’t it? You never used to do that.”
The young man glared defiantly back at the captain, then answered, “You’re right, sir. I didn’t—at least not often. But since we’ve known each other so long… it seems like it might be more appropriate at times.”
The first mate sighed heavily. “Well, Mr. Keats,” he said, “how many slaves will we be bringing back with us?”
“Three hundred,” came the immediate answer.
Mowett felt a sudden jolt of panic. The three-hundred figure sounded familiar, but he wasn’t sure where he’d heard it. “Are you certain about that?” he asked quickly.
“I counted them myself,” Keats replied calmly, “and the number was definitely accurate.”
The first mate nodded slowly. “Then I’m sorry, Mr. Keats; I can’t tell you how happy we’ll all be to have some fresh company onboard.” With that he turned and stalked toward the gangplank, leaving Keats standing alone on the deck in the growing dusk.
“Mr. Keats! Wait! Please!”
The young man spun around to see the captain running up to him, a look of intense worry on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
The first mate paused and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “It’s just that I can’t seem to remember how many slaves we brought off of Tortuga before,” he explained.
“Oh,” Keats replied, nodding. “I thought I remembered you saying something about three hundred slaves once, and now that I think about it, that does sound familiar.”
The captain stared at him, obviously stunned by the news. “Well, damn me!” he muttered under his breath, then ran back down the gangplank to join the rest of his crewmen as they started off into the darkening sea.
As soon as Keats reached the edge of the docks, he found himself surrounded by a dozen men and women, all of whom seemed intent on asking him questions at once. He was so flustered, he almost forgot about the strange box tucked under his arm until several voices demanded to know what he had in his hand.
“That’s none of your business,” he snapped, turning the box upside-down over his head for all to see.
A few of them took a quick peek inside and then scrambled away to find somewhere else to hide. A couple of others stayed behind, apparently curious about what might be inside. When Keats saw the glint of a knife blade sticking out from between two planks, he realized that they were the ones he needed to watch out for.
He stepped forward slowly, making sure that everyone in the circle could see that he still held the box in front of him. As he moved closer to the two men hiding behind the dock posts, he could see their faces clearly and recognized that one of them was Captain Mowett himself.
He smiled grimly as the man’s eyes widened in fear and recognition. “It’s me, Cap’n Mowett,” Keats greeted him pleasantly, “Thomas Keats. Remember me?”
“You’re… you’re dead!” gasped the captain, stepping back.
“Not yet,” Keats assured him. He pulled a long, wicked-looking dagger from the hidden sheath strapped to his belt and held it up for the rest of the crowd to see. “You’re not going to get away with it this time, sir.”
The captain’s jaw dropped open. “How—?” he stammered in confusion.
“I told you my friends would help me, didn’t I? Well, here they are. Now step back or—” He let the threat hang ominously for a moment before continuing, “or you’ll be sorry you ever laid eyes on me again.”
Without any warning, Keats charged forward, stabbing wildly at the surprised captain with the dagger. In a matter of moments, both of the men holding their weapons back were lying on the ground, clutching bloody wounds to their stomachs.
“Run!” Keats shouted at the startled onlookers and turned to face his next opponent, which happened to be none other than Mowett himself. Without hesitation, he plunged his blade straight into the captain’s belly and yanked it free as fast as he could pull the weapon free.
Mowett stumbled backward and clutched his midsection, blood pouring out onto the docks and into the harbor water.
Keats stepped in front of him, keeping his dagger raised. “Captain Mowett,” he said evenly, “you may live to regret the day you decided to steal from me.”
With that he kicked the dying man hard in the chest, sending him flying down into the water. The crowd scattered as Mowett disappeared beneath the waves, screaming for help as he drowned. Keats looked around for another target when a voice called out from behind him, stopping him cold:
“Stop right there! Don’t turn around!”
Keats turned slowly to see an angry woman holding a wooden club over her head. She was dressed in tattered, worn clothes that barely covered her ample bosom, and her hair hung loosely past her shoulders in tangled curls of black. Her eyes burned with fury and her lips pursed tightly together, giving her face a stern expression that reminded him of a hawk about to strike its prey.
Keats knew at once who the woman must be. It wasn’t every day you met someone like her—one with such a commanding presence and intimidating appearance.
“Who are you?” he asked quietly, lowering his weapon just slightly. “And where is your husband?”
She lowered the club and narrowed her eyes. “You’d best have a damn good answer if you want to live another day,” she warned.
Keats laughed loudly before answering. “Why I’m Thomas Keats,” he proclaimed, “the man you’ve been searching for all night!”
His sudden outburst sent several of the nearby dockworkers scrambling out of the way, but the mysterious woman only continued to stare at him curiously. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious!” He chuckled again and shook his head, amused by the woman’s surprise. “But seriously, do we need to talk further about how you know me?”
“We don’t,” she said firmly, taking a few steps toward Keats. “Come on, we’re going inside so I can explain everything to you.”
“Wait!” shouted Keats. “What about my ship?” He was starting to feel a little worried. After all, if he couldn’t get back to Lady Elan today, then his plans for the evening were probably ruined already. “I’m supposed to meet a lot of people tonight, and I really can’t do that if—”
The woman stopped abruptly and looked at him curiously. “Didn’t anyone tell you the whole story?” she demanded in disbelief. “Your ship has been stolen from you! By my husband and his crew.”
Keats gaped at her in horror as the news sunk in. Of course, he hadn’t believed the stories about what had happened at his home, not after seeing the Lady Elan herself with his own eyes and hearing that she had returned to her former glory—but he certainly wouldn’t put it past Mowett to make a big show of destroying the ship to try to get back at him for killing him.
After all, Keats had never seen a man more obsessed with revenge than Captain Mowett.
Still, he was certain he’d be able to find another ship to replace it easily enough…
He was suddenly jolted by the sight of an unfamiliar figure standing on top of the dock, holding a large sack filled with silver coins—and wearing nothing but breeches and boots.
“Well now, well now, Captain Keats,” growled a familiar voice. “Don’t you look pleased with yourself?”
Keats turned slowly to see Mowett looking down at him, smirking at his obvious embarrassment. The man looked completely different without his coat of chain mail and armor—now he stood no taller than five foot eight, with a wispy, thin frame and small eyes that seemed far too young and innocent for the rest of his appearance.
The End