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   "And I'll tell you what else isn't right round here," said Able Seaman Warren Richmond, taking up from where Fleetwood left off. The two often worked as a team, each man encouraging the other.

   "And what might that be?" asked Danny O'Rourke, a small, cheerful Irishman, who was determined to keep his spirits up despite the oppressive atmosphere.

   "You know as well as I do," said Richmond as he looked round hurriedly, fearing that the captain was in earshot. His voice sank down to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's not right having a woman on board."

   "The captain's sister?" shrugged O'Rourke. "She's just a girl. Nothing but skin, bone and gristle."

   "It's against nature," muttered Richmond darkly.

   "And it's against sense," added Fleetwood, his eyes hungry with his troublemaking. It was no secret that he yearned to be in command. He loathed his lowly position of second lieutenant. He wanted total control over the crew, not to work under the watchful eyes of Fitch and the captain. "But what should we expect from a captain who drinks so much of that devilish green liquid each and every evening, and who—"

   "Ship ahead!" cried a voice from the bow of the ship, cutting off Fleetwood's insurrectionist mutterings.

   The crew jumped and looked ahead. Perspiration dripped down the faces of the men as they strained to see what lay ahead through the wet, heavy mist. The dangers they faced ranged from slavers to pirates to privateers, who were often little more than officially recognised pirates, paid by various governments to do work considered too dirty for official business.

   "Status, Mister Fitch," said a quiet voice. The crew jumped afresh. Despite the months at sea, they still hadn't adjusted to the captain's disconcerting quietness as he prowled the vessel.

   "Unknown ship sighted, Captain Hartwell," replied Fitch, nodding his head in respect to the man who stood taller than any of them. Hartwell's long hair, drawn back in a ponytail, was almost white despite his relatively young age, while his navy uniform of dark blue was always crisp, clean and unruffled, much like his demeanour, despite the burning heat of the Caribbean.

   "What is the admiral's course of action?" asked Hartwell.

   "What's happening, Mister Tench?" bellowed Fitch to the man at the bow. Tench had the best eyesight on board and was often used by the captain as an early warning system.

   "A boat has been lowered from the ship and is heading for the admiral's vessel," Tench shouted back.

   "Whatever it is, it's turning toward us," said Fitch, squinting into the fog. "We should get a better view of her soon." As he spoke, the mist parted and the crew caught a glimpse of the strange vessel as the sun hit it and illuminated the craft in silhouette.

   Hartwell caught his breath. For a brief second, he saw the ancient shape of a galleon, Portuguese or Spanish given the size, with the old-fashioned
castle
design prominent. Four huge masts reared up into the fog and the massive sails fluttered in the wind. At the very front of the ship, a faded carving of a mermaid looked out over the sea. The figurehead looked as incongruous as the rest of the vessel when compared to the modern and more powerful design of the
Plymouth
and
Morning Star.

   "Look at that wreck," sneered a voice. "It must be a century old."

   "We'd blow that out the water with one cannon," laughed another voice.

   "No need," added a third. "Look at the way its listing—the thing is half sinking already!"

   Hartwell and Fitch exchanged glances. The sight of the old galleon had moved both men, valiantly ploughing through both the ocean and time despite being left behind by developments in ship design and naval warfare.

   "Orders, Captain?" asked Fitch gently.

   "We wait," said Hartwell quietly. "Ensure the ship is ready for any eventuality, Mister Fitch."

   "Aye-aye, sir," replied Fitch smartly, who in their time together had come to respect the captain's learning, ability and character, as well as his ability to down several glasses of absinthe each evening and remain vertical.

ome two hours later, the small rowing boat that had crossed from the unknown vessel to the admiral's ship reappeared and struck out toward the Pr
ide of Plymouth.
As it neared, the crew saw in consternation that Admiral Johnson himself was in the boat, along with Lieutenants Flavell and Bennett. At the other end sat a tall, well-muscled black man and it seemed to Captain Hartwell that the navy men and their passenger were anxious to leave as much space between themselves as possible. Hartwell turned his attention to the muttered speculations of his crew.

   "The admiral coming aboard? That is a bad sign."

   "It is a sign from God!"

   "Yes, Pastor White, it probably is." The crew had already found that the best way of dealing with the pastor was to agree with all his theological pronouncements.

   "Ar, the admiral never leaves his command ship unless he has to," said another voice hurriedly, before the pastor could say anything more.

   "And why bring the two lieutenants with him? I've never heard of such a thing."

   "You've never heard of most things, William Sporrit."

   "And who is that Moor with him?" asked another voice as the nervous laughter faded. "He must have come from the other ship."

   "Darkies on our ship? It shouldn't be allowed."

   The crew fell silent, apart from a few muttered agreements or protests at the last statement. Hartwell had no problem recognizing the slimy voice of Edward Fleetwood as the originator of the remark and he resolved to have a quiet word with Mister Fitch to have a quiet word with Fleetwood about his attitudes.

   By this time, the rowing boat had reached the
Pride of Plymouth.
A rope was thrown down, the craft was tethered and the admiral, followed by his lieutenants and the incongruous passenger, climbed aboard. Hartwell briefly wondered if the admiral would observe etiquette in asking for permission to board. He wasn't surprised when he did not.

   "Ready your crew, Captain," said Johnson as soon as he was on deck, where he began prowling in agitation. The admiral was almost as tall as Hartwell, but whereas Hartwell was lean and taut, Johnson was running to excess flesh. His great, beak-like nose dominated the small, beady eyes and thin lips, in contrast against Hartwell's green eyes, full lips and handsome, symmetrical face.

   "Our orders, Admiral?" enquired Hartwell.

   "Your orders are as they always have been—to do as I tell you," snapped the admiral. Flavell and Bennett snickered quietly while the dark man stood silently observing everything in front of him.

   "But specifically, our orders?" enquired Hartwell, levelly.

   Johnson looked at him sharply, suspecting that the captain was being disrespectful, but his smooth face showed no hint of emotion. Johnson bared his teeth as he turned on the two tittering lieutenants. "What's so funny?" he demanded, sweat dripping from him. The two men stopped giggling and looked dead ahead, standing stiff and upright. Johnson swung around and glared at the black man, who folded his arms and stared back impassively.

   "This, Captain Hartwell," sneered Johnson, "is Madrigal. It is through his betrayal that we have the location of the pirate cove. Honour is not known amongst these people." A few muttered agreements went round the crew behind Hartwell, whose scalp was beginning to tingle in an

unpleasant manner.

   Madrigal bridled. "What I have revealed to you was done to help put a stop to the slave trade. We are being taken from our homes, cut off from our families and sent to work as slaves. What I have done is for our protection and to give us our independence."

   "Independence?" echoed Johnson in disbelief. "The day the Negro race can determine its own future will be the day that all sense disappears."

   "The day is closer than you think," growled Madrigal. "And that is partly why the English government has deployed you here, to oversee the abolition of the slave routes."

   "I know why I'm here," snarled Johnson. "And it has nothing to do with the weak policies of a weak government. You are fit only to be a slave and a slave you will be. Why do you think I organised the rendezvous so far from the fleet? I am starting my own slave trade, right under the nose of the navy and once I have eliminated the competition, the monopoly will be mine!"

   "I will never be a slave," replied Madrigal, his voice low with suppressed fury and disgust.

   "Then you have no purpose in life," hissed Johnson. "Lieutenant Flavell, hang this dog from the yard arm. Now that we have the location of the pirate cove, we have no further use for him. Then you can blow his ship from the water."

"I will not permit that, sir," said the quiet voice of Captain Hartwell.

strange calm fell over the scene. The fog curled around the rigid players, entwining its way around legs and torsos, while below, more mist curled in toward the three ships, lapping against each hull and clambering up the sides.