A dozen more men sat around a pool of spring water, sharpening weapons, smoking green cigs or whittling on bits of wood. A bound man was hanging upside down from a tree branch, while two pirates took turns punching the moaning captive. Another slave knelt by a campfire, feeding it twigs in a steady procession so that the fire remained even and didn’t burn the seafood stew in the bubbling cook pot. His hands trembled with hunger, but he didn’t eat until offered the dregs in the pot by his masters.
“Captain Draco, a ship!” the older pirate shouted, stumbling across the encampment. “A ship, sir!”
Situated under a piece of canvas stretched between some trees in the manner of a crude tent, lay a large man with his boots removed. A nearly empty bottle of shine rested on the grass nearby, and a sword protruded from the ground within easy reach.
“A ripe fat one!” the other sentry added eagerly, stopping before the captain.
Slowly opening his eyes, the captain sleepily raised his head. He was tall and heavily muscled, his rugged face a network of scars, a dead-white, marled eye staring blindly at the world. His clothes were badly stained with sweat, but were without patches. A huge revolver, not a flintlock, was tucked into a gun belt draped across his chest so that the holster rode directly before his heart.
“You two again? This better not be another trawler,” the captain growled menacingly. “We already have enough dried fish to last a month.”
“No, sir! Large ship, no escorts,” the younger man panted, dripping water. “Looks to be the Constellation.”
“The Cold Harbor ship?” Draco asked, his interest increasing. Quickly he sat up and pulled on his boots. “Aye, sir! Fore an’ aft rigging, yellow stripe, ten cannons side, gotta be her, skipper. And she’s damaged, running heavy in the water.”
“Sinking?” a lieutenant demanded, striding closer. The big man carried a rusty iron fire ax in his right hand as if it belonged there, the green-wood handle wrapped with strips of leather for a sure grip. Matching flintlocks rode in a wide belt. His face was heavily pockmarked by old acne scars, and long greasy hair twisted into a thick ponytail dangled down his back. His soaked clothing sticking to his skinny form, the young sentry violently shook his head. “No, sir. Must be cargo.”
Standing, the captain buckled a belt about his waist made of only ammo pouches. “Heading north or south?” he snapped.
“South, sir,” the old sentry replied smartly. The two men exchanged looks. Could it be? The Constellation, damaged and heavy with cargo, coming back from the lord baron at Maturo ville. The fat bitch had to have a full hold of black powder. As rich a prize as they had ever heard.
“Enough powder to last a lifetime,” Lieutenant Giles murmured eagerly, twirling the ax by its handle. The wide blade was rusty and deeply nicked, but the dire weapon still moved as if it were a living part of the man.
“Powder enough to buy us another ship,” Captain Draco agreed, checking his blasters. “Good work, lads. Stay here and watch the camp. You’ve earned a rest. Lieutenant, call the crew.”
“Aye, aye, skipper. Heads up, scum!” the big man bellowed, brandishing the ax. “We’ve got a rich ship to raid before the sun sets!”
“Fresh clothes!” one man cried in delight.
“Ammo!” another added grimly.
“More slaves!” Another grinned lustfully.
“To the Delta Blue!” Draco shouted, then headed into the woods away from the ocean.
Shouting in unison, the motley crew of pirates swarmed through the trees and onto the beach of a small lagoon. A rumbling waterfall fed the small expanse, mixing freshwater with salt, a deadly combination to everything aquatic except for a few plants and the all pervasive crabs. The shoreline was hard-packed clay, and floating into the swirling waters was a long sleek ship, three masts rising from her sloped hull, and a double row of cannons bristling along her patchwork hull. With every battle came repairs, unpainted green wood mixing with seasoned timbers taken from the very enemy vessel that caused the damage. The beaten and battered pirate ship looked as if it were about to fall apart and sink at any minute. But the Delta Blue was the second-deadliest ship in the entire pirate armada. Only the Langolier was faster and carried more cannon. Even the lord baron’s men went out of their way to avoid her oversize thirty-pound cannons.