Chapter 2: Baptism in Salt and Smoke

Chapter 2: Baptism in Salt and Smoke

Dawn painted the eastern sky in hues of cold blue and pale gold as Edward Teach stepped onto the docks of Bristol. A fine mist clung to the harbor, blurring the line between sea and sky. The Ranger loomed ahead, a dark silhouette of timber and taut sails at anchor, its masts jutting into the morning like the spines of a waking beast. Edward’s heart fluttered at the sight. This would be his new world, if he had the courage to claim it.

The wooden planks thudded under his boots as he approached the gangplank. Each step felt heavier than the last. He could smell the tar and sea salt that seeped from the ship’s hull, mingling with the scent of woodsmoke from distant chimneys. Up close, the Ranger was both inviting and menacing: lanterns swayed gently on deck, their flames still visible in the dawn gloom, and sailors moved like shadows across the deck, calling out in low voices as they prepared to sail.

Edward hesitated at the foot of the gangplank. His fingers grazed the apple in his coat pocket, the same apple Benjamin Hornigold had given him two days prior. Only the core remained now, but he kept it as a reminder that this was no dream. A family. The word still felt foreign on his tongue, but it had kindled something inside him. With a steadying breath, Edward pulled back his shoulders and climbed up.

On board, the world of the Ranger enveloped him at once. The deck rolled gently beneath his feet, as if the ship were impatient to be off. Crew members hauled on ropes, the sails above beginning to unfurl with a fluttering crack. Someone shouted, “Heave, you devils! Bring that mainsail to life!” and a chorus of affirmations answered back. The voices were rough, brimming with the uncouth music of sailor life. Edward recognized curses among them, the lively tongue of pirates, and strangely, it made him feel more at ease. These were his people now, or would be soon.

A burly man with a braided beard strode past carrying a heavy coil of rope. He gave Edward a once-over and barked, “Don’t just stand there like a lubber. You part of this crew or not?”

Before Edward could answer, a familiar voice cut through. “He is.” Hornigold emerged from the quarterdeck, coat buttoned against the morning chill, hat perched at a confident angle. His presence was commanding as ever. “And he’ll earn his keep soon enough, Mr. Hands.”

The bearded sailor, Mr. Hands, nodded and moved on, though not without a dubious grunt in Edward’s direction. Hornigold stepped up to Edward with a slight smile. “Glad you didn’t oversleep, boy.”

Edward mustered a smirk he didn’t entirely feel. “Wouldn’t miss it, Captain.” In truth, he hadn’t slept at all the previous night, too many thoughts chased each other in his head: anticipation, excitement, and the gnawing fear of the unknown. Now, standing on the deck, he felt a mix of exhilaration and nerves that threatened to set his heart hammering out of his chest.

Hornigold clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome to the Ranger, Edward. You’ll find no gilded ease here, only hard work and danger. But earn your place, and you’ll never go hungry again.” He lowered his voice as his keen eyes searched Edward’s face. “Stay sharp. Prove my instincts right.”

“I will,” Edward said, steeling himself. He meant it. The hunger in his belly might have been sated by Hornigold’s apple and the promise of meals to come, but there was a deeper hunger in his bones, one for respect, for belonging. For the first time, he dared to hope he might find it here.

Hornigold gave a brief nod and turned briskly to address the crew. “Cut the last lines and weigh anchor! We sail with the tide.”

A flurry of activity followed. Edward watched in fascination as men sprung to tasks like a well rehearsed theater troupe. Chains rattled from below as the anchor was heaved up, dripping with mud and weed. Above, the last furled sails were released, billowing out with the breeze that began to pick up from the sea. The Ranger creaked and groaned as if awakening from slumber.

Suddenly a shout rang from the bow: “Captain! Small craft off the port side!”

Edward instinctively moved toward the railing with others. Through the lifting mist, he spotted a rowboat cutting across the harbor’s mouth, heading straight for the Ranger. In it stood a lad not much older than Edward, waving frantically. Two more figures rowed at the oars, pulling with urgent strokes.

Hornigold cursed under his breath. “Latecomers,” he muttered. “Boatswain, hold a moment on that anchor!” he bellowed. The wind tossed his words across the water.

Moments later, the rowboat bumped against the hull, and the crew tossed a rope ladder over the side. First to scramble up was the slim lad who had been waving, drenched to the bone from sea spray, with dark hair plastered to his brow. He hopped onto the deck with breathless haste and an almost clumsy salute. “Jack Finnegan reporting, Captain! Apologies for the delay.”

Behind him came the two oarsmen, clearly sailors of Hornigold’s crew returning from some errand ashore. One carried a sealed satchel that he handed up carefully before clambering over.

Hornigold eyed the satchel and grunted. “At least you got what I sent you for. And Jack, try not to cut it so fine next time, or we’ll leave you to swim to the Indies.” Despite his stern words, Edward caught a faint glint of fondness in the captain’s eyes as he regarded the young sailor.

Jack only nodded, cheeks flushed either from the cold or embarrassment. “Yes, sir. Won’t happen again.” As Jack stepped back, he nearly collided with Edward, who had been watching from near the mainmast.

“Sorry,” Jack mumbled. Up close, Edward saw that the “lad” was slight of build, with large green eyes that darted over Edward in quick appraisal. There was a liveliness to those eyes, a curiosity that mirrored Edward’s own.

“No harm done,” Edward replied, steadying the smaller youth by the arm. “I’m Edward. New to the crew.”

“Jack,” the boy responded. His grip as they briefly shook hands was surprisingly firm despite his stature. “Been sailing with Captain Hornigold a few months now.”

Before Edward could ask more, a sharp whistle cut through the air, the boatswain calling the crew to stations. The anchor was finally up, the sails angled to catch the breeze. With a lurch and a loud cheer from some of the crew, the Ranger began to move.

Edward felt a thrill as the docks slid away. The city of Bristol, with its sooty brick warehouses and crooked tavern signs, receded behind a veil of morning fog. He watched the spires and rooftops shrink, remembering how that city had been his whole world for years, every alley, every gutter. Now he was leaving it in his wake, venturing into an open horizon of possibilities and danger.

He barely had time to savor the moment. “Edward!” a voice snapped him out of his reverie. It was Mr. Hands, the one Hornigold had called by name earlier. The man’s braided beard swung as he jerked a thumb toward a stack of barrels secured near the mainmast. “Get your arse over here and help Jack secure these provisions. If they break loose, we’ll have a damned mess and hungry mouths.”

Edward hurried over, finding Jack already wrestling with a barrel that had shifted. Together they hefted it upright and tightened the ropes lashing the cargo in place. The labor was hard but straightforward; Edward was lean, used to quick, dexterous movements rather than brute force. But he refused to show any weakness. Gritting his teeth, he matched Jack’s efforts until each barrel, crate, and cannonball was snug.

The wind continued to freshen. Soon the Ranger was gliding out of the harbor and into the open sea. Edward took a moment while Jack was busy to steal a glance past the gunwale. The waters of the Channel stretched out gray, blue and flecked with whitecaps. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying out as if bidding farewell to the ship. A few other vessels dotted the distance, fishing sloops and a merchant bark headed inland. But none on the same course as the Ranger, which pointed steadfastly and true toward the southwest and the deep, open Atlantic into the vast beyond.

Hornigold took the helm personally once they were clear of the harbor. Edward watched the captain from afar, noting the ease with which he handled the wheel, the way he barked orders with absolute confidence: “West by southwest! Steady as she goes. Keep an eye on those clouds.” The crew obeyed without question, each man sliding into a rhythm of tasks that kept the ship breathing and alive.

Before long, Bristol was nothing but a mustard seed on the horizon astern. The Ranger mightily rode the swells with confidence, beginning the long journey that would carry them to the far West Indies. Edward felt the spray of the sea on his face as the bow cleaved through the waves like an axe splitting the driest oak. The cold stench of the brine was startling and invigorating. He suddenly realized with a small wonder that he was smiling. The fear that had sat coiled ominously in his gut was still there, but it was lightly tempered by excitement. The ship, the crew’s banter, the endless sky overhead, the sting of salt, it was all strange and yet strangely right.

As the morning wore on, Hornigold’s quartermaster, a tall, lean, and lanky man named Julian Remy had called the crew to gather. Remy had a pockmarked face and one clouded eye, giving him a fearsome look that silenced any chatter. Edward and Jack stood shoulder to shoulder amongst a semicircle of perhaps thirty crewmen on the main deck.

Remy unrolled a parchment and cleared his throat. “By order of Captain Hornigold: shares and duties. Listen close, you sea rats.” He began to read out the roster, each man’s position and share of plunder once taken. As expected for a newcomer, Edward was assigned a low share and the broad category of “general hand,” which meant he’d do anything and everything asked of him. From swabbing decks to manning sails to loading cannons. Jack, to his surprise, was listed similarly, though Edward recalled he had already been aboard for months.

Jack noticed Edward’s glance and gave a half cocked smile. “Don’t worry. The low man earns his way up. I was where you are not long ago. Stick by me; I can show you a trick or two.”

Edward nodded gratefully. He already understood the value of allies. This Jack seemed friendly enough, and clearly, he wasn’t too proud to toil beside Edward.

Remy finished with, “And by the code, all hands get an equal vote on matters aboard ship, except in battle where the captain’s word is law. Obey the code, and we’ll have no trouble. Any man who thinks to cheat his brothers,” Remy’s good eye glinted as he pulled a dagger from his belt and stabbed it into the parchment against the mainmast, “Will answer to the Article of Blood.”

A murmur went through the crew, some men nodding solemnly. Edward swallowed what felt like a rock. He had heard quiet whispers of the pirate articles, rules that bound a crew together. Here was proof that even an outlaw life had its laws. Hornigold ran a tight ship, it seemed, and betrayal was clearly the greatest sin one could commit at sea. The dagger quivered in the wood, as a stark and stern reminder.

“Back to it, then you dirty, salty, scally wags!” Remy barked, yanking out his dagger. The crew dispersed, and the usual bustle resumed.

Over the next hours, Edward lost himself in the grind of the new work. He followed Jack’s lead, learning how to coil rope properly (“No, no, like this you worm, unless you fancy a snag when you’re hauling in fast,” Jack tutored, demonstrating with quick hands), how to tie a precious bowline knot, and even got a turn at scraping barnacles off the sides when they lowered a rope ladder so a few could do maintenance over calm waters. That task left him clinging above the lurching waves, the chill of sea-spray biting at his skin as he chipped away at the crust clinging to the hull. It was miserable, muscle aching work, and yet, Edward found a grim satisfaction in it. Every scrape of barnacle was like shedding a piece of his old life, preparing for the new.

By midday, the sun broke through heavy clouds, and with it came so did a change of mood. Hornigold allowed a short break for food. Edward and Jack ate a simple meal of hardtack biscuits and salted pork under the shade of the forecastle. The biscuit was hard as wood and the pork nearly as tough, but to Edward it tasted better than any paltry meal he had scrounged in Bristol alleys. Hunger was the best spice, as the saying went, and he was ravenous.

As he ate, he listened to Jack chatter about the crew. Jack had a knack for gossip. Nodding toward the helmsman, a wiry man with a bandana, Jack whispered, “That’s old Avery at the wheel. Nearly blind in one eye, but don’t let him hear you mention it. Still navigates better than any man here save the captain.” Jack then tilted his head subtly toward Mr. Hands, who was laughing crudely with two others by the bow. “Israel Hands Bosun. Meaner than a hammer head shark in a fury, but fair if you do your job. He’s Hornigold’s bulldog. Although, the one to really avoid is Dodge over there.” He pointed out a scarred man sharpening a knife. “He’s got a temper and likes to throw that knife to prove a point.”

Edward took it all in. He felt as if he’d entered a den of apex predators, some friendly enough to lure you in, others coiled poised to strike. He realized Jack’s prattling wasn’t just gossip; it was a meak warning. Perhaps the smaller lad understood that a newcomer needed a map of the crew’s pecking order to survive.

“Why are you helping me?” Edward asked between bites, keeping his voice low.

Jack shrugged, a grin flickering across his face. “You looked as lost as I felt my first day. Besides, we swabs have to stick together, right? We’re the smallest fish on this boat. Hard to make a splash.”

Edward allowed himself a light chuckle. “Fair. I appreciate it.” He hesitated, then added, “Hornigold, the captain, how is he to sail under?”

Jack’s eyes darted directly toward Hornigold, who stood fiercely on the quarterdeck conferring with Quartermaster Remy and Mr. Hands. “He’s tough but not cruel like some. Doesn’t waste good men or good shot. He’s got ambitions, though, big ones, I think.” Jack lowered his voice even more. “This commission to the Indies, it’s more than just prize hunting. Rumor says he’s after something special.”

Edward raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What is it?”

Before Jack could answer, a sudden cry came from above: “Sail ho! Sail off the starboard bow!”

All thought of conversation vanished. In an instant, the relative calm shattered. Crew dashed to positions. Hornigold barked, “Man the starboard guns! Ready a greeting shot. Mr. Hands, spyglass!”

Edward and Jack scrambled up, following the others to the starboard railing. Edward squinted at the horizon where one of the crew was pointing. There it was, a pale sliver of canvas against the blue, about half a league away and closing. The other ship was angled to intersect their course.

Hornigold was handed a brass spyglass by Israel Hands and peered through it. The captain’s jaw set. “Colors?”

“No flag yet, Captain,” Hands replied, spitting overboard. “Could be a friendly… could be otherwise.”

Hornigold snapped shut the spyglass. “We’ll find out soon. Helm, maintain course. Gunners, load but hold fire. Let’s not roll out the red carpet if we don’t have to.”

Edward’s pulse quickened. This was it, the unpredictability of a life at sea. A ship on the horizon could mean anything: a merchant to plunder, a naval patrol to flee from or fight, another crew of pirates looking to test their mettle. The possibilities churned in his mind along with a spike of adrenaline.

Jack touched his arm lightly, voice pitched low. “Ever been in a sea fight?”

Edward shook his head, fingers flexing nervously near the hilt of his trusty belt knife, the same small blade he’d used in countless alley scrapes but which felt woefully inadequate now. “Closest I ever got was a tavern brawl.”

Jack managed a tight smile. “Keep your head down and do as the captain says. And try not to piss yourself first time the cannons go off. The tingle in your toes is normal when they do.”

Edward almost laughed at that, a welcome break in tension, but any mirth was cut short by the heavy boom of a cannon firing somewhere across the water. A plume of smoke curled from the approaching vessel, it had opened the conversation with iron and flame.

A split second later, a cannonball whistled past the Ranger’s bow and splashed into the sea with a geyser of foam. It was a warning shot, intentionally wide. The message was clear: heave to, or the next would find its mark.

Chaos erupted on deck. Some of Hornigold’s crew ducked instinctively, while others roared curses at the distant ship. Hornigold himself remained by the helm, calm as a nun at church. “So be it,” Edward heard him growl. “Run up our colors mates! Run em!”

A sudden gust tore through the rigging like a scream of the abused, and with it came the unfurling violent, deliberate, final.

The sail snapped like a crocodile jaw open atop the mainmast. Black as midnight oil and twice as cruel, it rippled in the wind once, then locked into place, still as a murderous viper laying in wait. At its center, a bleached skull leered down with blackened hollow eyes that seemed to fix themselves upon Edward.

The world slowed. All seemed to fall silent. 

In the shocking silence Edward could hear it, a low, mournful whisper, riding the wind like the last breath of a dying father. “Welcome aboard Edward.” The voice wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. Yet it curled around his spine, into a deep spirit of knowing.

The half cocked grinning skull on the banner mocked the living. Its jaw cracked open just slightly with each sway of the mast, as if mouthing the loudest yet silent laughter that only the damned could hear. Beneath it, bones crossed like the sealing of a covenant not made with ink, but with blood and salt.

Gone was any illusion of civility, of letters of marque, of honest plunder. This was no flag of men, but  the mark of something older, more ruthless. A sigil drawn from the deepest places of the sea, where ships went missing and names were lost to eternal foam.

Edward’s breath caught. His hands trembled. The breeze whispered “Your mine now Edward”.

“Helm, hard to starboard!” Hornigold commanded, voice ringing out. “Gunners, ready port side, chain shot! Aim for her masts as we pass you dogs!”

The Ranger heeled sharply as the helmsman spun the wheel. Edward grabbed a stray line and held on, his pulse hammering in his throat. The other ship was a dual masted brigantine, now close enough to see the sailors on her decks scrambling. She flew no familiar flag, which meant she could be a pirate hunter or a pirate herself. Either way, Hornigold was not running, he was attacking.

“Jack, Edward! Load powder into that cannon now!” Israel Hands barked, pointing at a six pounder that sat idle. A veteran gunner was already adjusting its angle, and another rushed over with a bag of gunpowder and a chain shot, two sub caliber cannonballs linked by a length of chain, cleverly designed to slash through rigging and sails like a warm knife to butter.

Edward’s body moved on instinct and Jack’s urging. Together they hauled the heavy shot into the barrel, one ball after the other, the chain snaking in behind. Edward’s hands wouldn’t stop trembling as he helped pack wadding and powder. He caught a whiff of brimstone from the touch hole, the tang of burned powder from last use.

“All guns ready!” came the cry from Remy.

“Fire!” Hornigold shouted.

Like thunder, the Ranger’s port side erupted in flame and smoke. Edward felt the cannon he crouched beside buck back with a commanding crack, the sound obliterating all thought and life. A cloud of toxic sulfurous smoke enveloped them, and through it he heard the distant splintering of wood. Their broadside had struck true.

When the smoke cleared enough, Edward dared to peek over the rail. The enemy brigantine was veering away, her foresail sagging and main-topmast shattered, left dangling by rigging. Shouts of triumph went up from the crew. Edward realized he was grinning fiercely, heart pounding with exhilaration. His first taste of battle, the roar of cannons, the acrid smell of smoke, it was terrifying, yes, but also intoxicating.

The enemy was not finished yet. As they limped parallel to the Ranger, they managed a return volley. “Down!” A voice yelled. Edward and Jack ducked behind the bulwark just as a storm of cannonballs whistled across the deck. Wood exploded in splinters. A ball punched through the forecastle mere yards from where they huddled. Another hissed overhead, carrying away a bit of rigging with it.

A scream rang out behind, as one of the crew was down, clutching a bleeding leg where a splinter the size of a dagger had impaled him. Despite the horror of it, the crew moved like practiced professionals: a medic dragged the injured sailor to relative safety while others continued reloading the guns, faces set in a steady and grim concentration.

Hornigold seized the moment. “Grappling hooks! Prepare to board!” he cried, seeing their foe crippled.

Edward’s stomach lurched. Board? The thought of crossing over to that stricken vessel, of engaging in hand-to-hand combat, made his mouth go dry. He had knifed men in dark alleys, but this is yet another scale entirely.

But there was no time for fear. Jack sprung up and grabbed a coiled grappling line. Edward followed, copying him move for move . Along the rail, half a dozen other pirates were doing the same. The distance between the two ships had closed, twenty yards… fifteen… ten. The wind favored the Ranger, lashing them closer.

“Now!” Israel Hands roared.

Edward heaved his arm and flung the grappling hook with all his might. The iron hook soared across the gap and clanged onto the enemy’s bulwark. Jack’s had already caught on something solid. Immediately, they both pulled hard, drawing the ships together. Others did the same. The gap narrowed with a grinding of timbers. The brigantine’s deck was now just a leap away, and Edward could see the faces of its crew, wide eyed and desperate for mercy, as Hornigold’s pirates prepared to swarm aboard.

Hornigold himself led the charge, saber in one hand, pistol in the other. With a blood chilling shout, he leapt onto the enemy deck with ease. The rest of the crew followed in line like an uncoiled wave.

Edward’s muscles tensed. This was it, his baptism by blood and fire. He shared one look with Jack, who nodded resolutely. Together they scrambled up the rail and jumped.

Edward’s boots hit an unfamiliar deck and immediately a rush of chaos closed in around him. Steel clashed on steel. The air was alive with screams and smoke. A burly enemy sailor barreled toward Edward, cutlass raised high. For a heartbeat, Edward froze, the man was but twice his size, teeth bared in fury. Training from Hornigold hadn’t covered this moment; only pure instinct had to suffice.

Edward ducked under the wild slash of the cutlass. The blade sliced the air above his head. Before the man could recover, Edward lunged forward, driving the pommel of his dagger into the man’s gut. The sailor let out a loud wail and doubled over. With a snarl, Edward followed with a knee to the man’s jaw. The crack was satisfyingly loud. The sailor crumpled unconscious at Edward’s feet, his cutlass clanging to the deck. Edward snatched up the fallen weapon, heart thundering. His eyes darted around for the next threat.

He saw Jack wrestling with an enemy who had grabbed hold of his neck from behind. Edward didn’t hesitate. In two steps he closed the distance and swung the cutlass. The flat of the blade struck the assailant’s back with a solid thud. Edward chose the flat to avoid accidentally cutting Jack. The man yelped and released his grip. Jack wriggled free and promptly smashed his elbow into the man’s nose. Blood sprayed and the foe toppled against the rail, then over it, splashing into the endless sea.

Jack panted, wide eyed. “Thanks,” he breathed, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip. Edward only nodded, there was no time for words.

Around them the skirmish raged. Hornigold’s men outnumbered the brigantine’s crew and had the advantage of momentum. Already several of the enemy had thrown down arms, seeing their ship lost. The sharp crack of Hornigold’s pistol rang out – an exclamation point to the fight. Within minutes, it was over. The remaining defenders either lay wounded or had dropped to their knees in surrender.

“Secure the ship!” Remy shouted. “Carter, douse those flames!” A small fire had broken out near the stern where a lantern fell in the melee. Pirates rushed to snuff it before it spread.

Edward stood catching his breath amid the aftermath. His hands trembled on the cutlass hilt, adrenaline coursing through him in dizzying waves. Smoke stung his eyes. There was a coppery tang of blood on the deck that he tried not to look at. He had survived. More than that, he had fought and won his bouts, small as they were in the larger battle. A surge of fierce pride flared deep within him. This was the baptism Hornigold’s world had to offer: salt wind and gunpowder smoke, fear and triumph all at once.

Jack slapped him on the back with a grin that was equal parts relief and exhilaration. “Not bad for a Bristol street rat,” he teased breathlessly.

Edward let out a breathless laugh. “Not bad for a last minute swimmer,” he shot back, and Jack laughed as well, a clear sound amid the groans of the wounded and the shouts of victory.

Hornigold, unharmed and resplendent in conquest, strode among the conquered ship’s crew as if he already owned them too. “Which one of you is captain?” he demanded.

A trembling man, a well dressed fellow with a bloodied arm raised his hand. “I was. Captain Jameson of the Marigold… a merchant vessel out of Charleston,” he said hoarsely.

Hornigold glanced at the splintered planks and the modest armament of the brigantine. It indeed had the look of an armed merchant ship rather than a naval hunter. The captain seemed mildly surprised; perhaps he hadn’t expected a merchant to fire first. “Bold of you to fire on strangers, Jameson.”

Jameson grimaced in pain. “Thought you were pirates. I was right too.”

Hornigold threw back his head and laughed. “Aye, you were! But a wiser man might’ve tried talking first. Still, no lasting harm was done, to us anyway.” He turned to Israel Hands. “See to our injured, and theirs. We’re not butchers. We’ll patch those that surrender peacefully.”

This, too, Edward noted with some admiration. Hornigold had ruthlessness, but also restraint. Not all pirates would bother tending enemy wounded, yet Hornigold clearly valued reputation; a crew that surrenders without too much fuss might be more inclined to do so if they expected mercy.

Over the next hour, Hornigold was satisfied. The Marigold, stripped of anything useful and with her mainmast gone, would be left to limp back to port if she could. Hornigold magnanimously allowed Captain Jameson and his men to keep their lives and their now patchwork vessel. “Tell the tale,” Hornigold said to Jameson with a cold smile. “That Captain Hornigold doesn’t kill men who don’t force his hand. But cross my path again with cannon fire, and I’ll not be so forgiving.”

Jameson nodded stiffly, and so it was done. With a final exchange of glares between crews, the pirates cut the grappling lines and the two ships drifted apart. The Ranger’s crew let out a cheer as their ship caught the wind once more, sailing free with victory and plunder.

Edward leaned on the railing, watching the Marigold recede into infinity. He felt exhaustion begin to creep into his limbs now that the rush of battle faded. A few bruises were making themselves known on his arms and knees. Jack sidled next to him, similarly worn but smiling. “Your first prize,” he said, nudging Edward’s shoulder. “You’ll remember this day.”

Edward gazed at the smoke still rising from the distant merchant ship. Baptism in salt and smoke, he thought. The sea had christened him with its spray, and the smoke of gunpowder clung to his clothes and hair. He knew he would indeed remember this day forever, the day he truly became one of Hornigold’s crew.

“Jack! Edward! Get below and help Jenkins with the injured!” Mr. Hands hollered. The celebration would wait; there was work yet.

Exchanging a knowing look, the two youths pushed off the railing and hurried to their duties. As Edward descended into the bowels of the Ranger to assist the surgeon, he allowed himself one final grin at the fading sunlight above. He had survived his first trial by sea and battle. He had been reborn as a pirate. The promise of a family, hard won as it might be, felt one step closer.