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Off Jamaica's eastern coast, 1695
He watched the little sloop falter in the waves, rigging spider-webbing its deck in smoldering heaps. The single mast lay like a broken toothpick against the forecastle, and torn sails draped over the scene as cerements for her crew. His ears rang in response to the cannonade, now ended. Acrid smoke from the falconets smarted his eyes and burned his nostrils. What madness or audacity drove a sloop scarce of hands or guns into a running engagement with a schooner armed to the teeth? He shook his head in bewilderment and leaned on the railing, fingering a gold ring through his ear. "Begad, we have her, gentlemen, or I'm not an Englishman of rare pedigree." Captain Charles "Ripper" Hogarth strode forward, raising his cutlass. Aye, a knave from a family of scoundrels, Turnbull mused. "All over, ye curs of the sea. Last aboard swabs the head for a week." The pirates roared their delight and cast grapnels across the sloop's railings as the schooner approached parallel to port. In moments they commanded the smaller ship's deck, scrounging through debris or kicking splintered casks aside. The Captain oversaw the extinguishing of a fire, while others dispatched the wounded without fuss or twinge of conscience, utilizing gully knives and marlinespikes for the killing strokes. Turnbull saw a barrel shorn in half, leaking sugar into the scuppers. He deftly cut a length of defunct sail and fashioned it into a sack. He paused in his salvage operation at a muffled curse from the stateroom. Rising, he set the bag aside and moved to investigate. He heard scuffling, a crash as of an upturned table, and a groan. Turnbull drew his cutlass, felt the reassuring sharkskin grip, and pushed the door ajar. The room stood in disarray. Papers littered the floor, and a bench teetered on its side near a battered lantern. An unmade bed and table filled a corner. A woman sprawled prostrate before him, blood staining her dress and the spilled pages. "Dead," said a gruff voice. "And good riddance!" Turnbull recognized that rasp, peering into the gloom for its owner. He saw one of Hogarth's favorites--a London guttersnipe named Tut Martin--standing beside a swaying object. He stepped forward and craned his neck. Shadows relinquished hold on his gaze; the enigmatic pendulum manifest itself as a cradle, suspended from the ceiling by ropes at head and foot. Martin reached within and removed a swaddled bundle. "She nigh gutted me with a stiletto, she did," he said, staring at the corpse in distaste. Turnbull watched in growing disquiet as the item moved. "Is that a babe?" he said. "Of course, the devil-spawn." Martin kicked the dead mother's hand out of his footpath and stalked out of the stateroom. Turnbull followed, stunned at the find and blinking in the harsh light. "Mister Martin, did ye find the ship's manifest?" Hogarth loomed ahead, his bilious sleeves and sash flapping in the wind. Martin stopped in his tracks. "Aye, sir. The Northumbria, she's called. Let me dispose of this, and I'll join ye." He raised the whimpering infant. Hogarth nodded and resumed his business. Ice traced its way through Turnbull's veins as it raced up his arms and solidified his heart in a frozen brick. He intercepted Martin at the rail. "What possesses ye, man?" he said, clutching the other's shoulder. "That's an infant. An innocent child." Martin looked at him in disbelief. "Well, flog me for a landlubber, are ye its wet-nurse?" "Don't do this." Turnbull's eyes pleaded with the man. "Step lively to your own affairs. I'm feeding the fish." Martin's flinty expression propelled him on a course of action unthinkable mere moments ago. He drove his fist into that unyielding face. Martin bellowed and staggered back, clawing at his nose. The babe fell into Turnbull's waiting arms, squalling. He set the delicate package alongside in a pile of netting and grabbed Martin by the scruff of the neck and his pants seat. With a great heave, he slung the man over the railing and into the churn. The din caught the crew's attention as they milled about, sampling their stolen wares. "Avast ye, gentlemen," said Hogarth, crossing his arms. "What's the meaning of this, Mr. Turnbull?" All eyes fell upon him. "'Tis a low estate of the heart that bids a man murder children," Turnbull said, voice quaking. "As I live and breathe, I'll not allow it." Hogarth rubbed his bearded chin with thumb and forefinger. "Ye'll 'not allow it.'? Sir, I captain The Black Hand, and this trifling sloop's my prize. I say Mr. Martin charted the proper course; speaking of whom, someone toss old sharkbait a rope ladder, that he may rid himself of a little excess moisture." He grinned as Turnbull drew the baby to his breast in a protective embrace. The crew made short work of hauling Martin back aboard, uttering approving sounds as he sputtered and cursed Turnbull's lineage from that day to Adam. "Belay that noise, Tut," Hogarth said. "A dilemma presents itself." He appraised Turnbull. "I have neither the time nor the inclination for anchoring in hopes of a foundling home boon on the coast. Now toss the wretched thing overboard, and be done with it."
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