Standing on the small platform at the main-topgallant, Smith looked at the end of the crosstree where the man he was chasing had finally stopped running. He studied the native’s face, realizing he was little older than a boy. His eyes were focused. There was fear inside, but it wasn’t of losing his own life. It was something else. Something somehow far more frightening. Whatever it was, Smith intended to put him out of his misery without hesitation. He took aim. They were close and it was an easy shot, but he didn’t want to get caught out if he missed.
The boy looked crestfallen. Like many of the men from the pyramid, he’d learned to speak basic English. “Do you have any idea what you have done?”
“I’m sorry,” Smith muttered, silently.
The boy shook his head. “Not as much as you will be once you discover what the demon with the purple eyes will do with it.”
Smith stopped himself from squeezing the trigger. “What do you know about the man with the purple eyes?”
The boy stared back at him. His eyes were sardonic. Smith recognized that look. It was the same one the damned skull had given him. It was like a curse. A challenge. It said, do you dare open Pandora’s Box?
“What will he do with it?” Smith persisted.
The boy cut the end of the mainsail sheet, and jumped. He swung like a pendulum, and landed on the fore-topgallant platform, toward the bow of the ship. Smith immediately took aim and fired. But he was too late — the boy had already chosen to dive, head first with his knife held outward. He landed on the deck with a sickening thud, which broke his neck in an instant, and killed one of the pirates.
The defiant act served the attacker’s cause more than the death of one musket-wielding pirate. One glance at the crew, and Smith knew exactly why the boy had done it. The act had simultaneously invigorated his brethren, and demoralized the crew of the Emerald Star. It showed them that their attackers would stop at nothing to win.
Smith clambered down the ratlines. He needed to do something. Otherwise the outcome of the battle was indisputable. Oswald’s face, which was earlier cheerful and confident, was now set hard. His jaw was rigid and his eyes wide. They were winning, but for how long? He knew as well as every one of them that the muskets would fail well before the enemy had depleted its supply of men and women willing to die to save the relic.
He looked up at Oswald. “How much longer until we’re off this God-forsaken sandbar?”
“I don’t know,” Oswald said. “It may be a few more minutes. Definitely no more than an hour or two.”
“An hour or two!”
Oswald shrugged. “The ocean can be capricious. Working out how much time it wants to take to raise the Emerald Star to float is not a precise science.”
Smith said, “The muskets won’t fire indefinitely.”
Oswald pointed his pistol at another boarder, and fired. The ball struck the man in his neck. He gripped it, and fell backward into the sea. “I know. I’m still trying to work out what to do about it.”
“What about the fore-cannon?”
“We’re too close,” Oswald grunted. “There’s no way we could maneuver it to hit the boarders.”
Smith shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking about the boarders.”
“No?”
“No. I was thinking about destroying that human bridge.”
Oswald glanced out toward the strange construction of men used to overcome the breaking waves, as he thought about it for a moment. He turned to one of the shorter men, and said, “Matthews, take the rest of the forward gunner team down below. I want you to start battering that human bridge!”
“Aye, aye, Captain!”
Five minutes later, Smith watched as the fore-cannon was loaded with a standard iron cannonball known as round shot. Matthews struck the light and the cannon fired into the human bridge. The heavy ball of steel missed by several feet.
A spotter ran down into the forward hold. “It’s short.”
Matthew cursed. “By how much, man? Be precise!”
“Seven feet.”
Matthew nodded and quickly resealed the cannon’s touch hole with a leather thumb sheath to eliminate air from entering. “All right, men. You heard him. A small adjustment and we’re going to destroy that bridge. Let’s do it again.”
“Aye, aye, Mr. Matthews.”
Smith watched as two men hastily sponged the barrel to prevent any leftover embers from prematurely sparking the next round of gunpowder. The third man wormed the cannon — a process of running a piece of coiled iron called a worm through the barrel to remove any remnants from the previous firing — and the barrel was then sponged again.
Matthews examined the barrel carefully. He nodded, satisfied the barrel was clean of any embers. “Okay. She’s ready. Let’s do this right, this time.”
The powder monkey said, “Aye, Mr. Matthews,” and passed the heavy powder charge to the powder handler at the front of the gun.
Matthew’s gave the order, “Load.”
“Aye, Mr. Matthews,” the powder handler acknowledged, as he placed the charge in front of the bore of the gun, and the rammer slid it in until it bottomed out at the back of the barrel.
Matthews removed the leather thumb sheath from the touch hole and used the prick to test the charge was seated properly by pushing the powder prick into the touch hole and into the charge. Satisfied with the result, he yelled, "Home."
The powder monkey passed the second canon ball to the powder handler, who placed the ball in front of the barrel bore with his hand below the barrel. He glanced at the gunner.
Matthew yelled, “Load!”
The rammer said, “Aye, Mr. Matthews,” and rammed the ball with a wad of rags down the barrel until it was seated against the charge.
Matthews carefully sighted the gun. He adjusted the telemetry and height so the iron ball would fall past its previous location. Confident of the new position, he primed the gun by pouring black powder into the touch hole. “Ready.”
The gun crew covered their ears and stepped clear of the gun. Smith took an additional step backward, and blocked his ears. He watched as Mr. Matthews lit the fuse. The wooden rod with a piece of lit saltpeter glowed orange.
“Fire!” Matthews yelled, as he touched the saltpeter to the powder in the touch hole.
This time the cannonball sliced straight through its human recipients, severing one head and multiple limbs in the process. The human bridge swayed for a moment, and then the surviving members closed the gap and a new wave of attackers started to crawl along its top.
Oswald came down the gangway, into the forward gunner’s hold. “Great shot, Matthews! Let’s hit them again!”
Smith glanced at his brother. He was grinning and covered in blood as he gripped the handle of his cutlass with enthusiasm. Smith gritted his teeth as he watched the horrific sight. He’d never had the stomach for the battles, but it was obvious this was what his brother lived for. Still, if someone was going to die, he’d rather it be them instead of him.
“Smith,” Oswald looked at him. “You’d better follow me on to the deck. Some of the muskets are starting to foul. We need every hand we can get to stop them from over-running us.”
“Of course,” Smith said.