Welcome to the final episode of season two of my serial adventure. Season three is outlined and research is ongoing for an audio version. Thank you so much for reading and sharing my writing. You, dear reader, have made this one of the most enjoyable writing experiences in my entire life.

Oh, the sun may shine through the London fog,
Or the river run quite clear,
Or the ocean brine turn into wine,
or I forget me beer,
Or I forget me beer, m’ boys,
Or the landlord’s quarter-day,
But I’ll never forget me own true love,
Ten thousand miles away!

For a night and a day, the Recompense crawled out of the East Indies, evading the Dutch fleet. Watch in and watch out, none slept soundly. Every man (and woman) waited for the moment they were either clear or doomed. The shantyman and his comrades kept their heads down in hopes of keeping them on their bodies.

Even as he slept, Jack whispered prayers for mercy. He asked to make it out to the open ocean. And he begged for any escape from Flora Burn, mistress of evil and queen of that floating prison. As is often the case with desperate prayers, the answer came in a most unexpected way shortly after the ship entered the open Pacific Ocean.

The entire crew felt the Recompense stretch in freedom when they left the last craggy island behind. There was no sign of any other ship between them and the sinking sun. Perhaps no one felt as relieved as the helmsman, who’d uttered his last confession in preparation for a watery grave.

The sun dipped behind the East Indies. The whisper of goodness that drew them safely through the rocky coastline grew still and the crew in turn became anxious. The last thing they needed to be was becalmed in the South Pacific. Captain Burn searched the evening sky as if she could spot the wind and harness it. It came, but not as a harbinger of goodwill to the Recompense.

What started as a breeze increased as if a conductor drew his orchestra steadily from pianissimo to the most chaotic forte he could muster. There was no pause in its increase. The exponential growth halted at nothing short of a gale.

Midway through this crescendo, rain began–not to fall, for falling implies a downward movement. Sheets of rain seemed to sting them from every direction.

Shortly after Captain Burn had ordered full sails to carry them away from that dangerous spot, she was forced to reef and reef again. All night, the Recompense reeled jerkily through the Pacific, with little control in direction.

“It feels like we’s being’ juggled back and fort’ in de hands of an angry god. For all our tossing, it doesn’t feel like we moved anywhere.” Roberts mused to no one inparticular.

“Well, Roberts. What do you want me to do about it?” Captain Burn asked darkly. Where she might have meant it rhetorically at other moments, he knew she called on the skills for which she kept Roberts close.

“Let’s consult de bones.” He said resolutely, his voice even deeper than usual.

In Burn’s cabin, Roberts’ consulted the unseen, eyes closed in concentration.

Flora watched anxiously, unknowingly bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Will you be still?” He said the words slowly in an attempt to conceal his impatience.

“We’re here to consult the bones. Get to it.” She growled.

Roberts remained silent, focusing in on the voice he sought. Then, he picked up a canvas bag, shook it and then emptied its contents on the Captain’s table. Finger bones, vertebrae and other small remnants of unknown victims poured across the chart weighted there.

Captain Burn looked at them with puzzled eyes for a moment, then impatiently at Roberts and back again. She knew better than to rush him again, though.

“It would appeah we have a Jonah in our midst.”

“What do you expect me to do, throw my entire crew in one by one until–”

Roberts nodded at her as the realization flashed in her eyes. The Shantyman.

“Da seer warned you, didn’t he? He probably summoned dis starm wit his fiddle.”

“I heard rumors he was skilled in certain arts. They said many ships won’t have him.”

“Den we won’t ‘ave him eedah.

Mary Bonney shook Jack in his hammock, who’d hardly fallen into a deep sleep after a long, terrible watch in the storm.

“Jack, wake up.”

The shantyman jerked awake.

“Jack, I think something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean, child?” He said as his eyes searched for light below deck.

“I–I just feel like something’s not right. Like something is terribly wrong.”

Jack searched Mary’s eyes in the faint lantern light. They were sincere and deeply dismayed. He wondered if she had the second sight.

“Alright, go find Weaver and tell him I’ll be with you shortly.” Jack donned his wool coat and strangely–for a reason he could never recall–his boots. He trudged up the ladder to the deck above, where he expected to find Weaver and Mary.

I trust the girl, but what am I supposed to tell Weaver? Even if he rallied the troops, then what?

But Jack never made it to Weaver. As soon as he set foot on deck, two of the Captain’s favorites grabbed him under the arms.

“Come with us, music man.” A tall redhead said.

“Easy boys, easy. I’ll come, but I’ve got a gunshot wound on my left–”

“Hear that? He says his arm hurts.” A light-haired, bearded one mocked.

The redhead answered, “It’s going to make it pretty hard to swim!” They cackled until they reached the weather deck where the wind and rain drowned them out.

Filtered sunlight oozed through the clouded eastern sky. Roberts’ apt description of being juggled back and forth held true. All around, the sea boiled as if angry. One small island lay off the starboard bow

“I hear they burn witches in the colonies.” Captain Burn shouted over the gale. “Due to our slight aversion to fire aboard, you’re going to meet a more merciful end.”

“But Captain, I–”

“Save it, Shantyman! Toss him.”

What little protest Jack made went unheard. Flora Burn’s ears had not the mercy to hear what little pleading the weather allowed to reach her ears.

Mac Gruffyd was on watch and looked on in horror. He was partway up the ratlines on the starboard shrouds when they threw Jack overboard. As soon as he witnessed the event, Mac leapt off the shrouds and dove into the deep after Jack.

Captain Burn saw what he’d done. Weaver and Mary (still dressed as a man and known to all as Tommy Davis) came on deck with several others and Burn expanded her offer to the rest of the crew.

“Would anyone like to join The Shantyman in his watery grave?” She jeered.

Clement Weaver turned to the man behind him and gave some unknown instruction. The man disappeared below and Weaver shoved Mary toward the rail.

“The sea in all her turbulence is more merciful than you! We’ll take our chances.” 

 Mary turned around and spoke just loudly enough for Clement to hear her above the wind, already decrescendoing in Jack’s absence. “But I can't swim!”

“What do you mean you can't swim?”

 “I wasn't allowed to go near the Sea as a child; I never learned.”

Clement removed his heavy coat as he instructed the sailor, “Hold your breath and kick upwards. I'll find you. Overboard.”

She obeyed.

Shortly after their leap, the men whom Clement had given instructions to moments ago reappeared with more of Morris's loyal crew.

 “Anyone else like to gamble with Davy Jones?” she screeched.

Several men didn't even take the time to answer her. They ran to the side and threw themselves into the brine.

“Ugh! Good riddance. Look, the winds are growing fair already.”

She barked orders to adjust the stays and change course. Flora Burn felt, for the first time in a couple of days, that she was in charge of her own destiny. La Belle Recompense proceeded southeast across the Pacific.

When Mac dove in, he’d aimed as near to Jack’s splash as possible. Though Jack’s arm prevented him from swimming well in the choppy sea, he managed to kick himself to the surface. As soon as he rose above and gasped for air, it seemed a wave drove down upon him, suffocating him crash after crash.

Mac’s young arms wrapped around the older sailor and drug him upward.

“Just try to float!” Gruffyd yelled.

An indistinguishable number of splashes followed them and the Recompense withdrew. With much difficulty, the group swam toward the patchy green and craggy island.

When they conquered the riptide, the breakers mercifully drug them ashore and deposited them on a small beach below tall red-black cliffs. They panted and groaned and then laid in silence recovering from their escape—Mac Gruffyd, with Hudson in tow, Clement Weaver with the disguised Mary Bonney and a handful of other loyal shipmates.

“At my age, you’d think I’d be done learning lessons,” Jack said between heavy breaths. “But from now on, I mean to be very careful what I pray for.”

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