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   Just when all seemed lost, the fireball somehow overshot and smacked into the ocean some leagues distant, covering the distance in mere seconds. Almost immediately, the swell of displaced water rose up, a gigantic, terrifying roar of white spray and wave thundering toward the vessels.

   The crews screamed in terror as the tiny ships were lifted by the raging sea as easily as if they were sticks on a river. Many sailors fell overboard and many more were flung onto the deck or against the masts, the forces snapping bones and crushing internal organs.

   The ships lurched and spun as the sea continued to surge underneath, until finally the waves receded and all settled back to near calm.

   Hartwell picked himself up from where he had dragged Susanna down for whatever protection his frail body could afford and helped his sister rise to her feet. She looked as bad as he felt after the turbulent movement, which had left even the most hardened sea dog violently ill. Hartwell, however, didn't have time to submit to the grinding nausea in his bones and dragging Susanna by the hand, he staggered toward Madrigal.

   "Tench, Fitch, all others, to me," he roared, his voice reaching down and forcing all those loyal to him to move as best they could manage, either in a sideways crawl or even on their bellies.

   "Captain Madrigal," bellowed Hartwell to the unresponsive figure. "Get up, damn you. You have a duty to your crew."

   This roused the stunned man and he nodded, almost dumb from the hideous tidal wave, as he lurched to his feet.

   The crew staggered around the
Pride
of
Plymouth, tryi
ng to orientate themselves, a task not made any easier by the plumes of filthy black smoke which reduced visibility considerably.

   Finally, Hartwell saw a vague outline of the old galleon in the smoke and he realized that Madrigal's ship had been carried by the waves to almost within jumping distance of the
Plymouth
. The rowing boat had been torn away from the side of the
Plymouth
by the forces of wind and water and Hartwell wasted no time in giving his final order on what had been his ship.

   "Into the sea and swim," he commanded. "Powder monkeys," he yelled to the small used to tend and operate the cannons. "To me." The boys, who found the captain to be an enigmatic yet fair man and who had witnessed the actions of Admiral Johnson with much indignation, scampered out from their hiding places and joined their captain.

   "Grab a boy," commanded Hartwell. His crew all grabbed at least one child each, as did Madrigal, while Hartwell took the smallest boy in one hand while holding his sister in the other. "Jump! Belay that!" The crew looked in fuzzy incomprehension as Hartwell ran to his cabin at the back of the vessel and emerged after a few moments with a bottle of absinthe. He grabbed the boy and Susanna once more as he re-joined the mutineers and shouted again, "Jump!"

   They leapt out into the sea and noticed too late that the water was glowing red, a deep scarlet hue which flashed disturbingly beneath the waves. Fortunately, they all broke the surface of the water with no obvious ill effects. Apart from the strange glow, the sea was normal and the crew swam toward Madrigal's ship.

   It took a while for them to reach the vessel, hampered as they were by holding onto the frightened boys. As they reached the galleon and began climbing the ropes thrown down for them by the crew, they all felt a strange prickling sensation that seemed to envelop the entire body, inside and out. Each person, however, thought it was probably the trauma of the past few minutes and said nothing about it.

   Behind them, the sounds of the two navy crews being cursed by Admiral Johnson drifted through the black smoke and white mist. Hartwell knew they only had minutes to escape. "All hands, cut and run!" he roared.

   "Do it," bellowed Madrigal at what was left of his crew. The men swung into action, bypassing the standard procedures by slicing lines to the anchor and rigging in order to expedite the escape of the galleon.

   "Powder monkeys, make the cannons ready. Tench, Fitch, you're on gunnery duty," continued Hartwell. "Madrigal, where is your pilot?"

   "Dead," replied Madrigal, his lips thinning in fury at the betrayal and slaughter of his crew.

   "I understand," said Hartwell, quietly, "but we have no time for grief now. I need you at the wheel. You know this vessel better than us and your expertise can get us out of here."

   Madrigal nodded, seeing the truth of Hartwell's words. Madrigal knew how low the galleon sat in the water, what her turn radius was, all the details required to pilot the ship through deep and shallow waters.

   "Heading?" he asked.

   "Anywhere that is not here," replied Hartwell. "We'll worry about a heading if we can outrun the
Plymouth
and the Morn
ing Star."

   "On this vessel?" said Tench, looking around at the creaking, rotten galleon. "They're faster, more powerful and new. We don't stand a chance!"

n explosion and spray of water seemed to confirm Tench's words. The admiral's crews had succeeded in getting organized and drawing a line on the fleeing ship. Fortunately, the thick black smoke from the mysterious fireball made it difficult to aim the cannons effectively.

   "Cannon crew," roared Hartwell, pointing at the rear most cannon, "prepare and fire." The crew responded, hastily checking the barrel was clear of any residue or obstruction, loaded in the powder and cannonball, both of which were lying next to the cannon, lit the fuse and leapt to the side. The small, antique cannon coughed and the cannonball almost floated from the mouth and plopped into the ocean. Hartwell looked at Madrigal, who shrugged.

   "The cannons are old," he said simply.

   "And rusted," said Fitch, looking critically at the cannon. "We'd have to be right on top of a ship to hit them with these things." Unfortunately, this wasn't a problem for the
Morning Star or t
he
Plymouth,
both loaded with seventy-four cannons of the latest design. Another shot exploded into the ocean, much closer than before.

   "Hard to starboard, into the smoke," ordered Hartwell. "We'll put distance between us if we can lose them in the inferno."

   Madrigal spun the ship's wheel and the old vessel, groaning in protest, swung about, pursued by the two swifter navy ships. The black smoke was still pouring upward from the sea, unlike anything the crew had ever seen before.

   "We can't risk going straight through," coughed Tench. "We don't know what that thing is."

   "We can't risk going around either," replied Hartwell. "If we do, we will be caught. Everyone, wrap a wet scarf or cloth around your face and take a deep breath. We're going through the middle."

   The crew hastened to obey, some removing jerkins or shirts and swirling them around in the barrel of drinking water, others grabbing cloths from below decks.

   Susanna used her short jacket, wrapping the sleeves around her head to make a strange mask. Her eyes stung in the thick smoke and she wished she had something to protect them. Something like a pair of thick reading glasses, perhaps.

   A few nervous coughs sounded out and soon became a crescendo as the thick smoke settled around the crew. Visibility was reduced to a few inches in the black, choking smoke.

   Madrigal held the course as best he could, hoping they were going in something approximating a straight line. Inside the cloud, it was impossible to determine any sense of direction, movement or distance.

   Many of the crew moaned in horror and fear as coloured lights flashed eerily in the black smoke. Reds, greens and purples seemed to pulsate in the air, flitting lightly to and fro. The powder monkeys cowered under the rear castle, while O'Rourke was reminded of the many folktales his grandmother had told him years before of strange and devilish creatures that lured men to their doom.

   Hartwell held his hand up and saw tiny, multicoloured lines of light spreading out over his fingers. Small sparks erupted from his skin, reminding him of the sensation he had felt whilst in the ocean just a few moments before. The strange tracing light seemed to be enveloping everything and everyone, but it wasn't harming the crew or ship, simply entwining around them.

   A shout drew his attention. One of Madrigal's crew was pointing in amazement up ahead of the ship. Squinting through the smoke, Hartwell saw that a small patch of the ocean was boiling a bright silver colour. The crew rushed forward and stared at the small patch of iridescent light which fluctuated in intensity, dimming then glowing stronger before dimming again. Thankfully, the smoke was finally clearing—they were past whatever the strange fireball had been.

   Hartwell gazed at the patch of boiling sea, trying to discern some recognizable shape or form, until the light moved once more, the perspective changed and he saw that in the centre of the brilliant radiance was a human figure, apparently floating face down. "Nets," he bellowed.

   The crew stared at him.

   "Fetch the nets and get that person on board," he commanded.

   "He must be dead," argued a member of Madrigal's crew. "We don't have the time to stop."

   "Then give me the net, damn you, and I'll do it myself," snapped Hartwell. "Mister Madrigal, hold a steady course past that figure, then make all speed away from here."

   Madrigal thought about arguing, saw the look on Hartwell's face and decided against it. "Yes, sir," he replied, twitching the wheel slightly.

   Hartwell gathered a fishing net, hastily unravelled it and then in one smooth movement, threw it over the side of the ship. The net fell perfectly and scooped up the floating body and what looked like several gallons of silver fluid which somehow swirled around the prone figure rather than dripping through the mesh. Hartwell heaved on the line, assisted by Susanna, but the figure was too heavy. Even taking into account the water enclosing it, the weight was astonishing.

   The powder monkeys ran out and grabbed the lines and heaved, gritting their teeth as their tiny arms pulled on the solid weight. Hartwell swore under his breath, repositioned himself and with a superhuman effort, pulled the netting free from the sea's embrace. The net jerked and its mysterious cargo was slowly raised up, hand over hand. Hartwell grabbed the net and gave one last heave, but misjudged the weight and fell back to the deck, the netting and the body falling on top of him.

   He bellowed in pain at the weight crushing him. He lashed out with his arms and legs, trying to free himself. In doing so, he tore the netting from the top of the figure and found himself looking at a silver skull.