After one upheaval after another, even the sea seemed to have regained its gentle temper. Fair winds filled the next few days, swelling the Hispaniola's mainsail taut and full.
The spray cleaved by the bow shone a translucent blue-white in the afternoon sunlight. With every nautical mile the ship traveled, its wake trailed a long string of foam that lingered on the water.
Captain De Leon took the helm himself twice. Once he had confirmed their heading, he made an exception and gave the crew an extra quarter hour of rest at noon to ease the mounting tension.
Their speed held steady at fifteen knots-excellent fortune for a three-masted warship with such a deep draft.
But as they drew closer to White Harbor, the sailors who had finally settled down began to grow restless again. Footsteps hurried across the deck. Some gathered beneath the masts to whisper among themselves, while others repeatedly checked the ropes and emergency boats along the rails.
Despite Captain De Leon's repeated assurances, the sailors from White Harbor could not regain their composure.
Except, of course, for Barnaby, locked belowdecks. The pirate chief with the crooked mouth remained utterly unconcerned. He even found time to keep pitching White Harbor's slave trade to Renato.
Renato stood at the edge of the poop deck, watching the noisy crowd below. He understood where their anxiety came from.
The evidence of the crew's mutiny was conclusive. One word from De Leon, and every one of these sailors would hang.
Their own lives were at stake, after all. Leaving their fate entirely in someone else's hands could hardly feel any different from torture.
The afternoon sea breeze was still strong, but it had lost the damp chill of the previous days, carrying instead a dry warmth that belonged to land.
The