Rot

A massive canvas rose, shivering against the sky. Piet and the fire-haired man heaved at the wheel, the chains clanking in a groan. The English boys strained, pulling the ropes taut, before one of them scaled the mast. The wind caught the sail, and the deck lurched, throwing Ife against the bulwarks.

In the shade, an old man sat on an overturned bucket, squinting at her. His face, as void of hair as the young English boys’, bunched in deep, creased wrinkles.

“Steady, lads,” Van Vries shouted, scouring the west with his spyglass. He mumbled something to a man called Mo, who spun the wheel hard. Ife’s stomach twisted and heaved with the swelling motion.

Piet looped a line around a massive iron hook hauled up by heavy chains. A squeaky winch dragged a crate through the hatch and the boy on the pulley tugged at his cap.

Piet waved Ife toward him. “Want to clean the guns?”

Ife gripped the bulwarks, staggering over clutter and side-stepping her way toward him along the cramped deck. The burly man stooped down on one knee, inspecting the bronze.

“You will learn to trust the water.” A graveyard rotted in his mouth. Ife lowered her eyes from his jagged, crooked teeth to her own bare feet. She curled her toes but the little nub never budged.

Ife knelt at the gun, slipping as she let go of the rail and catching her weight against the planks.

“First, the gun barrel must be dry,” he said, then unplugged the muzzle and flung soot from his fingertips. “Use the swab.” Piet gestured, and Ife fetched the cloth-tipped rod.

“For the barrel.” He nodded toward the gun.

Before Ife shoved the rod in, the ship tilted in a swell. A wall of seaspray drenched her, slammed her against the timber, and soaked the swab. She scrambled up, shaking saltwater from her braids.

Piet wrinkled his chin at the ruined swab and nodded toward the cannon. “Let it dry. Close the muzzle.” He turned and ducked below deck.

Ife jammed the plug into the muzzle and leaned against the bulwark, wringing the brine from her braids. Her new frock clung wet and heavy to her skin.

When Piet returned, she planted her feet wide and took a fresh swab. He uncorked the barrel, and as she rammed in the rod, black soot coated her forearms.

“Why for the guns?” she asked.

Piet tugged the tackle taut, then shot a finger at the horizon. “Guardacosta.”

Ife shaded her eyes and blinked at the yellow sails hovering beneath the clouds. “What are those?”

“Lobos. The worst kind.”

“And you?" Ife crossed her arms. “The Englishman does not beat you?”

He let out a quick, sharp laugh. “No Englishman beats me. I belong with the sea.”

A crease deepened in Ife’s brow.

“You need not worry,” Piet said, his voice dropping. “Van Vries will not sell you for the English. He only says it to quiet the men.”

She tightened her grip on the swab, looking out at the yellow sails, then back to his scarred shoulders. “How did you come to the boat?”

He bent an elbow and scratched, swiping a sweaty black stripe of soot across his cheek. “Men died for me to reach this deck,” he said with a flat voice, then leaned in toward her. “And I will kill to stay.”

He whipped his head toward the heavy boots clodding on the deck. Ife caught a glimpse of the captain’s vest over Piet’s shoulder. “For how long you been on my ship?” Van Vries said. He stopped his march next to Piet, staring straight into her eyes.

Ife tensed into a tight knot.

“Speak, damn you! I know you hear me.”

Her eyes fell, then darted up to Piet’s.

“Van Vries is no Englishman. He will bring no harm,” Piet said.

“Ya well,” Van Vries said, his tone softening. “Listen here, I must learn from where you come.”

Ife kept her chin tucked low. “I swam to the boat in the night.”

Van Vries tilted his head, squinting. “You came aboard while we anchored at Ter Tholen?”

She nodded.

“'Twas four nights ago. You broke from the Whistler estate, aye?”

The timber mast behind the two men looked like nothing more than a whipping post.

“Ha! That buffoon could not keep hold for his property to spare a life.” He grunted a laugh at Piet, then jabbed the back of his wrist at her. “How is it you boarded in the dark?”

Her shoulders sank. “I climb a rope.”

“A rope!” He turned to Piet, laying an outstretched hand on his shoulder. “The guardacosta could slash our throats while we sleep.”

Her eyes lowered to the planks. The hull grumbled against the chop. She shut her eyes and braced, awaiting the leather snap.

“We are far for the Whistler place,” Van Vries said from behind her closed eyelids. “You shall work La Fortuna. Coil the lines at anchor. I shall have no sea robbers crawling in the night.”

She opened her eyes to Piet’s craggy smile. Around her, the young English boys crawled around the deck, grinding the salt crust.

“I killed him,” she muttered.

The raspy scrape halted. Wind popped in the canvas above. The young boys turned for a quick look at her before their stones scraped against the deck once more.

“Ya?” The captain’s blue eyes widened. “The fat bastard deserved it, I’m sure!”

Piet threw his bald head back. Their laughter shook the beams.

As their gut-rolling eased, Van Vries swiped a finger under his eye. “And how? I must know. How you kill him?”

Ife never blinked. “With my knife.”

The men erupted again. Piet hooked a heavy arm around her shoulder and pulled her in close. “Do you hear, Captain? She’s a pirate.”

“Ya well.” Van Vries grinned. “Piratess, but fierce! Our swabby you shall be. But first, that hair must go. Before the English find you and hang you.”

He stomped back to the helm. Ife touched her braids, then looked up at Piet.

“Captain is right,” Piet said, his smile vanishing. “Cut it when we anchor. You are an outlaw now.”

Next chapter available October 1st, 2026.

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