It was the Dutchmen's ketch being moored so handy gave them the idea. They'd gloated so when their bosun bested Hawkins. It'd serve them right, next morn, to find her in the middle of the bay.

If they'd not searched the cabins for drink, he wouldn't've dropped it. They'd've seen the boats coming.

They were two days at sea before the Captain sent for them.

They could stand court-martial for piracy—and hang, certain-sure—or be put off at the next port, struck from the ship's rolls.

A cruel kindness, exile was.

If only he'd not broken that blasted mirror