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C how did as he always did during times of unease: returned to the tasks at hand.

When he had been a youth at Northfield Hall, unable to understand why he was the only one in his family who chafed against the Preston rules, he had dedicated himself to carpentry.

In London, where he had doubled as a boardinghouse superintendent for the East India Company while overseeing Preston business, he spent his days focused on finding better rations for his lodgers and getting rid of rat infestations rather than stewing in his churned-up emotions.

And in the aftermath of the Calliope , he had put his hands to work mending sails and tying ropes and doing anything Captain Boukman needed so that he did not feel the horror shrouding his heart.

He counted the Ghost ’s food and water supplies again to make sure they had enough to last a journey across the Atlantic and back, if the captain so decided.

He inspected the sails. He drilled the crew on the guns until they could rival the British navy itself for how fast they changed the powder in their cannons.

He did not think about Rebecca. He did not ruminate on the way she appeared at his elbow almost as soon as he came to rest, always with a question or a comment or an observation. He did not think too hard on her plight as a shipwrecked maid.

Nor did he allow himself to imagine her on the ship beyond the first sailing.

She was too pretty, too lively to remain on the Ghost after its glamour faded.

She had joined because she heard too many pirate stories, and as a woman whose tanned olive skin could get her mistaken for a slave in the wrong circumstances, she had a natural interest in joining the legendary crew of Captain Boukman.

All it would take was one bad squall or one bad gunfight or one outbreak of scurvy for her to realize she was much better off booking passage back to Rhode Island.

Until that day, Chow would not waste his thoughts on her.

It was midmorning on their fifteenth day in the lagoon that Captain Boukman reappeared. Fuego de la Cruz spotted him from the topmast and cried, “Captain rowing out!”

The crew straightened themselves without Chow giving any instructions. The boys scrabbled to make sure all the sails were tied up appropriately; those with better clothes went down to change; Rebecca even knew enough to take the goat and pig below.

As for Chow, he combed his hair, shrugged into his heavy jacket, and made sure to display the gold pocket watch Captain had gifted him two Christmases previously.

He was always glad when the captain returned.

They had been sitting in the lagoon too long; the crew was restless, and if they tarried anywhere, they risked the British or the Spanish or the Portuguese finding them.

Even more than that, when Captain was on board, Chow didn’t carry the burden of deciding what, when, or how the Ghost did anything.

He could simply execute the captain’s orders—and bask in the privilege of being allowed to do so.

But Captain Boukman was at his most unpredictable when he returned to ship.

He spent his days in port liberated from the title of captain, which usually involved too much rum and far more women than Chow could comprehend.

There were fights, too—fist fights, sword fights, gun fights—and wagers that occasionally resulted in him leaping onto the Ghost and ordering immediate departure.

A captain had a right to do what he wanted with his free time, yet Chow could admit to himself that he preferred Captain Boukman when they were in the middle of the Atlantic.

The crew lowered ropes to pull up the rowboat, bringing the captain up one hoist at a time.

First came his hat, a Napoleonic bicorne boasting new rooster plumes.

Then came his head with its collection of thick, snakelike braids.

He wore a black beard, and the rest of his dark face was pulled into a scowl—but then, he always played the tyrant when he returned to ship.

Finally, they had a full view of him standing in the longboat, one booted foot lifted on the bench, as if he were posing for a portrait to display his prowess.

Chow always forgot how big Captain Boukman was: in height, width, and spirit.

“Well, you sorry bastards, what trouble have you gotten into without me?”

He bounded onto the deck, his scowl melting a little with his words. It was to be a happy reunion, then.

Chow let out a breath of relief. “Good to have you back, Captain.”

They went through the routine reports: there had been no attacks, no naval sightings, nor even glimpses of other pirate ships in the captain’s absence. “And the crew?” asked Captain Boukman, his words private for Chow. “Have you discovered any more troublemakers?”

“No, sir.” Chow kept his answer short so that he wouldn’t have to lie. He hadn’t discovered any troublemakers—but neither did he believe there were any to begin with, as the captain feared, and so he had put no effort towards it.

Captain Boukman stared hard at Chow for a moment. Then, slapping his palm on Chow’s shoulder, he said, “My loyal mate, as always.”

Chow didn’t want to admit how good it was to hear that praise.

The captain walked among the crew, calling Julio de la Cruz old and Fearsome Fred fat and Liberty Johnson cocky. He got distracted halfway down the deck, telling a story of some Spaniards who had news of a trio of slave ships that had sailed for Africa from Havana the previous week.

It was at the end of his story that Rebecca ascended from below, where she had been tying up the animals. Captain Boukman, turning to clasp Fuego’s shoulder, saw her immediately.

His eyes lit up, just as Chow had known they would. “Have you splurged to treat me with a gift?”

Rebecca’s chin lifted a little. She didn’t cast down her eyes, as she had when Chow had first met her, but neither did she look directly at the captain.

“She had a goat,” Julio de la Cruz said, his tone mixing defense of Rebecca with respect for the captain so that it came out as a croak. “We’ve been having fresh milk every other day.”

The captain was busy feasting his eyes on Rebecca. Almost the whole deck stood between them, yet Chow saw the distance closing as if Captain Boukman’s desire alone could erase physical space.

She squared her shoulders. “I’ve joined the crew. Rebecca Smith. Sir.”

“A woman on the crew?” Captain Boukman didn’t scoff, as Chow had, but instead smirked like a cat who had licked the cream. “I’ve never had one of those before.”

Chow stepped forward. He was approximately between them. If he could find the right words, he could stop whatever was about to happen. “It’s not like that, sir.”

“Not like what? She’s not a woman? She is not on my crew?” Captain Boukman leered at her. “Is my crew not sworn to obey my every order?”

Rebecca wore her embarrassment in her fists, clenched around the fabric of her skirt. “I’m flattered, sir, I’m sure, but…”

“Ah, listen to her, with the manners of an American coquette!” Now Captain Boukman advanced, as smooth as a snake slithering across the deck. He got close enough that his hat blocked the sun from falling on Chow.

Chow did not step back.

The captain loomed over him. “What do you think I’m going to do to her?

Kill her?” He looked over his shoulder to gauge the reaction of the crew.

A few of them laughed weakly under his examination.

Then he threw his gaze to Rebecca. “Come here, sweetheart, and let’s show poor Sharkhead there’s nothing to be afraid of under your skirts. ”

“Captain Boukman…” She spoke in that smooth, silky voice, but it trailed off again, as if she couldn’t quite find what to say.

The trouble was, there were no magic words she could say. Captain Boukman saw only breasts and pussy, and nothing from her mouth would change his mind.

Which was why Chow had to say what he said next.

“She’s mine.”