The Captain could hear the roar of powder kegs in his ears, but he could not move from where he fell. He wondered how long he had been there. He tried to remember if it was the sudden lurch the vessel took that sent him to the deck. He was having a problem recalling anything. His mind was jumbled, lacking focus. He lost track of time. The deck shuddered underneath him. That was a well-placed volley, he thought as he worked harder to catch a breath. It was taking the same effort to hoist a sail, to breathe. My ship, he repeated silently, my beautiful ship. Please forgive me, my King. I have failed you. The Captain closed his eyes. It was just too much of an effort to keep them open. Suddenly he found his awareness peak. It was an apex of all sensations at once. It did not overwhelm him. It did not hurt him. There was a strange comforting feeling in this place of sound, and slowly the thunder of cannons grew farther off.

Farther off than they were in truth.

"The Captain is dead!" cried one of the privateers over the fire raging below decks, "The Captain is dead!"

"The First Mate is down as well!" another sailor bellowed as he passed a full water bucket to another.

"Mind the fire!" shouted a third from the top deck, "If them powder kegs catch fire, we will have done the Spanish a good service! Keep them buckets comin'."

It was in 1492 when "The New World" was discovered. From this land of legends, legends that included cities of pure gold, mountains of gemstones, and exotic delicacies not found even in the travels of Marco Polo, explorers of the land mass called Europe launched brave and bold expeditions to bring back treasures for royalty. Some of these men sailed around the world. Some never returned. Still, Man was embracing the arts and sciences with a new-found passion, instilling fear in the religious leaders of this world. It was an age of enlightenment, a new dawn of humanity that was being dubbed as "The Renaissance."

Part of The Renaissance was an ingenious new tactic of reaping the New World's treasures without hazarding costly voyages across the Atlantic. Rival nations called it "common piracy" but the King of one particular realm called it by a different, more civilised trade--privateering.

King Henry the VIII of England looked upon the open seas as just that--open. Open to all nations. Open to opportunity. As privateers, these "common pirates" were agents loyal to and pardoned by King Henry. They possessed Letters of Mark that specified what ships they were allowed to engage and which were free to navigate the oceans of the Atlantic. The latter were usually King Henry's own. This "gentleman's piracy" came with a price. If privateers were captured, there would be no rescue, no ransom, or no return voyage home. The "Letters of Mark" were worth less than the rope used to hang privateers for crimes of piracy.

This is why the Captain filled a good portion of his hold with powder kegs and cannon balls. He always wanted to assure escape if under fire. Now the English faced the added challenge that their advantage did not turn against them and blow the King's Calling out from under their feet.

Sanders watched the men heed his earlier advice and now they tamed the fire for the time being. The Spanish warships were still closing. In his eyes, there was little to be gained from this voyage. "We should abandon ship! We've lost the Captain! The First Officer is dead!"

"No, we will not leave the ship, Mister Sanders!" a deep voice sounded over the chaos of the deck. It was distinguishable for two reasons. It carried with it a bass deep as a thunder clap. It also carried a sharp-edged accent, thick and not of the usual dialects found in England. "The Captain would have wanted us to stand and fight! It would also grant the wishes of Allah to send these Spaniards to a fiery death for firing on His children!"

He was a Moor. He towered over most of the Englishmen within the ship's complement, but his size coupled with his powerful voice did nothing to elevate his standing. The Moor's ebony skin and his beliefs made his status as "outcast" and "heathen" amongst the crew apparent.

"I think, Moor, your brain's been cooked after too much time a' sea!" snapped Liam Sanders.

Sanders stood eye-to-eye with him, his own height equal to the Moor's. The man was far from any lofty position of leadership on the King's Calling, but Sanders' stature, sunken eyes, and gaunt-like features gave him an intimidating look apart from the other Englishmen. Many times he was asked to "speak for the crew" although the Moor hardly felt this man spoke his mind. The Moor could never openly share his opinions, but he suspected the man to be nothing less than a coward. For a "heathen," his instincts were quite accurate.

The main sail turned sharply, its massive form suddenly billowing to its full shape as the wind trapped itself within the weave of the fabric. The crew siding with Sanders watched in amazement as the second sail shifted to catch the same breeze. They could feel the ship's hull shift forward as their course changed abruptly.

"Again, lads, heave!" a voice rang out over the thunder of cannons and volley of fire that slammed against their starboard side. "I did promise my sister, Serena, I would be present for dinner two days from now. I will be damned if I keep her waiting!"

The small band of privateers tugged against an array of thick, heavy ropes while another secured the cables to hold fast the sails. The self-appointed leader then assumed the Captain's Podium of the King's Calling, wiping away the blood from the maps with the cuff of his shirt. He muttered co-ordinates to himself as he made light charcoal marks against the charts. His actions were hurried as another volley of cannon fire came from the pursuing ships. A smile crossed his face as he could hear the cannonballs splash into the water, showering the deck harmlessly with water and foam.

"And jus' what do you think you're doin', Snotty?"

Sanders hated being challenged on what he considered was his ship. This young whelp seemed to relish in doing just that. "Snotty" was the nickname Sanders dubbed him as he carried himself a little better than the rest of the crew. Snotty's first month on board bought him a few floggings from Sanders that left his face and parts of his body black-and-blue. Still, the boy stood up to him. He became untouchable when he was promoted to the position of Ship's Navigator. Now that the Captain and First Mate were dead, nothing could keep Sanders from openly challenging him, as well as calling him "Snotty."

"Ensuring our return home to England, or are you so blinded by fear you did not notice that?" The navigator shoved him against the deck and drew a modest foil from his side, the tip resting against Sanders' neck. "We have no captain. No boatswain. I, for one, do not wish to live out the prime of my life in a Spanish prison, provided we are not executed for piracy! Now stand down and let me plot this course!"

"They have matched our course and draw close!" the Moor shouted as he saw the Spanish ships catch their breeze.

"We have a course plotted." The navigator stomped hard on the planks underneath his feet and shouted down to the whip staff's crewmen sharp commands that eventually led to the ship's rudder. Once more the King's Calling shifted as the navigator sheathed his sword. "Now let us hope the Spanish are not as mad as we are!"

Sanders followed the light marks against the navigation chart, his eyes widening upon their destination, "You have plotted a course for the Graveyard of Lost Ships!" The lumbering man grabbed the navigator by the cuff of his doublet and tossed him aside. "You there!" his voice boomed, freezing two young sailors in their tracks. "Fetch us a white banner! We're surren--"

The chill of the iron barrel pressing against the back of his neck cut his orders short. Sanders turned slowly to find the giant Moor aiming the ornate rifle at his head. The Moor's training in the weapon was merely a formality. He was never permitted to handle it in combat. A lack of trust that neither the Captain nor First Mate would acknowledge openly. He would have never thought his first chance would be used in an act of mutiny. Or was it mutiny? They had no one in command.

Only this navigator, still very green in his time spent upon this vessel, seemed to have a direction they all needed. It would be a direction that would get them home.

"Master Navigator has a plan I think would work better than facing a death sentence in Spain!"

"You savage!" Sanders snapped, "Lower that rifle before I whip you soundly."

"I crave a pardon, Mister Sanders, but I am on the better end of this rifle."

Over the sounds of deck fires and Spanish cannons, the successive "click-click" of the rifle's hammer pulling back to a firing position sounded clear in their ears.

"You wouldn't dare, Moor," he spat.

"I have made my peace with Allah." The Moor slipped his finger around the trigger, "Have you?"

The collection of privateers, their faces bloody or blackened by the smoke of battle, had gathered on either side of the gangway at the sight of Sanders held at gunpoint by the ship's outcast and young navigator. The mighty sea breeze that pushed them across the waters widened small tears in the sails but still they managed to keep a lead from the closing ships. A few ears caught what words were exchanged at the Captain's Podium, and these words were quickly passed from crewmember to crewmember. They were tired, they were afraid, and they waited for an order. Now only the wind catching the torn sails sounded in their ears.

"Our navigator means to take us to the Graveyard of Lost Ships!" Sanders announced, "This is madness, to be certain, for the Moor sides with 'im! If we surrender with no fight, we might find mercy in the hands of the Spanish!"

"I doubt that!" the navigator snapped. "Do you forget what we do for King and country?"

The enemy ships were closing. Fast. It was clear they did not intend to take them back to Spain to face a trial. It was the Laws of the Sea they would answer to with three Spanish captains serving as judge, jury, and executioner.

There was a hint of uncertainty as the navigator walked onto the gangway, his eyes looking at the crew and then at the closing ships. Then, in a moment, the fear and doubt were gone. In their wake, resolve and determination.

"Lads, we have not known one another long enough to build a trust, but the Captain trusted my talents in navigation. I know where we head may unleash more dangers upon us. Rest assured. You have the word of your navigator, Rafe Rafton, that I shall get you all home." His blood coursed through his veins. The excitement in his tone gave his words an edge that made them appear hasty and erratic. "If we dare the Graveyard, the Spaniards will break off from pursuit. This is a leap of faith I ask of you all. If you grant me this boon, I promise you all a round of good English ale at the Anchor. Come along, lads, what say you?"