Time, the avenger! Unto thee I lift
My hands, and eyes, and heart,
and crave of thee a gift.
LORD BYRON
CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE: CANTO IV
Satan’s Revenge creaked and groaned as mountainous waves pummeled the heavily armed vessel. Salt water and hurricane-force winds buffeted the sails and shredded the canvas, while the warship listed, bucking and twisting in the brutally churning sea.
Black Heart listened to the clash of thunder, the crackle of lightning, the howl of the hurricane, and the rapid beat of his own empty heart. Death will surely come this night, he mused, laughing darkly at his fate. Drowning was a hell of a lot better than swinging from the yardarm, and a far sight more desirable than having his body bound in chains and put on display until it rotted.
’Twas obvious his band of cutthroats felt the same. Gripping the wheel, he watched as one by one the crew abandoned ship, jumping to a certain death in the tumultuous waters below. To hell with the lot of them. Not one man out of fifty-two was brave enough to stay on board and let the Devil determine his destiny.
In spite of his anger, he turned to the heavens and prayed, “God have mercy on their souls.” And then he silently asked forgiveness for himself, afraid that this prayer, like all his others, would blow away with the wind.
Thunder rang out as another wall of water smashed against the ship. The mizzenmast groaned, wind battered the ragged sails, and broken rigging whipped about the quarterdeck like a school of writhing eels.
Black Heart fought for balance, wrapping an arm around a spoke of the wheel as he ground his boots into the slippery deck. He was exhausted from fighting the storm. Satan’s Revenge was tired, too. She’d never suffered such a brutal attack, not from man, God, or the Devil. She’d never felt a cannonball in her hull, or a fire in her hold. She’d never lost a man—until today.
She’d been his life for the past six years. She’d outraced privateers and the Royal Navy’s warships. She was his family, his comforter. If they couldn’t make it back to his island, he’d spend eternity with her at the bottom of the sea. “I’ll not abandon you,” he whispered.
A contemptuous laugh broke through the din of the storm, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of a curved steel blade. Black Heart pivoted as the cutlass slashed through the air and struck the wheel just inches from his hand.
God forbid! Thomas Low had escaped his shackles.
The bloody bastard sneered as rivulets of salt water coursed down his face. “’Tis time you die,” Low hissed.
Black Heart drew his cutlass and skillfully blocked the next blow of Thomas Low’s sword. Steel clashed hard against steel as Low struck back, then parried the next thrust of Black Heart’s weapon. “We’ll go to hell together,” Black Heart laughingly tossed back. “I can’t think of a better way to spend eternity than watching you burn.”
Low’s brows furrowed in anger. “There will be no hell for me, not this day nor any other,” he snarled, swinging his cutlass fiercely at Black Heart’s elusive body.
Black Heart swung, catching the steel of Thomas Low’s blade, sending it high in the air, then down to the slippery deck. He lunged, the tip of his cutlass grazing Low’s throat, drawing a drop of blood that washed away instantly in the downpour. He coaxed the frightened man backward, pinning his quivering body to the mizzenmast.
“I’d planned a slow death for you,” Black Heart threatened. “Something equally as vile as what you inflicted on my family, but I’ve tired of this game of chase we’ve been playing.”
“It’s been no game. I want what you stole from me.”
Black Heart lightly fingered the golden links around his neck, smiling as he touched his most precious treasures—his sister’s cross, and his mother’s wedding ring. Low had taken the cherished band once before, but never again.
A resounding roar bellowed directly overhead and a bolt of lightning flashed down from the darkened sky, striking the broad side of his blade. Shock ripped through his hand, up his arm, through his entire body. He jerked backward, his fingers still gripping the handle of the vibrating cutlass. He tried to breathe, but he couldn’t suck air into his lungs. His heart ceased its beating, and pain exploded through his chest.
Once more he heard Thomas Low’s mocking laughter. He looked at the man he hated and watched helplessly as Low pressed a boot against his stomach and sent him crashing into the railing.
Low swept his sword from the deck and advanced. There was nothing Black Heart could do. He had no strength to defend himself.
“This ship is mine now,” Low declared. “I’ll take those items you wear around your neck, too.”
Never! The word screamed in Black Heart’s mind, but it never had a chance to cross his tongue.
Lightning skittered across the sky, and one strong bolt struck the topmast. Low stumbled away as the yardarm and sail toppled down to the deck and smashed just inches from Black Heart’s legs. The rigging snapped and squirmed between the two men, and Low stood back, proud, victorious, his arms folded across his chest as he sneered.
Black Heart knew he was trapped. There was no escaping now. All he could do was muster what little strength he had to thwart the blows of unrestrained blocks and tackle while he glared hatefully at the man who mocked his plight, the man he should have killed years before.
“I’ll not rest until I see you dead,” Black Heart shouted through the squeal and groan of the cracking mizzenmast.
An evil grin crossed Low’s face, and he ducked out of sight as the towering mast careened toward the stern.
Black Heart had little time to react. He raised his arms and cushioned the blow of the powerful pole as it smashed violently against the side of his head.
Fighting for consciousness, trying to ignore the pain, he grabbed the mast and held on tightly as it slid across the deck. It whipped back and forth and at last broke free of its rigging and sails. In one wild sweep, the mast hurtled over the side of the ship, carrying Black Heart with it into the turbulent depths of the unforgiving Atlantic.