The ship was perhaps fifty paces off now and the swimmers ahead of them had disappeared. Off in the distance he noticed a figure stagger to its feet on the hill beneath the tree above Blue Baby Beth’s grave. The figure stood for a moment and then fell woodenly.

Clay stood with his legs wide-braced intending to soak up The Captain’s spirit, hoping all the while that he would not get possessed by any of the man’s keen ‘devil sense.' He was feeling proud, almost strong, a might uppity even. Then the swivel gun boomed, water and blood and white pieces with red matted black hair attached flying through the air—which he supposed was Indian brains—and his knees buckled and his bladder loosed, staining his pants legs with pee.

Sam groaned and Mister Eager cursed. Pea-brain began gibbering and Slanty dove overboard with a scream, trying to make the ship on his own. The launch was now foundering and the smell of death mixed with salt water came to his nose even as Mister Eager said icily, “Take both oars, Sam and row.”

Mister Eager then pulled the sword from Clay’s trouser cord and patted him on the back, “I’m pissing myself too, Clay. You are not alone, Little Blackie.”

Clay warmed to hear Mister Eager’s pet name for him, a name he had never dared use in front of The Captain, but which Clay did not mind, knowing as he did that it was a term of endearment. One more pat came on his back and the strong hand was gone as Mister Eager clomped on his hard heels through the belly of the launch to take his post above the prowl, where apparently one of the fiends was attempting to climb aboard, “The stern is all yours, Clay—so, you red-skinned bastard you want onboard my launch!”

A terrible chopping and stabbing and grunting and groaning came from behind Clay as he rose on his feet, his pee-soaked pants legs clinging to his scrawny knees. Two red fiends with bent knives in their teeth were grabbing at the stern, one on the right corner and the other on the tiller, clamoring aboard, as the launch slowed. Sam was now rowing the lot of them and three grasping sets of hands attempting to drag them into the depths of hell.

There was a gurgle behind them and a groan from Mister Eager as a big splash announced him tumbling into the sea in a death grapple with the fiend he was contending with. Pea-brain was babbling and trying to slide under the sitting board and the insane white man was singing some song about ‘Ours is not to reason why.’

Through the slow-motion haze around him no noise came from the silent red men. There was another musket shot behind and above them and a call from Jonah Heel. But he still wanted for knowing what to do with the shovel. Clay had never really considered hitting a person of any kind for any reason. Then the cacophony of misery all about was struck through with a clarifying bellow from Sam, “Chop his hand, Clay!”

Down came the shovel like a fairytale woodsman’s axe onto that broad, strong red hand. The fingers fell into the boat and the bloody thumbed stump continued to pull it’s tireless owner up into the launch—and the other strong hand was now grasping Clay’s shin. In a panic Clay hollered, “Lord no!” and swung the flat of the shovel down on the black-haired head, which rung like a tone deaf church bell. Clay lost his footing in his own pee and fell back into the launch, his head bouncing off of Sam’s bare foot.

Clay might have rejoiced at hitting his head on Fat Sam’s soft foot if not for the uncomfortable fact that a bloody, maimed fiend was crawling on top of him with a crooked broad knife between his teeth and another was tumbling into the launch to wrestle with Sam who was now screaming like a rebel and swinging a heavy oar.

The swing of that heavy oar turned the second boarder’s head into something more like a splattering road-tossed watermelon than a human head. A gout of that dark red stuff that sprayed from the folding face splashed across Clay’s eyes, blinding him as the other horrible little man crawled bleeding upon him, “Sam, Sam!” he cried, like the time those alley boys had accosted him while he delivered The Captain’s post…

A heavy weight struck his head and he became ill, able to think of nothing else but crawling to the gunwale and heaving his belly’s contents into the traitorous Ocean, who had betrayed them after all. As he reached for the gunwale the Ocean seemed to hear his ill thought and rolled into the boat to meet him and drive her salty water into his face.

The water was colder than he remembered and the crazed white man’s song was more lunatic than he had fist appreciated, “Ours is but to do or die!”