The three stepped into the hall, and Spencer pulled the door shut and turned the key in it.
Phin shook his head. “You’re lucky it was me who came by and not Hudgins.”
“Probably. But no harm done.” Spencer reclined against the door. “Please tell me there’s better food than that for us.”
“I’ll do what I can.” With a smile and wave, he headed for the stairs leading topside. Before he headed back to the galley, he needed to get this foul taste out of his mouth. Thankfully, he spotted the prize master at the rail. “Hudgins.”
His superior turned around with a welcoming smile. “Dunn. All well below?”
Phin leaned onto the railing, bracing his forearms against it. Another cloudy night hovered over them, blocking the light of the moon and holding in the muggy heat. “Probably fine.”
Hudgins arched a brow.
Phin sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was get his friends in trouble, but he needed to hear the prize master tell him all was well. “It’s just Spencer. He and Davidson were in the cabin talking to the captain. Harmless, according to Spence, but it makes me uneasy.”
“Hmm.” Hudgins pursed his lips and stared out at the Sumter just ahead of them. “Not the wisest behavior, to be sure. But he’s just a sailor, a merchant—not accustomed to the ways of war.”
“I’m a merchant sailor myself, sir, and you wouldn’t find me having an amiable conversation with the enemy.”
The midshipman chuckled. “I tend to forget you’re not trained in the military. You’ve taken to it better than the others. We’ll keep an eye on Spencer and Davidson and make sure they don’t act that way again. For now, why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll take first watch, and then you can relieve me.”
“Yes, sir.” Phin straightened, saluted, and headed below once more, happy to let someone else deal with meals for the prize crew—for his part, he had no appetite. But as he settled into the borrowed hammock, he couldn’t shake the feeling that rest wasn’t what he needed either.
Delia’s face crowded his mind when he shut his eyes, those big green eyes gleaming, her kissable lips set in a concerned frown. How was it that he’d left home so many times before and never missed any one person more than another, yet now her image was always there? A bittersweet ache took up residence in his chest.
He let himself relive that moment when he drew her into his arms. Her tiny waist under his hands, the scent of lilac water drifting to his nose. The look in her eyes—hope and desire, surprise and fear.
Was she waiting for him like she promised? Or had her father already persuaded her to bestow her sunshine smiles on someone else?
He felt himself drifting off with that question spinning round his mind. His dreams were a muddled jumble of swaying skirts and her light laughter, and of other uniformed men pulling her into a dance or under that live oak in her garden. Their tree. He tried to move forward to reclaim her, snatch her from the faceless man’s arms, but he couldn’t find his footing. It was like the ground had become an ocean.
“Sumter men! On deck, now!”
He jerked awake, and it took only a second to realize it was the Caribbean heaving under him, not the rich Georgian soil. Phin leapt down and raced topside, where the wind gusted hot over him and waves pounded the Cuba’s hull.
Hudgins motioned him over. “They cut our line—the Machias’s tow snapped, and the Sumter had to catch her. They signaled us to continue into Cienfuegos on our own. Take the wheel, Dunn, heading north by northeast.”
“Aye, sir.” He spun toward the wheel—and came up short when he saw the muzzle of a pistol pointed at his face.
“Belay that, Mr. Dunn.” Captain Stroud cocked the gun and stepped into the circle of lantern light. “I’ll be taking my ship back now.”
Phin heard a curse from behind him but was a bit more concerned with the pistol just now. He sketched a bow, sweeping his arm out in a grand gesture. But rather than just tuck it to his chest, he grabbed his own sidearm and came up with it leveled at Stroud. “It’s my honor to inform you that you’re mistaken, Captain.”
Hurried footsteps sounded from every direction, and Hudgins darted across Phin’s periphery. “Davidson! Spencer! Get those prisoners back belowdecks!”
But when Spencer stepped up behind Stroud, weapon raised, he didn’t point it at the Yankee captain.
He leveled it on Phin.
Hope sank into his stomach and turned to wormwood. “Spence?”
“Sorry, Phin.” His friend gulped and stepped up beside the Yankee. “It’s nothing personal.”
Nothing personal? His closest friend was betraying all they stood for, and he called it nothing personal? Phin edged back a step. “Call me antiquated, but I’m afraid I do take it personally when someone holds a gun on me.”
More running footsteps reached his ears, along with the crash of a wave. From the direction of the mainmast he heard one of the marines call, “We’re with you, sir!”
So the treachery was limited to Spencer and Davidson. Small comfort.
He had to get clear of Stroud and Spence, make his way over to Hudgins and the marine. They’d have a better chance of regaining the upper hand if they could cover one another. Hopefully that wouldn’t require him raising his gun against his friend. Spence might have no difficulty doing so, but Phin sure would.
Before he could determine a sound plan, a gunshot blasted from near the wheel. Lightning echoed it above them, its slice of light illumining full-blown panic on the deck. Not exactly the opportunity he had hoped for, but he wasn’t about to let it pass him by.
He lunged away, his glance raking the deck as he went. He spotted Hudgins climbing the mainmast, no doubt so he could see the rebelling crew all at once. Their marines stood in position below him, one firing at whomever had taken a shot from the wheel.
“Phin, stop!” Spencer shouted into the wind.
“Let him run.” Stroud’s words slicked over him like ice.
His party was only twenty feet away. A few more seconds, a few more running steps.
He saw the wide eyes of one of the marines as he looked over Phin’s shoulder. Heard the crack from behind. Felt the impact in his leg, the pain exploding like a cannonball as flesh ripped away.
A scream wrenched its way from his throat. He tried to catch himself, to put his weight on his good leg so he could keep moving. But he slipped, his boots finding no purchase on the spray-soaked deck that even then pitched on another swell. Was anyone steering the brig through the rising waves?
Lightning flashed again. Brilliant, blinding. Thunder rolled through the heavens and from the guns.
His pistol fell from his hand as he crashed into the rail. His fingers curled around the wood. The ship rose again, forcing him to hold on or be sent tumbling still more.
His leg throbbed in time to the night. Was it his vision that went blurry, or just the darkness and ocean’s spray that made it seem so?
Another bullet tore into the rail, inches from his fingers, and he jerked away. Tried to put weight on his injured leg.
Stars burst before his eyes as he buckled. Dizzy, so dizzy. He couldn’t tell where the water came from, or where the wood under his feet had gone. Blackness seemed to wait everywhere when those stars faded.