The sharp whistle piercing the sky spurred Tristram to move. He dove to the side, ducking his head as the stray cannonball whizzed by. “Bloody pirates,” he muttered as the iron ball exploded into the wall of brick behind him. The captain pulled himself to his feet, turning his attention to his cowering comrades shivering behind the crumbling wall. “Don’t just sit there. John. Bootleg. Get over here!”

The pair’s shoulders slumped as they turned to their captain. The man on the left, a wiry fellow with the overbite of a walrus, slid back against the wall; his index finger crossing over his chest.

“The hell ye doin, John?” his mate screamed, slapping the man’s hand away.

The crack of gunfire sent the two scrambling to the floor, their backs pressed as close as possible to the wall. “More like protectin’ yer noggin.”

“Quit yer cowering!” Tristram screamed, stamping his foot in protest. “On your feet, sailors! That’s an order!”

“Yes, sir!” The pair saluted, leaping to attention. Their backs straightened to a board, their legs locking in place beneath them. They stood firm as a statue. The slightest gust of the wind wouldn’t knock the pair over.

The screaming wail of iron broke the pair’s posture. Their faces whitened to a sheet. The two ducked to the knees, shivering in fright as prayers fled their lips.

“Bloody imbeciles,” Tristram moaned, wiping the stream of sweet and rain from his brow. The glint of brass caught the captain’s attention. He lowered himself to the weapon, prying it from the bloodied fingers holding it captive. The captain wiped the pistol against the leg of his pants, polishing the maroon stains from the metal before studying its features.

Etched plates of brass adorned the handle, giving the weapon a balanced grip. Vines of silver grew from the trigger, leading the eyes to the patinated buds of roses intertwining the barrel. A flash of gold kissed the hammer, still cocked back in anticipation of firing. It was heavier than his old one, but more brilliant in presentation. It will have to do. He pocketed it neatly in his belt, gently lowering the hammer closed as it slid into place.

Tristram lifted himself upright, forcing a scowl to his face before turning to command. “To your feet! At my side! Now!”

“Aye!” Bootleg nodded. Without hesitation, his paw gripped John’s, pulling the lanky fellow to his feet. The bumbling idiots bounded forward, sprinting in answer to their captain’s call.

“Playtime is over, boys. Lucky is en route to the Pride. He will man the guns, drawing the fire away from the town. If we’re lucky, it will force a retreat.”

“Aye? What ya need from us?”

“We buy him time. We’re going to pull those goons from the port so he can board.”

“How do you suppose we do that?” John quizzed with a stutter.

“You two remember Barbaso?”

“Sir, you can’t be serious.” Bootleg’s brow narrowed, his jaw falling to the side as his tongue tapped the roof of his teeth. “You really think that’ll work?”

“Not at all. But it’s the best shot we’ve got.”