“If we did jump in to swim, they would come after us,” I say.

“Oui.”

“And not to save us.”

A wry smile. “Non, crécerelle. Not to save us, I fear.”

“Norrington is making certain you do not escape this fate. Being set adrift in the ocean.”

“It is a convenient way to rid himself of an inconvenient man, non? I am most inconvenient. A pirate who may be innocent of the charges, even if his shipmates were not, as I was only the ship’s doctor. A man of color, which should make it easy to cast me in the role of brigand, but also French, which is inconvenient. I am also of noble birth, which is very inconvenient.”

“You are not an unknown ship’s hand he might easily see hanged, so he is trying to kill you another way. Ambushed by brigands on a dark road. Or disappearing along with your ship.”

“I am still not entirely convinced the men in the lane wanted me dead,” he says. “Without a doubt, this is a much more convenient fate, and Norrington is ensuring I do not escape it.”

I won’t point out that he’s wrong about the intentions of those men in the lane—I have watched him die too often to question it. At least now he understands that Norrington will not settle for merely arresting him. He wants him dead. Dead not for piracy but for kindness—for helping those who helped him.

Norrington is sentencing Nicolas to a fate worse than hanging. To being adrift at sea until he perishes, alone and helpless. The same way a fourteen-year-old boy died beneath our very feet. A boy who committed no crime at all.

Rage fills me, and I stare at that wigged man as if I could shoot bullets from my eyes. Then I stop, and my gaze drops over the side of the boat.

“Those cannons,” I say. “Do they still fire?”

“I believe so, but . . .” Nicolas trails off and then breaks into a grin. “Why, crécerelle, I do believe I love you. I hope you are suggesting what you seem to be suggesting.”

“We need to get rid of Norrington’s boat if we wish to escape.”

“We do indeed. Yes, the cannon should work, and better yet, I know how to fire it.” He reaches for my hand. “Come. Let us send the lord a message of our own.”

Nicolas readies the rear cannon as Andrés bounces with glee. I do not ask whether these could be the men who murdered him. That will come later. Let him have his delight at this moment, which I heartily endorse.

We raced off the deck as quickly as we could move with the lurching ship. If Norrington has any inkling that we were not fleeing, we see no sign of that. His boat remains to the port side of the stern, his men steering and sailing to keep it there.