Rourke wasn’t willing to concede. “The hatch covers might be loose, making her take on water.”
John grinned, his teeth white in the gleam of the lantern. No words needed to be exchanged for Rourke to know that his friend also dreamed of treasure. Few Negroes could ever hope to gain wealth. Even after emancipation, only the most menial jobs were open to them. Across the Caribbean, slavery and the lack of opportunity had driven many to piracy, including the infamous Black Caesar. Though Negroes were prized as divers, most wreckers paid them a pittance. Rourke paid each man according to his skill and effort, not the color of his skin.
Some in Key West, like Charles Benjamin, suggested a Negro hadn’t the wits to serve as mate, but Rourke wouldn’t have any other man. John knew these waters. He could read the skies, and he wasn’t afraid to dive wrecks. Once Rourke stepped down from captaining his ship, John would make a fine master.
Rourke squinted into the wind. Though he’d anchored the Windsprite in a sheltered cove, the swirling tempest whipped even the shallows into peaks. This was shaping up to be the storm of the season.
“She be goin’ down,” John said. As if in answer, the schooner lurched oddly. “She hit da reef.” If she wasn’t taking on water before, she would be now.
Rourke held his breath and watched. “I think she’s still moving.”
John shook his head.
Rourke couldn’t give up hope. He peered through the glass. The schooner’s deck and cabin lights still bobbed forward. Darkness would soon swallow all but those lights. If the reef got her, even the lights would vanish. “We’d best lend assistance. On that heading, she’ll only get in worse trouble.”
“All hands on deck!” John rubbed his hands together. “We be gettin’ fed tonight.”
Fed. The distasteful term had circulated aboard Rourke’s ship for years. When a vessel foundered and broke up, Rourke and his men stripped the cargo and rigging from its bones and ferried off any survivors.
Please, Lord, let them all live.
Rourke swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. With every passing year it got harder to witness the drownings, especially the children. No child should die before his time, and drowning was the worst death of all. To gasp for air and draw in only water. He shuddered as the pale form of a motionless boy flashed through his mind. Little Charlie Benjamin.
Rourke, you’re getting soft. Maybe it was time to retire. Just one big salvage award and he would. Maybe this would be the one.
He scanned the charcoal-gray horizon for other wreckers.
“We be alone,” John confirmed.
He was right. Rourke couldn’t spot a single twinkle of light or splotch of black that marked a wrecker in pursuit. He lowered the spyglass. If the schooner wrecked, he’d be wreck master. He would garner the largest share of the prize in wreckers’ court. He gripped the gunwale as his pulse pounded.
His crew prepared to haul anchor and set sail. The sloop rocked wildly despite its sheltered anchorage. After all these years afloat, Rourke barely noticed it, but the new man, Tom Worthington, clung to the gunwale as he inched his way aft.
“Lights out, Captain?” Tom called out with eager anticipation.
“No!” Rourke barked. “We don’t do things that way on this ship.”
Some masters and ship owners claimed wreckers used lights, or lack of them, to lure vessels into danger. That might have been true in the lawless era two decades ago. But times had changed, and every wrecker was now licensed and had to abide by the rules. Break them, and the judge would yank that license and leave a man to fishing and sponging to eke out an existence. Poor exchange for the chance at wealth.
“Flash the danger warning,” he commanded. “We’ll caution the schooner to change course and steer clear of the reef.” It might be too late, but he had to try.
Tom shouted out, “Aye, aye, Captain,” and proceeded to obey orders.
Rourke smiled at the young man’s eagerness. Soon enough Tom would learn that a wrecked ship brought tragedy and heartache, not just adventure and riches.
“Repeat until they acknowledge the signal,” he said before heading below deck.
If the schooner didn’t heed his warning, he’d have a long night ahead of him. Best prepare for survivors.
Elizabeth took deep breaths to still her pounding heart. The cabin was situated topside aft. A wet cabin floor did not mean the ship was sinking, merely that the seams weren’t well fitted or caulked. Yet the creaking and grinding of the hull did not sound normal. She knew too well the hazards of the Florida Straits. Wreckers patrolled these waters for a reason. Ships frequently ran aground on the reef. Sometimes people died. She leaned against the cabin door and braced herself as the vessel pitched again.