“A ghost song!” shrieked some of those nearest him.
Barbados shuddered. “There will be ghosts aplenty if this nonsense does not stop!” he declared, whipping his cutlass out of his belt. “It was no ghost singing. A ghost would have a more perfect voice. If I hear it again—”
He heard it again. It seemed to come from the sails above, from the waves overside, from the cabins below.
“Dios!” Barbados swore. “By my naked blade—”
“It is a ghost song!” Sanchez whimpered again.
Barbados whirled upon him, but the lieutenant dodged the blow that would have hurled him senseless to the deck. The pirate chief, breathing heavily, looked around at his men. Terror already had claimed some of them.
“It is a trick of some scurvy knave I’ll split in twain!” he declared. “On with your work!”
The men shivered, but again bent to their tasks. Barbados walked to the rail and stood looking down at the dark water, and then toward the land, where the dawn was almost due. Through the darkness and up to him slipped one of the pirate crew.
“Master!” he whispered.
“To your work, hound of hell!”