In our solitude, the Surgeon and Keith tended to Thorne's wound, while the Reverend tended our souls. The Reverend had initially sunk back into himself, clutching his chest, but then something seemed to awake in him and he put himself back to the task. I admired how they kept their own spirits up while focusing on their work. I was eager for my father to burst upon us, free us from our prison, and complete this admirable trio. But then I remembered that he was gone, and a fresh wave of grief suffocated me.

As the danger of the moment wore off, the crew began to whisper about the pirate captain whose flag we now sailed under. They all shared, in hushed tones, the rumors they had heard. Keith said that he had blockaded an entire city port with just one ship, another related how he had the audacity to steal money from the King, and one said that he was an undead spirit - rejected by Davy Jones himself. The Reverend shared the most peculiar story though; he said the Captain never told a lie.

In hindsight this talk didn't help our situation, it just produced a greater aura around our captor, and tempted us to admire a devil. However, the fanciful stories did provide a much-appreciated distraction from our dismal situation. The stories particularly dulled the pangs of hunger. It also yielded some facts that the crew had gleaned from the pirates, and what they had learned while in port. The pirates' ship was named Fancy Revenge, the Crown had placed a bounty on their heads for nearly a decade, and they were rumored to be the richest men in the West Indies. During a lull in the murmuring, I inquired into Thorne's injury.

"I'm fine, no thanks to you," he barked, "Now that you have an iron cage and what's left of the crew to protect you, you find it necessary to defend yourself."

"At least you have less holes than the ship," Keith quipped. Thorne shot him a deadly look.

"He wanted to fight," the Reverend said, "but I stopped him."

The crew turned to look at him.

He continued, "Captain Johnson gave Nathan his orders, and he obeyed. He saved my life from that wretched, wood-toothed pirate. Besides, the boy just lost his father, the same as we have all lost friends, so please show him some grace. Stop shoveling your ill fortune onto him."

Thorne gave the Reverend a cutting look, but only to save face. As I watched him, Thorne appeared humbled by the holy man's reprimand. I appreciated the Reverend's constant defense and it seemed to allay the scorn of the crew, but I knew that I had let the ship down and, worse, my father.

I knew in my head that my father, Captain Brett Johnson, was dead. But, now that the excitement of immediate danger was gone, that knowledge seeped into my heart. I felt an ocean of tears welling up inside of me, but didn't dare shed them. All that was good and pleasurable in the world seemed a knave and a lie.

The Surgeon saw that I was distraught. Having a break from tending Thorne, he turned his attention to me.

"I'm sorry that I've neglected you. Are you hurt?" he asked.

I shook my head, avoiding looking at him. He began an examination any way, and I didn't resist. He saw the cuts across my jacket where the wood-toothed pirate had slashed. He felt underneath my jacket for any blood, and I felt his warm hand across my heart. I felt a moment of relief and security, but it quickly turned to bitterness and I brushed him off. I increasingly didn't want any company. He examined his hand for blood, and while he did not find any my heart still felt cold and bloodless.

"Whatever is in your jacket pocket seems to have saved you," he said, and then left me alone to my thoughts.

Time dragged on. My soul itched intolerably from the crammed space, and the other sailors seemed distraught too at their own misfortunes. The pirates found the fresh beer stores as the sun had begun to set - nearly a whole day after they first attacked - and they began to carouse. Some of the crew started to fall asleep despite their hungry bellies. Keith made a joke about how they shouldn't have eradicated all the rats before leaving port.

I laid against the hull of the ship trying to find some sort of respite from consciousness. I thought about my father and what I could have done to save him, and why I was spared while he perished. A wicked, but inevitable, emotional practice I now know. I tried to recall the few memories I had of England. I tried to hold off the memories of our time in the West Indies. I remembered the item that lay in my jacket pocket and thought about examining it, but elected to try resting instead. I slept fitfully as my body craved sleep, but my mind screamed to make sense of it all. Then a small noise caught my ear.

I opened my eyes and saw everyone asleep, except the Reverend. He was slowly and patiently reaching through the bars for a wooden table. With his long arms he had just enough reach to grab it. Then over the next several minutes he used the ocean's sounds and the ship's lurches to pull the table closer to the cell without the pirate crew noticing. I saw that the pistol that the pirate had thrown was on this table, and I thought that the Reverend was showing uncommon shrewdness and valor. As I continued watching, he pulled a roll of papers from his coat. He stuffed the items inside a drawer, and then gave the table a push in order to put it out of his reach. The push launched the pistol off the table and onto the floor behind some barrels. My hope fell into the pit of my stomach.

I laid there in astonishment, totally bewildered by his actions.

"Sir, what was that?" I asked.

He whirled around in surprise. He gestured for me to stay silent, and then looked around to see if anyone else had seen us: no one had.

"Your father charged me to protect those letters with my life and..." he trailed off before starting up again, "They are worth more than this ship. No one can know about them, especially not the pirates. They are meant for a man named Jacob."