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Bartholomew Miller was with me when the crime took place.”
    â€œNo, that’s not true,” Eli Smith cried out, but he was so taken by surprise that his words tumbled out oddly. Then he found his voice. “No, no, this is not true. You—defend him falsely. And it is too late—he is dead. Hanged by the neck, and dead as a pirate should be dead.”
    Craig Beckett stood straight and slowly smiled a smile that was not a smile at all.
    â€œThere were others with me, Smith. Other good men of this town. Honest men, who know that you killed the people aboard the Annabelle Lee , you killed Victoria Wyeth because you could not have her—she truly loved another. And you brought about the execution of a good man who caused no ill to any other in a heinous manner. You, sir, deserve to die! But it will be just and right—you will be condemned by a jury of your peers.”
    Eli Smith fought. He fought wildly. He screamed, he cried out, and he was finally subdued and caught between the two burly men who had taken him. He was dragged down the street—dragged, for he fell limp between his attackers—and continued to scream and cry and protest.
    Bartholomew, with Victoria’s hand in his, followed.
    Eli Smith was actually given a trial. But he had no witnesses in his defense—his crew were rounded up by the squadron and brought in for trial, as well. Desperate to save their own lives, his own men spoke against him. Bartholomew was glad to see that even the justice of Commodore David Porter was not so harsh as to have the young cook’s helper charged with murder, but most of the other men, no matter how they maligned their captain, would not be spared the rope.
    The trial came to a conclusion, with Beckett and many another good man speaking in defense of Bartholomew.
    The time and date for the execution were set, and it came about.
    Eli Smith was dragged to the hanging tree.
    The man did not want to die.
    As all others, he was given his chance to speak.
    Craig Beckett was there, and Eli Smith pointed at him. “I curse you, Beckett! I curse you, and all your heirs! Time will come and time will tell, and by all that is holy and unholy, I swear that you will know the pain I suffer now! I curse you. I curse you. I curse you! May all the demons of hell curse you and all your issue, and their issue, until time is no more!”
    Beckett stood watching him. “It is you who are cursed, man. It is you who murdered an innocent young woman, and all aboard her ship. You brought about the death of an innocent man. The death of Victor Wyatt also weighs on your soul, for he died of the pain you caused. You, sir, will rot in hell.”
    â€œI punished those who sinned! I did no more!” Eli Smith called out. “You are cursed, sir! Whatever time it may take, I will see that you and yours rot in hell! Cursed—”
    The hangman had tired of the tirade.
    He kicked out the platform upon which the condemned man stood, and Eli Smith’s words were cut off cleanly.
    Bartholomew listened to the sound of the rope scraping against the tree, and he heard the sound of the dead man swinging to and fro, to and fro.
    Then, they saw Eli Smith drop, in spectral form, from the swaying body. He stared at himself. And he began to curse again, damning Beckett—and damning him.
    He turned, and he saw Bartholomew, and Victoria holding his hand.
    He pointed at Bartholomew. “Bastard, you both deserved to die!” he shouted out.
    Bartholomew just stared at him, praying that he was not about to spend eternity roaming the streets of Key West with this man.
    But then, there seemed to be an eruption from the ground. None of the living saw it, but Victoria did, as did Eli Smith. He frowned, staring.
    Bartholomew grasped Victoria’s hand, and pulled her back, and they saw a dark, oozing blackness arise out of the ground. It was like a sea of swirling, spiraling tar, thick and viscous. It rose as