The swift sea wind brought the smell of blood and smoke to his nostrils as he knelt still and silent in the rigging. High above the carnage, he looked down at the Castillian officers, a sneer growing on his lips. Dirty, stinkin' rotwater scum, he thought to himself as he watched them move across the deck of the ship. A lucky shot was all it took. That's it, just one lucky shot.

He carefully peered over his right shoulder, where he saw the Castillian ship tied tight to the starboard side. He heard himself growl as he remembered them washing over the side, brandishing their steel, knowing they outnumbered the pirates five to one. If Randall had known his captain would be such a coward, if he knew he would surrender at the first hint of a defeat, he would have cut the man's throat himself.

But surrender they did, and here he was, looking down from the rigging at the proud Castillians who had captured The Morning Glory. He saw his shipmates below him, all lined up in irons and ready to be led to the brig. Randall looked at the odds. There were at least twenty men below him. He might survive a moment or two before they killed him, but that might give him a chance to throw a sword - or even a key, if he was lucky - to his captured brothers before they put a bullet in his head.

And if I was standing there, he thought, I'd be tellin' me grandkids of the man who leapt from the riggin' and saved me life. Either they find me up here and I die like a stuck pig, or I. Randall took the pistol from his belt and wrapped a line around his arm. "Dyin's the easy part," he said. Then, he pushed off the yardarm and screamed. The look in their faces alone was worth it.