The protesting, groaning creaks of the old timber threatening to dismantle set the jumpy crew on edge as the ship slid soundlessly through the sound swallowing fog.

A low whistle broke through the silence, rising to a higher pitch towards the end. A signal from the crow's nest, high up and unseen in the heavy fog. Visibility was limited to less than half a dozen metres and yet the lookout had eyes sharp enough to let him see as if it were the clearest day.

The haunting whistle sounded again; this time lowering in pitch at the end. Portside. Raise colours. Prepare cannons. All the awaiting crew could see was the all-encompassing fog.

A short, shrill note and the fire of cannonade filled the eerie silence. Cutlass sliced through the air with deadly accuracy.

A shriek of surrender, and it was over.

The ship held a disappointing haul. The captain refused to allow his crew to take food or water on basic principle. A couple of kegs of gunpowder were taken, along with a handful of swords and a ransom prisoner they found unconscious in the half flooded brig.