three: heart of oak
James' wig has caught on a mast; he would give thought to retrieving it were not his breeches and his shoes soaked straight through. His tricorne has long since disappeared into the waves buffetting the Dauntless, the wind lifting his coattails.
When the storm hit his men looked to him for guidance: now, they scramble and scurry like aimless bees, tossing equipment overboard and themselves after. Still James shouts directions into the spray, pull by God, pull; wrests the helm from a lieutenant and tries to steer towards land. He can see nothing but darkness all around, nothing but the cold funereal gloom of the night sky.
When he wakes he is in a strange house in Port Royal, bruised and battered, ache sharp in his chest and dull in his head. A writ lies on the table beside his uniform, and the curtains are drawn.
"Where are my men?" he asks. He receives no answer.