Chapter 3: Sweating gunpowder

The storm was battering the Albatros with unrelenting violence, the dark sky merging with the turbulent sea. The cannons, secured with thick ropes, remained firm under the constant vigilance of Sean Malley, the chief gunner. The Irishman, his face partially covered by ancient burn scars, patrolled the deck in constant rounds, checking the rigging and murmuring powder formulas to himself to keep his mind stable.

Pierre Lenoir was at the helm. He had tied his waist to the structure to avoid being swept away by the force of the wind. His body clung to the wheel like a seaweed to a rock, guiding the ship with a precision that was almost prophetic. He knew that you couldn't tame a storm, only negotiate with it.

Diego headed to the cells to see the prisoners. He found several of them seated, with their chains loosened so they could hold on better and avoid injuries. However, one of them couldn't stay stable: Rodrigo, unconscious, rolled from side to side with each jolt of the ship, banging against the benches and bars.

The Cartagenero didn't find the keys on the wall. In an agile move, when the Andalusian fell near the bars, he grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him towards himself, holding him tight. The wood creaked as if it was about to break, but the Albatros' carpenter would already be taking care of repairing masts and decks. For now, his mission was to protect that man.

In his quarters, the captain was trying to plot evasion routes that the tide and wind refused to respect. It was then that a loose pulley exploded against one of the windows of the quarters, shattering it. The decision was immediate. He went out. As he opened the hatch that led to the deck, he received a blast of icy water in the face, a mix of sweet rain and Caribbean salt. In front of him, his bosun Miguel dominated the deck with an imposing shout:

—The ring of the lateen sail has broken!

Without thinking, Tomás threw himself towards the base of the mizzen mast. By his side, like a faithful shadow among the rigging, Abasi Mensah moved. The African, an expert in hand-to-hand combat, had earned a place on the Albatros. Under a friendlier sky, he was a silent helper in sail maneuvers, but in the midst of chaos, he transformed into a human anchor.

Both climbed the mast as if the storm didn't exist. Tomás' hands slipped over the wet rope, his muscles tense under the drenched clothing. The fabric clung to his body, revealing each contour as he ascended, splashed with water and foam. Abasi climbed with feline fluidity a few meters below, attentive to any failure of his companion.

They reached the upper sail, where one of the rings had broken. Tomás held on with his teeth clenched and began to secure it with a rope, while his friend stabilized the structure from another angle. The teamwork was impeccable, almost choreographed.

Just as Tomás made the final knot, an unexpected gust of wind hit him...