Here and there, he spotted men he knew—pirates, smugglers—lurking at the edges of the crowd. Horror etched their faces as they watched their own futures sway upon the gallows beam.

Mothers stood with sons clutching their skirts, forcing young eyes to endure the grotesque lesson unfolding before them.

So be it.

At least his death would serve some purpose.

“God’s curse upon you, pirate dog!” a man shouted from the crowd.

“Look at him,” another sneered. “He don’t look so fierce now.”

Laughter rippled through the square, low and ugly.

“Let ’im be,” a woman called out. “Perhaps ’e’ll pray an’ find mercy wit’ God.”

Amos drew another deep breath and lifted his gaze beyond the mob. For a heartbeat, his vision blurred—then sharpened. Toward the back of the square stood a woman cloaked in purple silk. The richness of the fabric set her apart from the drab wool and linen of the rabble. A lady of means, no doubt. Strands of dark hair escaped the hood of her cape, but it was her eyes—clear, bright, green as emeralds—that held him fast.

For the briefest instant, their gazes locked.

Then she turned away, swallowed by the crowd.

Before he could wonder further, a commanding voice cut through the square.

“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!”

The provost marshal rose, parchment clenched in his fist. “All manner of persons here assembled are commanded to keep silence upon pain of imprisonment, whilst His Majesty’s justice is made known.”

The chatter ebbed, replaced by a hush heavy with expectation.

The marshal—his curled white wig perched slightly askew—unrolled the parchment. Its edges were stiff with salt and age, the ink faded but still sharp enough to condemn. He lifted his chin and read aloud.

“This man before you, Captain Amos Carlton, stands convicted by lawful judgment by the Vice-Admiralty Court of the Bahamas for crimes committed upon the high seas. Crimes perpetrated upon divers dates and places unknown to His Majesty’s peace—the felonious and piratical seizing, boarding, and plundering of vessels belonging to His Majesty’s subjects and others in amity with the Crown.”

Memories surged unbidden. Amos felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. Aye—he had done all that, and more. Done it boldly. Wonderfully. In command of a loyal crew and in defiance of every chain meant to bind him.

“He smiles!” someone shouted. “He’s proud o’ what ’e done!”

“Strut no more, sea-rat!”

The provost raised a gloved hand for silence and cast Amos a look of pure disdain. A fly settled on the marshal’s wig. He swatted it away irritably and resumed.

“That he did bear arms in defiance of the King’s authority, consort with known pirates and sea-robbers, and live as an enemy to all lawful trade and navigation.”

“A bold pirate, says I,” a voice muttered. “He sailed free once.”

Amos scanned the crowd again, a flicker of surprise stirring his chest. Perhaps there was a friendly soul among them after all. Rafe? The distinct wavy black hair of his quartermaster sprang from beneath a farmer’s hat shoved low. But the man ducked into the crowd and disappeared.

Regardless, hearing Amos’s life recited in such cold, official tones painted him as something far darker than he’d ever imagined himself to be.

The provost’s voice rang out once more. “That he did thereby commit the crime of Piracy, as defined by the laws of England and the Acts of Parliament, and so rendered himself hostis humani generis—an enemy to all mankind.”

Enemy to all mankind?

Preposterous. He might concede himself an enemy of English trade—and certainly of the Royal Navy—but all humanity?

A murmur rippled through the crowd, swelling like a tide.

“The sentence of the Court is this—”

Amos swallowed hard.

“That you, Amos Carlton, be hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may God Almighty have mercy upon your soul.”

The provost lowered the parchment. “This sentence is carried out by order of His Excellency the Governor, in the name of King George, whom may God preserve.”

For an instant, Amos’s knees threatened to give way. He locked them in place by sheer will. He would not go out a coward.

The square erupted—cheers bursting forth like a volcanic blast. Fists punched the air. A few women covered their mouths in horror, while others stood rigid and silent, faces carved from stone. Amos’s blood turned to ice.

A sudden gust of wind set the noose swaying, the rope creaking softly, dancing before him, as though mocking his resolve.

At a nod from the provost, the chaplain stepped forward. His voice was gentle, pleading. “My son, will you repent of your evil ways and entreat the Lord for His favor? Perhaps He will yet grant you entrance into Heaven.”

Amos had once claimed Christ as his Savior. Once walked the path laid out by his family by Scripture and expectation. But the call of freedom—insistent, intoxicating—had drawn him away, not in open rebellion at first, but in small steps, until he stood far from where he’d begun.

How could he now plead before a God he had turned his back upon?

“Nay, reverend,” he said quietly. “’Tis too late for me.”

“It is never too late,” the chaplain urged. “God’s mercy has no bounds.”

“For some,” Amos replied. “Not for me.”

“Confess and beg mercy, if there’s any left for you!” a voice shouted from the crowd.

“Hell’s waitin’ fer ye!”

“Let the noose be ’is judge!”

Sorrow darkened the chaplain’s eyes as he stepped back.

Amos’s breath came fast and shallow. His pulse thundered in his ears. So this was how it ended. At two and twenty. Barely lived. The whereabouts of the Ring of Solomon forever sealed within him. And with it, his dreams of legacy—his name etched into history, whispered in taverns, his life held up as proof that a man might live by his own rules—evaporated like mist.

The executioner stepped forward, his heavy boots shuddering the platform. He lifted the noose and slipped it over Amos’s head.

A vision of his parents rose unbidden. Would they grieve him? Or would relief soften their sorrow, knowing the shame he carried would die with him? Somewhere deep within, a child’s longing stirred—one last moment to beg forgiveness. One last chance to say I am sorry.

The executioner tightened the rope. The coarse hemp bit into Amos’s neck, scratching, burning.

The world tilted. The sky wheeled overhead.

The man stepped away.

“Mind the drop, lad!” someone jeered.

Seconds stretched into eternity. The platform creaked beneath Amos’s feet. The crowd fell eerily silent.

God… help me.

“Halt there!”

The shout cracked through the square like a musket shot. A soldier shoved his way through the crowd, parchment raised high. “Make way! Make way!”

He reached the platform and thrust the document into the provost marshal’s hands.

The words echoed inside Amos’s skull. Had he already crossed the veil? Was this some cruel mercy of heaven—denial at the gate?