The prisoners were goaded at gun- or swordpoint at least twenty yards inland, past the overwash barrow full of wiregrass and deep, loose sand littered with feathers and shells.

"Oim Oirish!" one of the captives plaintively declared.

"All same, aussi," Balfa told him with almost a sympathetic air. "Dem bebes on de schooner, dey'd leave you nozzing, dem, 'cause dey all jus' crazy mean, but me, Boudreaux Balfa, I a sailor like you, I never let it be said I'm heartless, comprendre? So I give you a slim chance, me. Fetch it out de boat, men. You live, you remember, hein?"

Two crewmen trundled up a ten-gallon wooden barrico. Another slung a worn leather bag across the sand to land at their feet.

"Bonne chance, chers!" Balfa wished them all with a wide smile and a hearty laugh. "You stand where you are, now, 'til we get beyond de surf," he cautioned, wagging a finger in warning, "or we jus' have t'shoot, us. Adieu. Allez vite!"

As the pirates scrambled to shove off and leap into their boat, one of the captives dared kneel by the leather sack and peer inside it. He wonderingly drew out a rusting old kitchen knife, paper, and…

"Crikey, 'tis a quizzin' glass, and a tinder-box, too. We can light a fire, does a ship ever pass!" he whispered in surprise.

"Sweet merciful Jaysus in Heaven!" the Irish captive cried in sudden glee as he swiped his fingers over a damp spot on the barrico and sniffed at it. " 'Tis rum, by God! Ten bloody gallon o' rum!"

"What the Devil?" the oldest sailor puzzled, scratching at his grizzled scalp. He almost felt a twinge of hope, of gratitude to that…

The shot was inaudible over the loud swashing and raling of the surf, the wind that flapped their clothing, and the mewing cries of the seabirds that nested on the islet, flushed a'wing by their presence.