“Foul bastard!” shouted another man, a citizen. “You raided the ship Annabelle Lee, causing her to sink. You butchered her crew.”

“I did no such thing!”

“You even murdered the young and innocent Victoria Wyeth and her maid!”

“What?” The single word didn’t explode from his mouth—it was a whisper of disbelief.

They were lying. What words had come out of the man’s mouth were so abominable they couldn’t be true.

“No!” he cried, an eruption of horrified protest. “What are you talking about? Victoria Wyeth was on no ship. She is home, certainly—she is home in bed, sleeping.”

“Victoria Wyeth was on the Annabelle Lee, heading north to Virginia at her father’s command—to escape the likes of you,” the lieutenant informed him.

“And you did draw her out and murder her, in cold blood,” another cried.

He shook his head. “This is not true. Victoria is not dead. She cannot be dead.”

“You were seen,” said the lieutenant. “Your ship was seen, blasting cannon at the merchantman. You lured the ship to the reef, and proceeded to pummel her with deadly powder, and then went aboard the dying vessel to cut down and kill all aboard.”

“No! Never, never! I love Victoria!” he said.

“You loved her, you scurvy bastard, and you couldn’t have her, so you killed her,” the lieutenant said scathingly.

Bartholomew still couldn’t understand the words that were being said. He couldn’t comprehend them. Because it couldn’t be true.

And if she was dead…

Nothing else mattered.

But she couldn’t be dead. Not Victoria, with her laughter, with her spirit, with her joy and kindness, and absolute beauty in person and in soul.

“You were witnessed, and all know that you are a pirate, Bartholomew Miller,” the lieutenant said. “And according to our law, you will now be hanged by the neck until dead.”

He didn’t care. He didn’t care what happened to him.

But, Victoria…

And the accusation that he had killed her? Killed his love?

“Back away!” he warned, swinging his sword. “If what you say is true, if Victoria Wyeth is dead, then gladly will I lay down my life, for it is worthless if she is no longer in this world. But it is a lie, a foul lie. I killed no one, and damn you all and the liar who said it. I was never a murderous pirate. I served king and country, and then the ideal of this country, and I fought the enemies of my state at all times. To murder any woman would be abhorrent to me—to injure a hair on the head of Victoria Wyeth would be anathema, and I am innocent of such a charge.”

“Seize him!” the lieutenant ordered.

There were many after him—a good two dozen. But there was something in him that night. He fought like a caged beast, which, in truth, was what he was. Men fell back before him. He caught the tip of one fellow’s nose with so smooth a slice that the man bled like a pig before crying out that he had been injured.

Many another bore a slice, but he had no desire to kill.

No desire to live.

He had a chance to make a clean strike and kill the lieutenant. He watched the man step back in fear.

He lowered his sword.

“Tell me—is it true? Is Victoria Wyeth dead?” he asked quietly.

“Indeed,” the lieutenant said quietly. “Your ship was seen. A witness cries against you, one who fled in terror for his own life.”

“The witness lies,” Bartholomew said.

“You are condemned,” the lieutenant told him.

“Then I will go to my death,” Bartholomew said.

None of them dared go near him.

He shook his head, his heart dead already. He dropped his sword and offered his hands to be bound behind his back.

Finally a man stepped forward, nervously trying to tie the rope. He did the job badly. It didn’t matter. Bartholomew intended to make no fight.

He left his room without a backward glance. He was led down the stairs and out to the street, and now, despite the late hour, there were people everywhere, all crying out against him, hurling bad tomatoes and whatever else lay in the road. He felt nothing.

They walked, in the pale glimmer of the moon to the hanging tree. And there he was prodded up on a box, and the lieutenant was taxed with the job of offering him a hood and setting the rope around his neck.

He declined the hood.

“Have you last words?” the lieutenant asked, his voice shaking.

“Indeed! I am innocent of this charge. I was nowhere near the reef, rather on a fishing expedition with Captain Craig Beckett, and when he returns, you will know the truth of my words. I have always shown mercy to my enemies, I have served all well with passion. I loved Victoria Wyeth with every breath in my body. I have but one question. Who accused me?”

Nervous silence greeted his words.

“I have the right to know before I die! Who accused me of this foul crime?”

“Eli Smith,” the lieutenant said.

“Then I hope that he meets his just end—I hope that the truth comes out. I hope that he comes to this hanging tree himself, but that, when he dies, he finds no reward, but rather that he rots in hell for eternity. For myself, all that I loved in life is gone, and therefore I go willingly to meet her. I still stand before you an honest man who loved deeply, but did no ill to anyone in that love!”

He was startled to hear a woman’s tears from the crowd.

There was a murmur of protest.

“As per the law and the task with which I am charged!” the lieutenant cried out, and he kicked the box away.

Dying was quite bizarre, and as he had felt nothing since learning Victoria was dead, he was only vaguely aware of the pain.

His neck did not break.

He was suffocated slowly. He tried hard to die with dignity, but he was aware that his body betrayed him, that his limbs twitched and jerked.

Slowly, too slowly, the blackness began to overwhelm him.

This was death…

Suddenly, he was no longer the man swinging from the tree. He was above it all, watching.

Watching as his limbs ceased to twitch.

Watching as he hung limp in death.

Someone walked up to him and stood on the block, and placed their fingers against his throat. “Is there a physician?” he cried.

There was a doctor in the crowd. He came forward and placed his ear to Bartholomew’s chest, and waited.

Someone brought a mirror; it was set before his parted lips.

“He is dead—it is done. So die all pirates!” the lieutenant. He tried to cry out the words with conviction and assurance. His voice squeaked.

Bartholomew felt as if he was standing behind the crowd, watching.

As he watched, he felt a hand slip into his.

He turned.

Victoria was there. Her beautiful eyes were filled with sadness. She touched his cheek. They were together but invisible to the others. “My love. My poor, dear love,” she whispered. “I tried…I tried to warn you.”

He stroked her cheek in return. “But you are here. I prefer death with you to any life without you.” he said.

“We are here, together,” she said.

“Who did this to you?” he asked her.

“Smith,” she said, as if even the saying of the name was loathsome. “Smith! He wanted to take me. He meant to kill everyone on the ship and take me with him. I refused to go with him. I could not! My skin crawled at the thought of it. He said that I could die or have him, and I said that I preferred death. And he said that I was hypnotized by evil—you. He said that we would both pay. And he put his hands around my neck, and strangled me…and I died, and yet I stayed. I was on his ship when it returned, and I heard him shouting that my ship had gone down and that…you had done it.” She began to weep with no tears. “My father heard the words and went mad. He took his pistol, set it in his mouth, fired it and died on the spot.”

“I am so sorry, my poor, dear love.”

“Smith must be made to pay for his crime,” she whispered.

“Yes, Smith must pay. And he will do so,” Bartholomew said.

And so they remained, hand in hand, as the days passed by.