It slid alongside us, its crew bearing plastic rifles, its big blue light clicking on its mast. The white-hulled ship had not been put off by the pox flag we flew, crossed yellow bones on a field of red. John had hoisted the flag from a sea rover’s hope chest for safe passage, colorful tokens of contagious diseases and slippery allegiances. The white-hulled ship was not put off by the sheriff’s corpse Lonny and Ira heaved over the stern into its path, the sheriff’s bloated face painted the pox-mark red. The sheriff’s boots filled with water so that he stood in our slow wake, rolling and bouncing behind us like a toy you cannot tip over. The white-hulled ship was not put off by John waving it away with his muleskin cloak from where the ship was about to slice across the top of his net. John’s hands trembled when he saw it happen. Just before we were boarded John slung the two men in prison blues into a bosun’s chair and hung them over the far end of our ship to make them harder to find.
