The pair finished their watch, got an hour or two of sleep, then staggered on deck at the summons of drums and whistles. The assembled and grungy band faced the quarterdeck in anticipation. There in fresh sea air stood the captain in his largely purloined uniform—boots from an English midshipman, pants from a French trader, and a jacket from a Spanish captain.

The captain inhaled sharply through his nose and growled, “Mateys, it smells like Tuesday.” He gave them a long look and added, “And do ye know what that smells like?”

Jacoby could have sworn it was Wednesday. Sykes would have argued for Thursday. They’d been at sea long enough it didn’t really matter.

Tuesday mattered. Tuesday had a meaning. Tuesday, in fact, had a smell.

The crew boomed mostly in unison (as Olde Charlie came in a bit late, bless his barnacled heart), “It smells like blood, sir!”

“A fine piece o’ plunder be on the horizon, Portugese by the cut of her. We sail, men,” the captain cooed, “We sail fer that blood and gold!”