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It is the middle of first watch, several hours after sundown, and the Edinburgh Trader is charting a steady course through the star-speckled dark waters. The men not on watch are sleeping as soundly as they can, and more than one man on duty stifles a yawn and thinks longingly of his hammock.

But sleep is not the only thing on the men's minds. A thorough search of the ship had produced neither hide nor hair of a young lady without her clothes on, and as a result the whispers of witchcraft and ghosts have started again. Very quietly, of course -- no man wants to face the Captain's temper -- but even the most seasoned sailors are doubly alert to every creak and groan of the ship.

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Captain Bellamy currently has more pressing matters on his mind, none of which have to do with the supernatural. And the men who are with him in his cabin happen to be bearing the brunt of his frustration.

"It’s an outrage." The lights in his cabin flicker slightly as he throws invoice after invoice onto his desk, each piece of paper bearing the East India mark. "Port tariffs, berthing fees, port handling, and, heaven help us, pilotage! Are we all to work for the East India Trading Company, then?"

He's still fuming as he turns round and stalks away from his desk; there isn't enough room to stalk back and forth properly in his cabin, and that only adds to his foul mood. Fortunately, he doesn't notice the look that the crewmen exchange when he turns away from them.

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Harrison shoots an uneasy glance over at his fellow recipient of captain abuse. Way he sees it (and it looks like the other fellow agrees), there's only one option left to them, and he knows the captain isn't going to like it.

"I'm afraid, sir," he says, preparing to duck if anything comes flying at his head, "Tortuga is the only free port left in these waters."

Now to wait for the explosion. He knows it's coming.

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Bellamy stops in his tracks, and whirls round.

"A pirate port!" He grits his teeth, trying to keep his temper contained. "Well I’m sorry, an honest sailor is what I am. I make my living fair and I sleep well each night, thank you."

It is hard to tell what bothers him more: the thought of trading in a bilgewater harbour like Tortuga or the thought of throwing yet more of his hard-earned money at the feet of the sneering prigs who wrap themselves in the East India Company's flag. The number of independent merchants operating in the waters of the Caribbean is shrinking fast, and Bellamy has no desire to be the latest captain to sell his freedom to a faceless master somewhere in London.

On the other hand...Tortuga. The very name makes him want to check his clothing for lice.

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If asked, it is unlikely that many of the sailors could say what became of the wedding gown after the search was called off. The dress itself was discussed in some detail, but hadn't actually been seen for at least the last hour.

That is about to change.

Behind Bellamy, a woman's gown flies past the cabin's windows, a ghostly apparition that can only bode ill for everyone on board.

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Carver pales, and points overs Bellamy's shoulder.

"Sir! . . ."

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And Bellmay whirls round, just in time to see a flash of ghostly white pass before his eyes.

He is not a superstitious man. Not in the least. He has no patience for that sort of thing. But he has not been drinking, and when other people are seeing ghosts as well....

He rushes out on deck, the others hot on his heels, and a cold sweat breaks out on his face as he stares at the gown fluttering aloft in the ocean breezes.

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Up in the rigging, Elizabeth smiles with satisfaction. Her father gave her a collection of puppets from England when she was still young. Once you've learned to maneuver two at once, make them dance and bow, controlling a ghostly wedding dress is an easy enough trick.

She pulls on the strings of her makeshift puppet, lightly, and the dress hovers in midair just before the sailors. As she lifts the left sleeve, the wind assits, blowing the cuff just enough to make it seem as if the ghost is pointing.

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The crewmen are gaping. In the dim and flickering light cast by the ship's lanterns, any wires are invisible; all that's to be seen is the ghostly wedding dress, hovering impossibly above their heads, pointing an invisible hand at the sea.

"She wants you to do something," whispers a sailor behind the captain. His voice is hoarse with wonder, and more than a little fear.

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Bellamy swallows his own rising nervousness, and stares hard at the floating gown. Half-remembered stories are flooding through his mind as he stares at it, and thinks, and wonders what the ghost of a widowed bride could possibly want from mortal men.

"She's trying to give a sign," he says at last, his eyes never leaving the dress.

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The dress -- the ghost -- swoops with heartstopping suddenness over the heads of the gathered sailors, swinging low enough that they're forced to duck. And duck they do, scattering in a panic with startled cries, too preoccupied with avoiding the touch of the ghost to even notice when a bumped lantern crashes to the deck.

Who knows what a ghost-bride's touch might do to a man?

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Of course Bellamy ducks. He'd be a fool not to. But he never takes his eyes off the dress, and when it seems to stop somewhere over the waters off starboard side of the ship, he leaps to follow the instructions that the ghost has so clearly given.

"Over there!" he calls out. "Look for the sign!"

As he hurries to the starboard rail, the sailors follow him, jostling for position.

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Oh for-

How did they miss the lantern? Knocking it over with the dress had taken no small amount of effort, and Elizabeth is rather proud of her plan. The men, however, show no signs of moving away from the rail. Abruptly losing her patience, Elizabeth sets aside her fishing wire puppet strings, sighs with frustration and begins to swing down to the deck below.

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You'd think the sailors might notice a decidedly non-ghostly body swinging through the rigging above them.

You'd be wrong, however, because every last man of them is clustered around the starboard rail, squinting down at the dark sea.

"Look there!" cries one. "There’s the sign!"

"I see it!" shouts the man next to him.

"That’s seaweed," protests another.

"Seaweed could be a sign."

"Like entrails," one bright lad puts in.

"That’d be a bad sign," someone says wisely.

In the gabble, the soft thud of Elizabeth's landing is entirely lost.

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Elizabeth plops down on a barrel and kicks her feet out to keep her balance, turning to check on the burning lamp oil.

Lowering her voice, she calls out, "What’s that over there?"

A small, barely noticeable smile plays about her lips as she leans over to get a better look.

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To a man, they all turn round, and hurry over to where the lad is sitting.

The sight that awaits them reminds more than a few of them, Bellamy included, of the Bible story of Daniel and the doomed king of Babylon -- specifically, of the fiery letters written upon a wall that spelled the proud ruler's terrible fate. The sign blazing upon the Edinburgh Trader's deck is nowhere near as terrifying as that wrought by the hand of the Lord, but it burns its way into the minds of every man present to see it.

TORTUGA.