Then Craig Beckett and his crew returned. Eli Smith must not have known that Bartholomew had sailed with Beckett that day, because he was in the bar, boasting of his prowess at sea and saying as how he’d have taken on the pirate Bartholomew Miller himself had he but had a few guns on his own sloop, when Craig Beckett strode into the room.

Beckett was incensed.

“Liar! You are the worst, most sniveling bastard of a bloody liar,” Beckett said. “Bartholomew Miller could not have committed the crime as you say, and I know it well, for Bartholomew Miller was with me when the crime took place.”

“No, that’s not true,” Eli Smith cried out, but he was so taken by surprise that his words tumbled out oddly. Then he found his voice. “No, no, this is not true. You—defend him falsely. And it is too late—he is dead. Hanged by the neck, and dead as a pirate should be dead.”

Craig Beckett stood straight and slowly smiled a smile that was not a smile at all.

“There were others with me, Smith. Other good men of this town. Honest men, who know that you killed the people aboard the Annabelle Lee, you killed Victoria Wyeth because you could not have her—she truly loved another. And you brought about the execution of a good man who caused no ill to any other in a heinous manner. You, sir, deserve to die! But it will be just and right—you will be condemned by a jury of your peers.”

Eli Smith fought. He fought wildly. He screamed, he cried out, and he was finally subdued and caught between the two burly men who had taken him. He was dragged down the street—dragged, for he fell limp between his attackers—and continued to scream and cry and protest.

Bartholomew, with Victoria’s hand in his, followed.

Eli Smith was actually given a trial. But he had no witnesses in his defense—his crew were rounded up by the squadron and brought in for trial, as well. Desperate to save their own lives, his own men spoke against him. Bartholomew was glad to see that even the justice of Commodore David Porter was not so harsh as to have the young cook’s helper charged with murder, but most of the other men, no matter how they maligned their captain, would not be spared the rope.

The trial came to a conclusion, with Beckett and many another good man speaking in defense of Bartholomew.

The time and date for the execution were set, and it came about.

Eli Smith was dragged to the hanging tree.

The man did not want to die.

As all others, he was given his chance to speak.

Craig Beckett was there, and Eli Smith pointed at him. “I curse you, Beckett! I curse you, and all your heirs! Time will come and time will tell, and by all that is holy and unholy, I swear that you will know the pain I suffer now! I curse you. I curse you. I curse you! May all the demons of hell curse you and all your issue, and their issue, until time is no more!”

Beckett stood watching him. “It is you who are cursed, man. It is you who murdered an innocent young woman, and all aboard her ship. You brought about the death of an innocent man. The death of Victor Wyatt also weighs on your soul, for he died of the pain you caused. You, sir, will rot in hell.”

“I punished those who sinned! I did no more!” Eli Smith called out. “You are cursed, sir! Whatever time it may take, I will see that you and yours rot in hell! Cursed—”

The hangman had tired of the tirade.

He kicked out the platform upon which the condemned man stood, and Eli Smith’s words were cut off cleanly.

Bartholomew listened to the sound of the rope scraping against the tree, and he heard the sound of the dead man swinging to and fro, to and fro.

Then, they saw Eli Smith drop, in spectral form, from the swaying body. He stared at himself. And he began to curse again, damning Beckett—and damning him.

He turned, and he saw Bartholomew, and Victoria holding his hand.

He pointed at Bartholomew. “Bastard, you both deserved to die!” he shouted out.

Bartholomew just stared at him, praying that he was not about to spend eternity roaming the streets of Key West with this man.

But then, there seemed to be an eruption from the ground. None of the living saw it, but Victoria did, as did Eli Smith. He frowned, staring.

Bartholomew grasped Victoria’s hand, and pulled her back, and they saw a dark, oozing blackness arise out of the ground. It was like a sea of swirling, spiraling tar, thick and viscous. It rose as if it sought to find a form to take, as if it had eyes, as if it searched for something—or someone—and found what it sought.

It started toward Eli Smith.

“No!” he raged in terror. “No!”

He tried to run from the oily, stygian ooze, but the thing formed fingers and arms and reached out for him.

“No!” he cried again. He began to scream and gurgle as the stuff surrounded his spectral being. He cried out horribly, as if the black ooze were a burning tar, and it seemed long agonizing minutes before it all ended with the ooze receding into the floor, along with the ghost of Eli Smith.

And all was silent. Except for the living, who went about the business of cutting down the body, unaware of the drama that had taken place in another sphere of existence.

“It’s not good,” someone muttered. “Not good, being cursed by the dead.”

Craig Beckett was not disturbed. “I don’t believe in curses, man. I believe in the good and evil in a man’s soul, and a curse from one evil man can only be a curse when another comes along. Let’s put an end to this business.”

Victoria looked at Bartholomew, her eyes wide. “There is justice. We don’t always see it, but there is justice.”

He nodded. He had no real body, and yet he felt that he swallowed hard, for he wanted to be strong and sure, but he didn’t know what any of it meant.

The body was cut down; the spectators meandered away, and soon, they were alone. Bartholomew held both Victoria’s hands, looked down at her, and tried to smile.

“I have you,” he began to say. He had been about to tell her that he could face heaven or hell with her by his side.

But then the light came.

Like the ooze that came from the ground, the light seemed powerful and living. It burst out around them, filling the air.

He lifted a hand to shield his eyes against it. There were people walking from it. Some hovered in the distance, but two, hand in hand came closer.

He saw who had come. Victor Wyeth, and his beautiful wife—so like Victoria, just Victoria in another twenty years. Still lovely, tall, sweet and proud.

At his side, Victoria cried out.

“My daughter!” her mother said.

“Victoria!” her father cried, and there was a sob in his voice.

Bartholomew felt her hand slip away from his; she raced to her mother, who enveloped her in a gentle hug. Victor Wyeth set his arms around his wife and his daughter, and the threesome held together for many long minutes.

Victor Wyeth looked over at Bartholomew then. “I was wrong—my apologies come too late.”

“Not too late, sir. I am…I am…I am so sorry for us all.”

Victor nodded, looking at him. Then he turned to his daughter. “It’s time—your murder is avenged, and I must seek forgiveness for all my actions. It’s time.”

Time? Time for what? Bartholomew wondered.

He saw that the light streamed from a path.

“We must go,” Victor said.

Victoria reached out for Bartholomew.

Victor caught her hand. “No,” he said gently. “It’s not time for Bartholomew,” he said.

Victoria frowned. “Father, Bartholomew must come. You know that he was guilty of no evil, that his heart was pure, his intentions good.”

Victor shook his head sadly. “It is not for me to say.” He looked at Bartholomew. “You are charged to remain.”

Victoria ran to him. He took her into his arms. But then she pulled away, troubled as she looked at him. “I must go. I feel the light, and I must go. I am avenged, and with those who love me, and I know that there is a greater love…forgive me.”

She was to go, and he was to stay.

But he saw the radiance in her face, and he knew, yes, she must go.

For a moment, his arms tightened around her. He held her close, and he wondered if he would know only loss, and he wondered why the light was coming for Victoria, and not for him.