While the shipyard surrounding The Explorer was a hive of frantic energy and purpose, the atmosphere aboard the Sea Serpent had become a stagnant pool of dread.
Ever since his return from the black market, Barbossa had remained a prisoner of his own cabin. The heavy oak door stayed bolted from the inside, and the only signs of the Captain's existence were the nervous whispers heard through the wood, frantic, one-sided arguments with the dark, or sudden, blood-curdling screams at the slightest creak of a timber.
The crew was listless. The treasure they had bled for was either being spent on Hugo's "pet project" or was locked away in Barbossa's private vault, a hoard that no man was allowed to touch. They spent their days gambling for copper and drinking the cheapest, foulest grog Tortuga had to offer, their eyes fixed on the horizon of a future that felt increasingly like a dead end.
"How long are we meant to rot here?" a pirate growled, slamming his empty bottle against the deck. "The Captain's turned into a ghost, and we're just the worms in his shroud."
"He's still the Captain," another replied weakly. "He's got the gold. He's got the ship."
"He's got a madness in him!" Hanson, an older pirate with a grey-streaked beard and a face like a weathered chart, spat over the rail. "I went to the docks yesterday. I saw what the boy is building. The Explorer... she's got eight twelve-pounders sitting in her belly. British steel, better than the rusted iron we're carrying."
Hanson's words drew a crowd. "And I talked to Billy," he continued, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial rumble. "He says Master Hugo feeds 'em fresh meat twice a day and enough rum to keep 'em warm but not senseless. They're learnin' things, brothers. They aren't just pullin' ropes; they're buildin' a legend."
"A legend?" one-eyed Silas snorted. "They're buildin' a coffin if they try to hit Port Royal."
"You were there in the Triangle, Silas!" Hanson countered. "You saw him jump the whirlpool. You saw him break that Spanish frigate like it was a dry twig. With Master Hugo, there's a path. With Barbossa... there's only the dark."
The seed of defection, once planted, grew with the speed of tropical ivy. The pirates looked at the Sea Serpent, a ship without a soul and then toward the distant, glowing lanterns of the shipyard.
That night, under a moon obscured by heavy, salt-laden clouds, a dozen of Barbossa's veterans led by Hanson slipped over the side of the Sea Serpent. They didn't head for the taverns or the brothels. They marched with a grim, desperate purpose toward Berth Three.
The shipyard was still lit by whale-oil lamps; Hugo's crew was working late into the night, the rhythmic thud-thud of mallets and the scent of resin filling the air. As Hanson and his men approached, Gibbs stepped into the light, a heavy boarding-axe resting casually on his shoulder.
"Hanson?" Gibbs asked, his single eye narrowed with suspicion. "It's a bit late for a social call. Did the Captain run out of rum, or are you lost?"
Billy also stepped forward, dropping a heavy beam with a resounding crash and looking at the newcomers with a predatory grin.
Hanson stepped into the light, his hands empty and open. "We aren't here for the Captain, Gibbs. We're here for the Navigator."
He took a long breath, looking at the dark, powerful hull of The Explorer. "We're done with the Serpent. We're done with a man who talks to the shadows. We want to sail on a ship that has a destination. We want to follow Master Hugo."
The silence that followed was broken only by the crackling of the forge. Gibbs and Billy exchanged a look of profound shock. To have Barbossa's own veterans, men who had sailed under the skull for a decade beg to switch sides was a victory greater than any naval battle.
"The Explorer doesn't take just any deck-hand," Billy said, puffing out his chest and trying to hide his delight behind a mask of sternness. "We're buildin' a specialized crew here. What makes you think you're worth the meat and the rum?"
"I've spent twenty years on the Spanish Main," Hanson said, his voice thick with sincerity. "I can lay a gun in a gale and trim a sail by the feel of the spray on my neck. These men behind me... we're the best steel the Serpent had. We're not lookin' for a handout. We're lookin' for a leader."
"Please," another pirate added, nearly falling to his knees. "Just let us speak to him."
Gibbs looked toward the quarterdeck, where Hugo was hunched over a desk, his pencil moving across a blueprint in the flickering lamplight. "I'll see if he's inclined to listen. But stay where you are. One move toward the hold and you'll find out how sharp these new tools are."
Gibbs jogged up the gangplank and whispered to Hugo.
Hugo didn't look surprised. He didn't even stop drawing for several seconds. He had calculated the "human element" of Barbossa's decay as precisely as he had calculated the displacement of his hull. He knew that in a world of chaos, men would always gravitate toward the strongest light.
"Let them come aboard," Hugo said calmly, finally setting down his pencil. "The Medieval Era requires more than just better wood and iron, Gibbs. It requires better men. Let's see if they have the mettle to be more than just pirates."