A Prisoner in Malta by Phillip Depoy

world!”
    Lopez put his arm around Marlowe’s shoulder.
    â€œCome with me,” he told Marlowe calmly, “and watch what happens.”
    Marlowe allowed himself to be taken to the stern of the boat where several men were lowering something into the water. It took a moment for Marlowe to see that several large barrels had been placed in the ocean and were drifting away, more or less in the direction of the pursuing Spanish ship.
    â€œOur captain has explained to me that he has, on several occasions in the past, employed this stratagem.” Lopez patted Marlowe’s shoulder. “It’s worked almost every time.”
    â€œAlmost?”
    â€œWell,” Lopez admitted, “it’s not a science.”
    â€œWhat, exactly, is he doing?”
    â€œAh, well,” Lopez answered, “I think, as a budding playwright, you’ll appreciate that showing you is better than telling you.”
    â€œBut—” Marlowe protested.
    â€œWatch.”
    Marlowe, barely able to contain himself, tried to focus on the retreating barrels. He counted to three. After a moment they were impossible to see in the swirl of night and wave.
    Beside them stood a short man with a long, ornate snaphance rifle, the very latest in handheld firearms. The man rested the rifle on the ship’s rail, whispered something in Portuguese, opened his eyes wide, held his breath, and fired the gun.
    A second later the ocean behind them turned to flame. A swath of fire at least fifty feet wide and twenty deep appeared in an instant between the Spanish ship and Captain de Ferro’s unnamed vessel.
    At that moment, the lamps all around Marlowe, every light on the ship, went out.
    The short man with the rifle looked up at Marlowe.
    â€œSee?” he said in a heavy accent. “Nothing to worry about.”
    â€œIt’s very confusing for the other ship, you understand,” Lopez said, unable to hide his pleasure at the event. “They are thinking, ‘Has the other ship caught fire? Was it sabotaged? Is that the ship at all?’ By the time they realize that we’ve ignited three large barrels of olive oil spread out over thirty feet, we’ll be long gone.”
    â€œEasy,” the short man agreed.
    â€œIf it was easy,” Marlowe said, his composure returning, “then why do I have the suspicion that just before you fired, you whispered a prayer?”
    â€œI can see perfectly at night and I’m an excellent marksman,” the man replied, taking his gun from the rail, “but I’m not an idiot: only God could make a shot like that.”
    Marlowe watched the flames for a moment, unable to see the other ship behind them.
    â€œIs this part of your miracle?” Marlowe asked Lopez. “Do you expect these flames to last eight days?”
    Lopez looked out to sea. “Again he mocks my faith.”
    â€œThat’s a Spanish warship back there somewhere,” Marlowe responded quietly. “Someone already knows what Walsingham has put us up to.”
    â€œYes.” Lopez turned and went below without another word.
    *   *   *
    Later that night, in his cabin, Marlowe lay awake, staring at the low ceiling by the light of a short candle. In his mind he watched as scene after scene played itself out. In one, he and Lopez were captured by the Inquisition. In another, the prisoner they sought was dead. In a third, the Spanish monster destroyed Marlowe’s ship, taking no prisoners, leaving no survivors.
    The tossing of the waves told him that the ship was speeding forward, but in his tiny room everything seemed so still. A bed, four walls, a basin, a candle, a chamber pot—these were hardly the companions he’d wanted by his side when Death came.
    After several hours he gave up the notion of sleeping. He threw off his covers and went back on deck. The pilot nodded once as Marlowe emerged from the hold, and then, without a word, glanced