THE LAST SAMURAI

 

THE LAST SAMURAI

III
Five Years Later

The Thief’s Gambit had become legend. Sailors whispered her name with trembling lips — the warship that freed the dark-skinned men, a black phantom that prowled the Atlantic like a vengeful spirit. British frigates feared her sails the way soldiers feared the sound of drums before battle. She struck under moonlight, silent and merciless, vanishing before dawn as if swallowed by the sea itself.

Her flag bore no kingdom’s mark — only a crimson blade painted across a field of black. To some, she was piracy incarnate. To others, she was justice in its purest form.

Ebo stood at the prow, the night wind pulling at his dreadlocks as the stars shimmered above him like ghostly eyes. The salt burned his scars, the ones that still marked his wrists from a lifetime ago. He had grown into a man of iron — broad-shouldered, fierce-eyed, and silent as the grave. His swordsmanship had become legend among the crew. He moved like a dancer in battle, his blade an extension of his fury, his grief, his freedom.

Captain Luke Shaw, the man who had once freed him from chains, now stood beside him — older, wiser, his beard streaked with gray. “You’ve become something, Philip,” he said, using the name he’d given him. Philip Graves.

It was a name that struck fear into British hearts. The irony wasn’t lost on Ebo — a freed slave carrying a name that sounded like death itself.

“Another convoy sails tomorrow,” Shaw continued, holding a weathered map against the railing. “Two merchantmen and a British escort frigate. They’re carrying sixty souls bound for Barbados.”

Ebo’s jaw tightened. He could already see their faces — men and women crammed beneath deck, their cries muffled by the creak of timber.

“Then we end it,” he said quietly. His voice carried a deadly calm that chilled even the night air.

---

By dawn, the Thief’s Gambit was on the hunt. The horizon blazed red as the first light kissed the sea, turning it into a molten mirror. The crew moved like shadows, veterans hardened by years of raids — French, Dutch, and freed Africans alike, bound not by country but by vengeance.

From the crow’s nest came the cry, “Sails! Off the starboard bow!”

Ebo gripped the hilt of his cutlass, the blade shimmering in the light. His heartbeat slowed — a strange calm before the chaos. The British convoy came into view: two merchant ships heavy with cargo, flanked by a frigate bristling with cannon.

Captain Shaw turned to his men. “No quarter today. We strike fast, we strike hard, and we leave none in chains.”

The crew erupted into cheers and curses, the deck alive with fire. The wind filled the Gambit’s sails, driving her forward like a beast unleashed. The cannon ports opened with a thundering crack — and hell followed.

Smoke filled the air. The Gambit’s first volley tore through the merchant ship’s hull, splintering wood and spilling bodies into the sea. The British frigate returned fire, iron screaming through the wind.

“Reload!” Shaw roared.

Ebo was already moving. He leapt onto the boarding ropes, cutting across the gap as the ships collided with a shriek of wood and steel. His boots hit the enemy deck with the grace of a predator. Muskets flashed, swords clashed, men screamed.

He ducked beneath a bayonet, drove his cutlass through a soldier’s chest, then turned to parry another blow. The air stank of blood and gunpowder.

A British officer came at him, tall and sneering. “You’ll hang for this, savage!”

Ebo said nothing — his eyes cold as winter. The duel was swift. Steel met steel, sparks flying as their blades sang. Ebo’s movements were fluid, almost beautiful — a deadly rhythm of precision and power. With one final arc, he severed the officer’s blade at the hilt and struck clean through his heart.

When the man fell, Ebo whispered, “No chains.”

Below deck, cries echoed. Ebo kicked open the hatch and descended into darkness. The smell hit him first — sweat, rot, despair. Dozens of eyes stared back at him — men and women shackled, terrified.

He lifted a torch. “You are free,” he said in a voice that trembled between rage and mercy. “No one owns you anymore.”

The keys clinked as he broke their chains. One by one, the captives rose, blinking in disbelief. Some fell to their knees. Others wept. Ebo guided them up to the deck, where the rising sun painted the sea gold — freedom’s first light in years.

Captain Shaw watched from the quarterdeck, smoke curling around his face. “You’ve done it again, Philip.”

Ebo turned, wiping blood from his blade. “No. We’ve done it.” He looked at the freed captives — men who now picked up muskets and ropes, ready to fight beside him. “And we’ll do it again, until the ocean runs dry.”

---

That night, as the fires of the sinking convoy burned on the horizon, the crew of the Thief’s Gambit gathered around the deck. The waves glowed red, as if the sea itself bled for those lost. Ebo stood apart, gazing into the distance — where the stars met the endless dark.

Shaw approached quietly. “You never rest, do you?”

Ebo shook his head. “Rest is for the dead.”

“You can’t save everyone, lad.”

Ebo’s gaze hardened. “Maybe not. But I’ll die trying.”

The captain studied him, a faint smile beneath his beard. “The world will remember you, Philip Graves. The pirate who became a legend.”

Ebo looked at the burning horizon and whispered, “No. They’ll remember Ebo. The boy who was once chained… and now cuts the chains of others.”

The wind howled through the rigging, carrying his words into the night — a vow written in salt, steel, and blood. The Thief’s Gambit turned toward the open sea once more, her sails black against the moon. Somewhere, beyond the edge of the world, more ships waited. More chains to break. More names to free.

And as the drums of thunder rolled across the Atlantic, the legend of The Last Samurai — the warrior of two worlds — grew ever stronger.