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The Watch Dog


William Brand

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William first mistook the request as a prelude to some violence on Saltash, but it was the 'scissors' and her hand that brought him down other roads. "Scissors."

It was not a question. William had known his share of women at sea. Some of them were shorn.

"I have two pairs of scissors." William continued. His tone was matter of fact, though he was at a loss about his feelings on the matter. He found himself in two camps. "One pair is quite fine, being made of well fashioned steel and refined gold, though I expect the quality is not important."

 

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"Which ever is sharpest." She growled, a vicious enough sound that for a moment he reconsidered his original supposition that she intended violence. The fire in her tone told him that if he did not give her something sharp to do what she planned in the next few minutes, she would set about finding it herself. Still she paced like a caged animal, eyes darting to the door every few minutes and hand still wrapped around her neck.

With a resigned sigh, William stood and retrieved the fine pair of which he spoke and carried them across to the corner where she now stood, but he hesitated in placing them into her open palm. There was a silent understanding that he was offering to help with the clipping, knowing it's not so easy to reach the back of one's own head, but the Steward, angry facade once again melting into broken and weary faced smiled and shook her head at him. "I'm sorry, if there is going to be sharp metal anywhere near my neck right now, it's only going to be in my hand."

Taking the blades up quickly she tugged at a giant hank of hair and chewed through it with the scissors with little regard to the evenness. "It was foolish of me to let it get so long. I always used to keep it fairly close cropped." She said, the first fistful of hair entirely separated from her head, leaving only an inch or two to cover her scalp. She set to work on the next section, capturing the spring like curls in a white knuckled grip, "Y'know, don't give anyone anything to grab onto in a fight." And with a clipping sound, the second handful was freed, the back of her head having less length now then the side. "But, a while back, I was bed-bound for about six months and it started to grow out. I guess I thought it looked pretty so I've not cut it for the better part of 2 years." She set about the final strands, and spoke with a strained cheerfulness that seemed to teeter on manic. "Vanity getting the best of good sense I guess." And with that, the halo of spiral ringlets that always fluttered about her face was gone, in it's place, odd ends and disparate lengths, all evidence that her hair was even curly was now spread between the floor and her two fists.

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William had nothing to say on the subject. He nodded once at the last, then plucked up some of the hair, placing it between the pages of a book set near the windows. He did this wordlessly. Then he took back the scissors with no more command than an open hand. Once replaced among his belongings, he said, "Sit." It was a command and an invitation at the same time.

 

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Tudor sat, still clutching some hair, still looking every which direction, as if someone might jump out of a trunk our walk through the very walls. She didn't speak any more. As quickly as they tumbled out of her while cutting her hair, they were gone again. She was the discarded rag doll again and sat with no comfort, just weariness. After a heavy sigh, she finally made eye contact with William, as if bidding him to say whatever he had to say, ask what questions he had to ask.

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Her eyes narrowed a moment, as if she had to think, but really the truth was she was deciding how much of an answer she wanted to give. "No. Not for want of trying on his part, only . . . ." Suddenly she had to choke back a bitter laugh. She knew the Captain was only doing as he needed, both as the commander of the ship, and as a caring friend, but she didn't want to say the answer, and no one aboard ship had ever seen the scars she knew she would have to show - a simple no, without evidence, would leave everyone holding their breath for weeks. Without another word, but a resigned shake of her head, she lifted the hem of her shirt, exposing only the lower part of her abdomen. From the navel down, she was riddled with the ridges of a series of old wounds, perhaps only two years into healing. "Even if I wanted children, I've been told it would take heavenly intervention for it to happen. So, no. You will still have your Steward in nine months time." She dropped the shirt again, looking away and closing her eyes, thinking of it all - Saltash, the damage to the ship, the storm, the scars - all of it burdened her, ground her further down into her chair, until with a gasp for air, she stood up abruptly again, but instead of pacing she was practically lunging for the door.

"Captain, I need to go back to work. I need to not sit still right now . . . I can't . . .I can't . . . I just can't . . ." She didn't know what she was trying to say, and she was literally choking on the words, they stuck in her throat and she fought the urge to cry, but she didn't know what she was weeping about.

Edited by TudorSmith
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William did not completely hide his reaction to her revelation, despite a long life of such revealing deprivations. Of course the how and why of it bothered him, but this was a moment of pure 'now'. She was showing all the signs of someone who's emotional compass was on the spin. Of course she had every right to be that way, act that way, but he wouldn't have any of it for her sake.

"Harry Saltash is in chains. No work will be required of you." He threw the water from the basin out the casement window, which proved fruitless, since so much more water came in at the open window from outside. He continued. "If you go out there, they will see the bruises and cuts that weren't there from before, and questions will be asked of you. No, you'll stay here the night and you'll pick your marine, or if you like, any other man or woman to guard the threshold."

 

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His words smarted as they hit her - he knew her too well. He knew how little she wanted everyone to see how damaged her face was, and, in kindness, he used that against her. "I will go mad if I sit still too much longer. More mad, at any rate." She smiled a bit at this, clearly aware of how insane she must seem at that exact moment. "You think this is just reaction to . . . today." She couldn't bring herself to refer to anything more specific. "This is an everyday fight for me. Today just has me too broken to hide it." She felt she was being too dramatic, too cryptic and she forcibly shook her head, as if the action would clear it. "Please, if Saltash is in irons, I have no reason to sit in here, wallowing while others labor, cowering in fear while there is work to be done. As much as I hate the idea of questions, I hate more being seen as weak, and injured and . . . damaged." She could tell her babbling was not convincing the Captain. He looked at her, kindly, but in an unyielding sort of way. She sighed, defeated once again. It was becoming the theme for the day. "I won't have an able bodied crew mate wasting his time being my nanny at the door. I'd rather have all hands working to right the ship, as long as I can have a pistol and a knife with me in here." It was a request, stated as a preference. "But, just . . .what will I do to occupy myself all night?" Her tone implied sleep was the furthest thing from her possible agenda.

Edited by TudorSmith
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She was talking more than him. He understood. She was asking and answering questions aloud. He understood. She was arguing with him about things she knew he wouldn't relent about. He understood. Like many times since going aft, he nodded. Just one more nod among many, but he wasn't accustomed to giving orders twice. "Sit." She sat.

He freed her of shoes, stockings and everything but the shift like shirt that was so common between both sexes aboard. He did this mechanically, like a footman. Again, it would have been intimate if not for the circumstances and he hoped not too intimate considering them. Then he nodded again, unable to help himself. To see her now, with her short hair and trailing shirt, she was boyish. He might have tussled her hair but for the bruises. He was more careful with her clothes than he had been with his own. He laid them over a chair and fetched up a cudgel, which he gave to Tudor. All of this without a word. Then he excused himself into the companionway, but was gone less than a minute.

When he returned, the doorframe filled behind him as Ajayi stepped into the space. The Yoruban, a sober man most of the time, sobered more still at the sight of Ajayi. Tudor did not look happy for the added company, but William made no apology. He simply closed the door and turned to them both. "Ajayi is injured." he began, "More than once these few weeks…and…being a man of few words AND being relieved of any duty on deck, he will sleep here." He did not give her time to protest. even if she meant to. He turned instead to Ajay and using English seasoned with some few Arabic words he made it clear to the man that his duty was now to the room as much as any other part of the ship.

"You will stay here and guard this door and that one." William gestured to both the companionway and the small door that separated his sleeping quarters. Ajayi nodded, unfettered by any excited ideas or the judgements that might have come from any other person aboard. William knew that the Yoruban wouldn't read into the presence of a half dressed woman in his apartments, but would take only that explanation given him. It wasn't that Ajayi failed to grasp the implications. No, quite the contrary. Ajayi was actually a better man than most aboard. He was an intelligent man, free of rash or wandering thoughts. In that way, William believed Ajayi to more civil and civilized than any other man aboard ship. Compared to Ajayi, Saltash was barely an animal at all, let alone a man.

William turned to Tudor then. "Mistress Smith, you are injured. You are therefore unfit for any service of the weatherdecks. Also, you are my Steward and are oft found here. No one will see fit to speak otherwise of this and Ajayi is beyond, even above gossip." He nodded, as much to end any discussion on the matter as to augment his unwillingness to hear otherwise. He walked to the door of his own chamber and gestured to the space within. "You will sleep here. You will not have the use of a knife or pistol. I would have you sleep, but as your sleep might be restless, than a pistol or a knife might bring you harm."

Instead, he gave a knife to Ajayi. It was a wicked wedge of a knife and Ajayi was quick to tuck it away.

. . . 

 

William went forward to find Mister Saltash.  He murdered Saltash in his mind about three dozen ways between the great cabin and the hold forward.  He did this freely in his head to work out the ‘salt of the anger from his water’.  A ritual to ‘purge the poison from the fresh’, as one of his many mentors had said.  

 

In one imagined murder he killed Saltash by clubbing him soundly with the butt of a pistol, stoving his skull soundly in one angry thrash.  This comforted him not at all.

 

In another he tossed the man overboard with loud words and rough manhandling, throwing Saltash clear, but not carefully of the bulwarks and sending him down tied and screaming to his grave.  This only tired him, but it burned off the anger, replacing it with a careworn feeling that left William only a little more aged.

 

He finally gave up imagining anything, for the day had been long, Lasseter was gone to unknown parts and the Whole Company was adrift on two many currents, real and imagined, for him to be angry enough to kill or cause harm.  He just wanted to say his peace, give his orders and be abed. 

 

When he reached the forward hold he found curious, but well chosen men to guard the prisoner.  Manus Hingerty and Alan Woodington stood up quickly, but carefully so as not to strike their hades on the low beams forward.  Their presence made him count the watches in his head, because he’d lost track of the ship’s bells. 

 

William offered a solitary “Gentlemen” before entering in at the cable tier.  Saltash stood up and did hit his head, which William enjoyed despite his growing fatigue about the whole affair.  

 

“Sah…” Saltash began and William only raised a hand.  

 

“It is not in your best interest to speak, Mister Saltash.  Not one word, if you please,”  Willam offered quietly, but sternly. “I’ve put my anger to bed, but it is not asleep.”

 

“But, sah, I…” Satlash started again.

 

William gave him a look he once reserved for only the vilest few.  A kind of wild, dangerous fire seemed to burn in his looks for a moment as he took in one slow breath.  Saltash retreated a little and shut up is mouth.  William closed the distance, almost anxious then that Satlash should come at him with some violence, so he’d have reason to kill the man in the moment, but he wouldn’t risk the right of the crew then to have their say.  He’d taken their voices from them once before in the slaying of August Muller and had carried the regret of that decision awhile.  

 

“Mister Saltash.  You will be brought on deck tomorrow to answer some charges laid at your feet.  You will have time enough to answer to those charges in the presence of the Whole Company, such as it is.  You will keep the night quietly here, where you may rest or lay awake.  I care not which.”  There was venom in this last remark, and William did not withhold any disdain. “If you leave this compartment for any reason, but to be brought to the head and back again, you will be shot or cut down at the leisure of the marines.”

 

Saltash flinched a little to be under the shadow of Brand’s anger, for he could see it rising like a tide at Wapping.  William was almost nose to nose by then.  So close was he that Saltash had trouble focusing on him in the low light.

 

“Do I make myself understood?” William said finally and slowly.

 

“Sa…” Satlash stopped to swallow once and repeat.  “Sah.  Aye Sah.”

 

William turned and left.  He left so simply and casually, that Saltash stood almost a full minute before realized he’d been holding his breath at the end.  Satlash couldn’t ever remember a man making him so nervous that he forgot to breath, even momentarily.  

 

William didn’t even pause with the marines, but asked them as he passed if they understood, having heard all, and they sharply replied with twinned ‘Aye-ayes’ to his back as he went.  

 

Then William retired to a hammock made recently empty by the loss of Mister Badger.  It was a sobering choice that William made on purpose, so that no member of the Company there would question why he slept in their midst instead of the great cabin.  He knew they’d find it either to solemn a choice that the shock might give them pause, or too personal choice to inquire.  Either way he’d be left to sleep.  If any man aboard took issue with it, he’d address it when they came at him questioning, but didn’t imagine it coming to much, since the other revelations about Saltash would greet the day.  

 

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  • 1 month later...

Every minute was an hour, every hour a century. Tudor tried to rest, tried to do as she had been instructed, knowing the surest way to be released back to duty was to follow her instructions. But silence roared loudly in her ears and kept her from sleep, or peace, or any kind of rest. A strange gratitude formed for every occasional noise from the decks that echoed it's way into the room, every gust of wind that rattled at the windows. She lay in the bed, pretending to be asleep, hoping against hope that if she lay there long enough, eventually the exhaustion would take over. But no matter how dormant her body felt, her mind still raced. What little sleep she did was fitful, much like the captain had predicted and when she could not lie still any longer without joints and muscles aching, she paced, bare feet silent against the planks of the floor. She wished they would make noise. Never had she wanted to wear heavy boots that would make a ruckus more than she did just then, if only to drown out the interrogation she felt herself being put through by her own thoughts.

She collapsed onto a the floor after walking miles without traveling any distance, unable to keep standing, but unable to lie back down. She leaned back against the wall of the room. With a sigh, she began to take account of events, just as a tactician evaluated his standings after a defeat. Voices of far distant and long departed mentors demanded to be heard, as clearly if they lived and stood in the same room. She could see them in her imagination, and while none of them had ever met so, she pictured them sitting around a table not dissimilar to the one close at hand in the Ward Room. They were her personal councilors of war, and every one of them had something to say. Why do you sit and let these things happen to you, where is your fight? The first chided. You are at a disadvantage here. You should have retreated months ago - the minute your judgement began to be clouded by emotion. You thought this place was safe and you were ambushed. The second growled. You let your guard down, you stupid little girl! You let them see you weak. That disturbing propensity to trust will get you killed one way or another. The third mocked. The thoughts continued but they didn’t take their turn. You don’t belong here was followed by A solider never is without a weapon which was drowned out by the third, cruel voice shouting at her You are weak, and useless.

This inner conversation went on and on, Tudor took every thought, every word, and clung to it, believing them all to be true even if they were such contrary ideas of both how weak she was, and how much harder she could have fought. They tore her apart inside. The the turmoil ran deeper in her than just the fear and anger brought about by her encounter with Harry Saltash – the attack only dredged up every other fear and doubt – and she could not separate all the emotions, and wished to be rid of every single one of them.

Just when she thought she could bear it no more, more noise invaded the silence. It was just a muffled voice from elsewhere on the boat - perhaps the changing of watches, or repair crews calling out to each other, she couldn't make out the words. But it acted as touchstone for reality - the world beyond her own world.This ship, this floating fortress had been battered, beaten and often times betrayed, and yet it went on. And so would she.

In light of that simple though, that profound lesson, realized on the floor of the great cabin in the darkest hours of night, all other teachers from her past were silenced. She knew that there would be struggles ahead - she'd bear the scars from this day just as she bore from every other thing that ever happened to her. But someday they would heal, fade. Someday, like that very ship, she would be repaired, righted. It might not be in that very moment, but knowing that someday they would no longer run so deep into her gave her something like peace, enough to actually sleep. She crawled back into the bed and as soon as her eyes shut, she slept.

It was dawn until she woke again. She rose again, not because she could no longer lie still from the pain, but because she finally felt ready to move. The light pouring into the room gave promise of a clear day - the storm had finally passed.

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  • 9 years later...

Morning Watch aboard the Watch Dog

 

William woke abruptly to seven or eight bells of some daylit watch.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d passed more than two watches together without waking and he was noticeably addled by the time, light and location.  He felt worn through and would not have been surprised at all to find that he had passed near ten years asleep.

“What witchcraft and misfortune…?” he slurred aloud, much to the hushed amusement of two nearby forms.  He couldn’t place the careful chuckles of either and made no attempt to see them better by rubbing his eyes.

He hung awhile, sideways in the hammock with his legs dangling as he waited for his mind to surface.  He could feel yesterdays bruises and pulls, including something in his right hip that predicted a limp for the next day or two.

Jim’s clear calls sounded overhead.  The man’s voice, raw from shouting all night, still carried true and William was glad of the sound.  

‘Sah.”

William visibly started.  He hadn’t heard the approach of Robert Hollis.  

“Sah, the men have found the Patricia and two men…”

William went wide awake, half dressed and half way to the ladderway before Robert could say another word.


 

 

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  • 7 months later...

Aboard the Watch Dog

Ajayi had passed the night without much sleep, but hadn't minded the passing of it.  

He'd lain down but once and remained where he was all night, having noted how the woman he barely knew paced, muttered, halted, paced and revolved again through pantomimes of action.  It had been disruptive, to be sure, especially in the confined spaces of the great cabin, but had come with explanations that Brand hadn't offered.

For instance, her bruises spoke of a something beyond the passing of the Navarra, what with some of them too finger-like.  Many of them were on one side, belying the use of a prominent hand.  Her eyes were also too wide for shock to have lingered so long from the collision.  But more than any of this, she seemed to have forgotten him entirely, and for his size, this spoke volumes. 

This last thing might have bothered someone else, but Ajayi was no stranger to attacks.  He'd born them with a dignity rooted to deep to be rooted out and he understood that inward, focused shout of self-voices that came after a beating.  So, without any more narrative than her appearance and agitation he'd kept himself still and pretended a sleep that never fully came.

Instead, he'd thought of people, places, dates, all removed by leagues and time.  He'd pondered on the ruin of a smile that would never be the same.  He'd considered revenges and purpose, doubts and decision long into the night as the Steward's pacings came in waves.  Three times the sea and her feet had almost lulled him to sleep, but he'd woken each time, careful to be quiet.  Careful to not remind her that she'd forgotten him there.  Careful for her sake, because the sake of others gave him something he hadn't owned for himself in years.  Strength and purpose.

He was glad of this needful, sleepless guarding when he woke.  He was glad of the gifted knife still secreted beside him.  He was glad that on waking, one of his pained, broken teeth had slipped it's moorings.  He spat it out quietly with relief and smiled for the sunlight and blood.  Two bright reminders of life.

 

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Despite the mostly sleepless night, Tudor arose with something tantamount to her usual vigor. Groggy, with aches and pains that would not let her even pretend to forget what had happened, but in the turmoil of the night, she had fathomed new depths of herself. Hardships had always acted as a chrysalis for her, a way to take herself down to the very essence and rebuild herself into something both the same, yet new. The events of the day before did not break her, did not change her position on this crew or even tarnish the uncommon trust she had started to build amongst her crew mates. As such, she could not and would not continue to lay a-bed and wallow, even if she was technically still confined to the cabin, by the Captain's orders

Stretching as she walked over to the chipped shaving bowl, she made a mental note that they would have to procure a new one, or seek a skilled tradesman to see it repaired. A silly small thing, perhaps when the ship itself still was far more damaged, but she could not right the ship. This she could.  There was a recipe for a paste like substance floating around in her memory - perhaps even a temporary repair could suffice.

Before she could manage to summon it however, she realized the water in the bowl was still a murky copper color, fouled from cleaning her face the night before, and would not do so well at the task now this morning. Instead she walked it over to the window, opened the hinges pane and dumped it, using a deep breath of the fresh wind and salt spray to energize her, where splashing her face would not.

Turning back into the room, she took note of Ajay. She had not so much forgotten that he was in the room, but rather, they had spent the night in the same room but yet in different worlds. Those two realities had now returned to one, and she smiled at his presence. The sense of security his presence had given was one of the things that had let her march through that parallel existence with no fear of assault from the other.

She noticed the tooth, clearly spat from where he sat, and wished there was anything she could do to help him, but at a loss for where to even begin, she instead just shot him a smile. "Thank you for sitting watch last night. I apologize, I am sure it was not very restful."

Knowing there was a very little chance of him fully understanding the words she had said, she hoped at least the sentiment would carry through. Rather then waiting for an answer she set about gathering up the oilskins and waistcoat the Captain had left in a heap on the floor, laying them out better to finish drying, and finding joy and solace in the mundanities of otherwise righting the room, all the while listening to the voices that carried down faintly from the deck, to see if she could gather any update on the ship's situation.

 

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