The Watch Dog

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

It was Tudor's turn to be a mumble amongst a crowd of "ayes", She found she could pass no judgement on Stadtmeyer, personally. She knew nothing of the circumstances leading up to Stoneburrow's death, and to have a strong opinion on the fate of the man seemed as ill advised as someone having a say on her own fate based on Saltash pointing out that she had "attacked" him, with none of the surrounding context. 

 

But neither would she dissent. Eric had served with him as Marines and knew him better then most, and that Coipman would ask for such leniency spoke well enough for Stadtmeyer, and she found that such a suggestion made her more comfortable with the proposed fate. 

 

But even with that condition, her assent was no more vocal than a muttered "hmmm",  and a nod, as she wordlessly accepted the Captain's coat and helped Dash, now a bit steadier on his feet for a few sips of coffee and a few deep breaths without water, slip it over his narrow shoulders. 

[William Brand]

With the ascent given, Jim looked squarely on Johan.  

"Mister Stadtmeyer."

"Sah."

"When the Watch Dog makes landfall next, you will be put ashore with one bottle of powder, one bottle of water, one small arm and shot."  Apart from the single embellishment of 'put ashore', Jim added nothing else.  Sentence was pronounced without comfort or malice.  Johan simply nodded and offered a singular 'Sah'.

Jim turned his full attention to Mister Saltash, and having seen the Captain's course, began reciting by memory.  "That whoever shall steal any Thing in the Company, or be found Guilty of..."

Saltash was quick again to protest.  "That came after!"  he argued, giving away some confession in this, but hoping for a chance to kill the Captain's Steward.  He'd see her face stoved in if he had his way.  See the Captain's face after for having done it and maybe carry out that threat of tearing the head off the boy.  He'd never torn a head off, but he'd try it nonetheless.  He tried looking at Brand then, but finding the Captain looking back without emotion, without blinking and without doubt, Saltash was unable to meet him eye to eye. 

He tried looking past Brand only to catch that weird black eye of the Frenchman looking back at him, which made Saltash think of 'black spots' and ill fortune.  

He wasn't wrong to think it.

Tribianni spoke up then, her voice cutting the air clean.  "Not so, Sah!"  She corrected, and whether this was meant for the Captain or Ship's Master she continued.  "If I may..."

Jim nodded.

"Sah, Argus chased him up from below.  He chased Saltash up and I almost didn't catch up fast enough to stop him.  Saltash is a liar to say he stole anything before.  Argus gave him no time, but for flight."

William smiled then, not looking at Tribianni.  He smiled, nodded slowly and continued looking directly at Saltash, daring him to pull himself from the traps of lies he'd made for himself.  Willing him to try.

Tribanni looked about, uncertain if she should add more, but Eric gave here a good nod and there were several agreeable things said her way by others.  She smiled and patted Argus.  She also gave Tudor a winning smile and a nod.

"What evidence to the theft?"  Mister Warren inquired loudly. William withdrew the purse discovered by the 'jailors' in the night.  He held it up.

Brenton Lund's mouth dropped open.  He frowned to see his old gunnister purse so displayed and to know that it and the meager coins within held a man's life in the balance.  It was such a simple, tattered nothing of a thing.  Threadbare as it was, it was his, he'd have the claiming of it, but he might have something else.  He might hold three lives in the claiming.

Martin Gadd nudged him hard.  Brenton blinked and started.  "What?"  The attention of the Ship's Master turned his way.

"Have you something to say Mister Gadd?"

"Aye...sah...that is.  It's Mister Lund's purse."

"Is this so, Mister Lund?"

Lund could see no way of not claiming it.  "It is, Sah."

"Was it taken from you by Mister Saltash"

Lund did not answer.  He stared at a fixed place on the deck planking.  He did not answer long enough that the crew grew steadily more quiet and seemed to lean in a little.  When he didn't answer at all, Jim asked him again, but with some new phrasing.  "Did you give Mister Saltash this purse or have some explanation that he should have it apart from theft."

Lund looked up then, but not at the Ship's Master.  Instead he looked directly at the Captain's Steward with a calm an sober expression as if to ask, "What would you have of this?  What would you have me do?"
 

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

Tudor’s mind reeled, thoughts colliding like the Navarre and The Dog the previous night—a crash sparking chaos and consequences that would spare no one.

 

She understood Lund’s glance. His answer would set their course: one path could end this aboard, at the crew’s will, on the charge of theft; the other would see it settled ashore, far south, at the point of her sword for every other crime.

 

That Lund silently sought her guidance felt like an unexpected mark of respect. He wasn’t stealing her chance to face Saltash himself, whether from misplaced gallantry or doubt in her skill. Neither did he glibly risk her life, and any other lives after it by sending her to it. 

 

She didn’t meet his gaze yet.

 

First, she looked to William. The captain offered no directive, only a mirrored look of deference, granting her a rare agency in a world that offered her little.

 

Then she turned to Dash. Her instinct screamed to keep him within arm’s reach while Saltash lived. Yet a defensive stance had faltered time and again.

 

If a man would have his business well done, he must do it himself. The adage made facing Saltash ashore tempting. Would the crew’s punishment for mere theft—a petty crime—be lethal enough to break him? If not, would it at least sap his strength, tilt the odds in her favor? She wavered.

 

A wind stirred, fluttering canvas and ropes, and with it, new concerns. The nearest land lay far south—too far for a quick trip in the small boats. The ship would need to sail, but was it fit to move? Risking the vessel entire for her vengeance seemed reckless. And if she recalled correctly, the wind blew contrary to their course, promising delays and further chances for Saltash’s mischief.

 

That was what finally settled it. She’d not risk the ship or more time for Saltash to scheme or cause harm. If this could end here, now, she’d seize it, even if not by her hand.

 

After what felt like years compressed into a moment, she met Lund’s questioning gaze and gave a swift, firm nod.

 

All she could do now was pray—pray Lund took her nod to mean that he should confirm the theft, pray the crew would choose swift and severe punishment, and if either or both failed, pray she’d have the strength for what came next.

[William Brand]

It wasn't her nod.  It was the Southward glance, the consideration of young Dash and a sacrifice against wont that Saltash would never understand in a thousand years.

Brenton Lund nodded back.  

"That purse was stole from me."

"That's a lie."  Saltash returned with a sneer.

Brenton looked directly at him with a slowness that spoke of tumult controlled.  "I was given a pair of green stockings when I put to sea.  I lost one of them at once, but kept the other, as it was a gift.  It is clocked with fine stitches and faded now to something less bright, but I keep my purse tucked into it and well hid among my things.  I never take it out, but when I'm paid.  You have stolen my property.  You are a coward, a cur and a fool altogether."

Saltash turned at him with a glare.  "What difference the place?  You gave me the purse."

Brenton shook his head at this brazen bit of stubborn nonsense and repeated back the confession Saltash had already made.  "That came after."

Saltash opened his mouth once, twice and three times without a sound, but what came out the fourth time was some blithering about Brenton paying him to rape the Steward.  Brenton had to close his eyes and his hands balled up into fists.

"Another confession."  Brenton said through gritted teeth.

"Enough." Jim called, before it could become something else.  "What sentence for the crime of theft?"

Owen went to speak then. Owen went to shout.  He'd been holding in that rehearsed call for 'hanging' as long as he thought he could, but it never left his mouth.  Petee Youngblood put a hand on his shoulder and said quietly, "With your permission, Mister Monahan."  Before Owen could respond, Petee stepped up and presented a single, resounding word.

"Keelhauling!"

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

Tudor’s first reaction to Petee’s suggestion was amusement. Had she been asked to guess what punishment the Master Gunner might devise, she would have wagered on powder and shot—tied to a cannon or strung up for target practice.

 

Yet, to his core, Petee was a man of the sea, and keelhauling was a punishment uniquely indicative of this world.

 

Having once heard it described but never seen, Tudor was struck by the severity of the suggestion for mere theft. She also noted the slim chance of survival, a fate hinging on his ability to hold his breath, avoid being battered against the keel, and escape the gouging of sharp barnacles as he was dragged from side to side.

 

Still, should he survive, it would ease her task of ending him, that would fall to her upon the next charge. That oft-suppressed rage stirred, relishing the thought of his pain and fear—surviving only to meet death at her hands. She’d gladly share the glory with the barnacles, so long as he was wounded, then dead.

 

 

[William Brand]

Owen made no protest whatsoever.  If the sentence put a rope on Saltash, that was fine by him.  If Saltash survived it to be cut down after by a girl half his size...well...also fine.  It was all as near to his revelations as any other death he'd promised the prisoner.

A few picked up the suggestion with an 'aye' here and there.  A scattering of nods followed.

"NO!“  Saltash protested.  It wasn't the keelhauling which roused him.  He believed he could survive a keelhauling.  He knew he could survive it, but he wouldn't be called a fool and not take some revenge on Lund for doing so.  "HE PAID!  HE PAID FOR ME T..."

Saltash did not finish.  The anger Brand had kept, culled, coaxed to stay deep and silent, flared up too fast then.  Brand wouldn't hear Saltash speak of the crime as a task.  As something paid.  As a trivial errand.  Brand rushed the quarter-rail so fast that Saltash flinched back and blinked, expecting the Captain to fly the rail.

"THEM COINS FOUND ON ME WAS FOUND BY ME!"  Brand shouted down, hurling the prisoner's own previous words into his face like a stoning.  It felt so good to shout upon the man that Brand did it again. "THEM COINS FOUND ON ME WAS FOUND BY ME!"

Saltash, already sitting, fell back against the legs of the marines.  None of the marines seemed to care for this contact and stepped away, causing Saltash to fall flat.  Argus barked loudly.  Brand leaned out so far in the second shout, that had the ship dropped forward then into a trough then, the Captain might have spilled right over.  

"If you should speak once more you'll go under the ship with a gag in your mouth."  Brand promised.

Saltash never felt more frightened in all his life.  He shut his mouth so hard he felt his teeth click in protest.  An untreated tooth of his lower jaw howled out a little, but Saltash never said another word in his life, though some would say he begged at the end.  

Jim Warren, a man of brevity and calm throughout, picked up again where the acclamation had been interrupted.  "What say you?"

"AYE!"  Dash cried out in a voice that almost cracked, but carried well.  It was echoed everywhere.  Even Argus agreed.

Only the Spaniards, Saltash and Brand abstained.

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

Once Dash called out his "Aye," Tudor heard only three things, even her own assent silent to her ears.

 

First, Mister Warren declared with solemn authority that the crew had pronounced sentence.

 

Second, William, still at the rail, eyes fixed on the prisoner, struggled to maintain gravitas over vengeful glee. "Then let the sentence be carried out."

 

Third, her heart pounded in her ears, its rush drowning out the crew’s surge to enact the verdict.

 

She didn’t hear the ropes dragged across the deck to be rigged.

 

She didn’t hear the crew’s taunts as they stripped Saltash, ensuring his clothes offered no buoyancy, nor their debates over tying weights to make him drink the sea or leaving him to bob and float and strike the hull more, as they cinched a rope—perhaps too tightly—around his waist.

 

She didn’t hear the longer rope dropped or hauled up and tied to the spar.

 

She wasn’t sure she would hear anything until she knew that monster was dead.

 

With sound muted, she relied on sight, observing every detail unflinchingly, her gaze returning to Saltash every few seconds—partly relishing his punishment, partly ensuring he hadn’t slipped free or posed further threat.

[William Brand]

Brand moved away from the quarter rail and stood awhile in thought.  He too wasn't listening to most of it.  His thoughts were already in other places.  His thoughts were on himself and how his temper had gotten the best of him once too often of late.   He passed a simple, "Thank you, Mister Warren."

"Captain."

Jim went down into the Company to survey the lines, tying, spar and all things prepared for the sentence.

Brand looked once at Tudor.  It was that same long look with nothing on his face.  Deep water without ripples.  She couldn't possibly have guessed then that his thoughts ran thus for several minutes.

"She looks good standing there.  Strong.  Something about her arm around the shoulder of Dash.  Something of myth and all things...bygone.  Damn, how I'd paint if paint were at hand.  It's been an age.  I'd paint the two them as I see them now. Courage that can't be named or explained, but preserved maybe.  Preserved in oil.  Varnish.  Framed.  Eternal."  

His thoughts passed from this to sand, cool ruins and a woman from...

He scanned the water South and then Westward.  "Where is the Lucy?"  He said so softly that he almost didn't hear it himself.

"Over and down!" Jim called, as if ordering a boat lowered.

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

She watched him go over, but there was no satisfying splash.

 

Dash didn’t watch; he turned his face toward her at the last moment. All his courage and righteous fury still bowed to the boyish gentleness remaining in him, so he could not watch a man—even one as vile and cruel as Saltash—dropped to his likely death, especially since Dash bore some responsibility for the condemnation. No one begrudged him this shadow of softness. Everyone else was hardened to death and execution enough for all, and Dash had already left so much of boyhood behind in recent days.

 

She dared not draw her sight from the rail, lest Saltash somehow miraculously float up from the waves. Despite this, she felt the captain’s gaze upon them. She didn’t even glance away to gauge his expression; she knew it would be inscrutable, just as she knew he was appraising them.

 

Whatever his thoughts, he would share them in his own time or keep his own counsel, as he often did. But she knew there would be no judgment or recrimination there, and for now, that was enough.

 

For now, all she could do was shift her gaze to the other side, anticipating Saltash being hauled up, following the crew as they called to one another, pulled the rope along, and prepared to reel him in.

 

Fate would yet reveal whether it was to be carrion or an angry shark pulled from the waves.

Edited September 8, 2025 by Tudor MercWench Smith

[William Brand]

It was systematic at best.  Sailors on a line hauling away.  Even those who'd never seen such punishment were strangely disappointed by the simplicity of it all.  One moment he was there and the next he was in the water and those chosen (and volunteers alike) hauled away.  Once he was out of sight, everyone not employed could feel the frigate shift ever so slightly as the gawking Company hustled from one side of the ship to the other, vying to be first at the Larboard rail.  They leaned out, noting the expected bubbles that preceded the appearance of Saltash, but no Saltash arrived.  

Brand had lived long enough to know that fate and chance are but different relatives of the same family, but even he couldn't have seen what happened next.

The Watch Dog killed Saltash.

It was a kind of poetry that the frigate herself should have the final say in what became of him.  The man had murdered not a few people in his time.  He'd hurt others that would take their own lives. He would, in his carelessness, cause the death of many as he plodded through the world.  He'd caused enough bloodshed on his own to become a harbinger, stupid as he was, and completely ignorant of much of the damage he'd left in his wake. 

It was if the frigate herself said, 'Enough and no more.'

Saltash took one full and final breath.  He hit the water clean and let himself sink deep without struggle, knowing the further he sank, the greater he would clear the keel.  He let the men above do the work in the hauling, but the hauling had been something more than Saltash could have expected, and far from 'delaying' the haul to keep him down, they yanked him in with an over zealous need to rake him rough across the ship's belly.

None of this truly mattered.  The Universe balances all.  As Saltash reached the keel he found an imperfection on the beam. 

It wasn't much.  Little more than a long splinter on the grain.  It had formed when she was run ashore as the Nubian Trader many months ago at La Desirade.  The tide used to beach her there had not been enough and she'd shallowed on the corral.  This had weakened the wood ever so slightly in a place already threatened by the weight of 400 slaves in the crossing of the Atlantic some six times. 

Six times too many.   

It was made worse still when she was found heading toward rot by Diego Santana de la Vega.  She was saved in the careening, but for this small spot of worried timber, made worse still when they hauled her hard over.   She'd had a pitch pot too close in the caulking and it it had scorched the wood there.

One careening too many.

After the Watch Dog first put to sea, her new Captain had tested her ribbing in a turn made of wind and cannon fire to take two ships aprize.  

One turn too many.

And then the Navarra.

One collision too many.

And then...Saltash.  Confident.  Terrible.  Murderous.  

Too much.  It was all just too much.  The frigate, born in blood, bathed in blood, weary of blood ended Saltash in blood.  Or so it seemed.

In the end, it was a really just a splinter in a frigate keel.  It caught the rope.  Just that.  A simple groin in the cable caught on an old scar of the keel.  A splinter which also passed through one of his ribs. 

Saltash gasped and was done.  The rest was just thrashing and blood.

 

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

She still heard nothing, and no body had come up yet.

 

Despite the muffled nature, she heard—or at least read the lips of—those watching at the rail, calling back to those manning the ropes.

 

Blood in the water.

 

As good a sign as any that it was over.

 

But it was still not a body.

 

Tudor shot a helpless, wordless gaze toward William, the men hauling the line, William again, Dash, and then back to the rail where a body should be coming up just about now.

 

A thousand words tumbled in her mind, but none escaped her lips. It was as close to panic as any had ever seen from her.

 

If they did not pull him up, Harry Saltash would be added to a list—a terrible list she wished she did not carry invisibly. Of men presumed dead, whom she would always fear might return for her someday.

 

If there was no body, he would forever be a ghost.

[William Brand]

William and Jim joined the officers and crew in the untangling.  The line was hung up well and there was a debate passing back and forth that hard hauling might cause damage to the ship.  No one was thinking of Saltash now.  Too much blood had come up and even Saltash could not remain down that long and live.

Jim called for them to hold the line fast and take up the slack on the Starboard side.  The new bosuns took point on either side of the ship to manage the recover of the line, and if possible, a body, but the line was the thing and no one wanted to foul the keel or rudder.  This was counterpointed quickly as the lookouts called out, "Sharks!"  

"Damn and hell both."  William muttered.  "Get that line up before it's ruined altogether.  He met Jim at the rail who was nodding.  

"Tigers, I'd say."

"Aye."  Brand agreed, scowling.  

"Female."  Jim added, for they were large.  Three of them together.  

William chanced to hear one of the powder monkeys ask, "Where is Saltash?"

Robert Thatcher replied, and with no small hint of satisfaction in his voice.  "In Hell come supper."

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

Tudor still stood unmoved. 

 

She should be helping. Either helping with the ropes or offering to lead a volley to scare off the sharks. . .  or shoot them and have fresh meat for a meal tonight at least. 

 

But the only thing that would compel her to move in this moment would be direct orders to do so - a mind to think for her, for otherwise, her own volition was frozen to the spot, waiting to confirm he was dead. 

 

She had too many bodies, unseen.

[William Brand]

The Bosuns put the matter right in short order, but not before the Tigers had some way with the predator turned prey.  Saltash came up on the starboard side where he'd 'put in', in a tangle of line and foamy blood.  Robert shooed the younger lads away and more than a few expletives and blasphemies were spoken aloud at the sight of the former sailor.  The squeamish did not stay to watch the lunch they made of Saltash, but even this violence was ended quick enough as Jim and Brand called the body up to rob them of eating.  The line was too important given the loss to the Navarra.

 

They hauled the body up just enough to keep it off the water as chosen men went down to free the line and the carnage.  Rope was gathered carefully and coiled, with water run over it to clear any 'matter', taking some blood away down the scuppers in pink rivulets.  

Brand turned to look at Tudor from his place amidships, giving one nod of confirmation.

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

Breath she did not realize had been half held released, and the air refilled her lungs with something akin to a gasp, as noise also slowly started to become audible to her. 

 

She nodded her head back to the Captain, part acknowledgement, and part thanks. Thanks for confirming for her. Thanks for seeing this done. It wasn't hanging, but it was still a promise kept. 

 

"Come along Mister Dash," She said, half clapping, half rubbing his shoulder, something a cross between a gesture of comradery and something more matronly. "I should think some dry clothes, something to warm you and, a few more hours under the watchful eye of our good doctor is all that's required of you right now." She said, and she helped back down the stairs from the quarter to the  main, to where Maeve had waited, no doubt half prepared half dreading the possibility of having to provide medical care or pronouncement of death on Saltash. Luckily, with the sharks at their task, neither would be needed.

 

Dash delivered safely to the Doctor's care, men clapping him on the back as she herded him back below, Tudor took one more steadying breath, knowing that he was safe, that he wouldn't get hurt for her again.

 

To assure herself of this, while others, even well seasoned men, looked away from the carnage left behind by the sharks, Tudor made a point to look. She had to.  She trusted William's confirmation enough that she could move, could breathe, could live again. But she swore to herself that she would see that man bled out, torn apart if necessary . . . and she meant to keep that promise. It was her final victory over him.

 

As gruesome as it was, a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, but she quickly pulled it away from her lips, lest anyone see it and think her the worst kind of madwoman, to be pleased by such carnage.  

 

Taking in the final glances of it, she fell in to her normal position, at the captains elbow, silently, and with practiced ease, taking comfort of this first step  of returning to normalcy. "What orders next, sir?" 

 

 

[William Brand]

"Aye, Mistress Smith.  See Monsieur Durand to..."  Brand paused then, but only briefly.  "Mister Saltash was of a certain size, so...I should have his hammock brought up to the great cabin.  Durand will be my guest there."

Jim was surprised by this.  William gave a half shrug. "We've too many below.  And Mistress Smith, order a marine apart from yourself to fetch any luggage of the same to be brought to the quarterdeck.  Then see to the larder and have Mister Lazarus seen over by the Surgeon."  

Brand turned just in time to see them fetch out the splinter from the body and in the act of tossing it away.  He and the Ship's Carpenter both cried out, "You there!"
 

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

The Captain delivered the orders and then quickly had his attention stolen by something happening with the cleanup of ropes and remains. It did not matter, of course; she needed no further explanation, and it felt good to have more mundane tasks at hand, with little need for context or comment.

 

Finding Eric and Treasure busy on the deck, working but not with pointed purpose or direct command now that the prisoner they had been tasked to guard was more in the jurisdiction of those assigned to swabbing the decks, she gestured for them to meet her halfway on her approach. She quickly explained the Captain's orders, and the trio headed below.

Much to her gratitude, neither seemed too keen on replaying the details of what had just passed on their way, nor were they bothered by the lack of contribution Tudor exhibited when it came to the bits of small talk they exchanged—if the weather would hold, how soon they would be underway.

 

Tudor was stuck somewhere in the middle—she had no desire to mince words over what was done but also carried too much to remember all the basic social niceties in the moment.

 

The hammock, when they reached it, seemed just another bit of canvas, like any other. Part of her felt that perhaps some malicious spirit might somehow waft off it, just from having cradled the likes of Saltash. But in the end, it was just canvas, and even if there had been spirits, she was too practical to be bothered by them. As tired as she knew Durand to be, she doubted he would be much bothered if it was possessed by Legion, as long as it gave him a safe and moderately comfortable place to sleep.

 

So, unbefitting a sailor, she started to remove the ropes from where they had been mounted with no further superstition than the simple thought, "Even the devil wouldn't want to lay close to that man."

[William Brand]

Several sailors arrived to watch this collection.  They were a tired lot, spent by added watches, but they stood apart and let the trio work.  No one interrupted them.  Only the smallest of small talk passed between them.  It was a small audience that grew quickly, for up above the Captain and Master were sending men down to sleep.  Strangely, the room grew quieter, not louder as more arrived.  They all just stood about.  No one took a hammock, and a few men abed, dropped from their hammocks to stand in shirttails and bare feet.

Treasurer shot Eric a bright and questioning smile as if to say, 'Look at this then.'

Eric smiled back only a little, but with a more knowing look behind his eyes.  Whatever he was thinking, he kept his own council.  He also felt that a sober face was needed to remind all that no death aboard is a celebration and business is still business.

With everything gathered, they turned about and would have made their way up and out again without thought, but something in the throng seemed 'different'.   

Tudor was not two feet from the space that Saltash had called his berth, when the nearest sailor tipped his hand at his brow.  'Mistress Smith', he said with a purposeful deference.  This was answered by the next man and the next and the next.  It was a sober respect offered by every man in turn as she passed.  

Eric smiled a little more, but seeing the crowd set to thick at the stairway, called out companionably, "Make way.  Marines coming through."

 

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

She broke.

 

Not something she did easily or well, especially in the company of others or many. She tended to attempt to fight her battles as if they were targets for assassination—mercilessly, with little fanfare and as few witnesses as possible.

 

Since dawn she had not cried once. She did not cry for herself. She did not cry for Dash. She had kept such a tight leash on all emotions—even fury, for anger makes a heedless commander. She did not cry for what had happened, or from any sense of weakness.

 

The first salute startled her. As something that fell in some nebulous position halfway between officer and crew, she was not entirely unaccustomed to any shows of deference, but typically they were reserved when she was fulfilling a specific role—given command of the deck in lieu of another officer—or delivering specific orders directly from the Captain. A deference given to the role she filled or the rank that she was emissary of, not something she herself had. She mirrored the gesture, more by rote than reason, as she pondered on it.

 

The world had no respect for her. Born to no one knows who, and having dallied in everything from gutters to gilded courts, in a life far too full folded into far too few years, nothing she had ever done or been on her own had been respected.

 

As if to spite the world, she always fought tooth and nail, demanded what scraps of respect she could string out from people. The Watch Dog, the anomaly that it was, was the first place that the fight was leastwise not so hard. Saltash reminded her though, that no matter what it would always be a fight.

 

The second salute left her a burning feeling in her chest, as if she had been stabbed, and quickly was losing the ability to breathe.

 

All those that came after flooded her.

 

She managed to disguise that harried gasp for air behind the hefting of the loosely bundled canvas onto her shoulder, and she prayed that the light dimmed by the cave-like nature of the underdecks of a ship would make the unbidden tears that she tried to quickly squint away go unnoticed, and that the shaking of her shoulders would be interpreted as struggling under the weight of canvas, and not sobs pushing to escape the throat she choked them down.

 

In hopes that would all be missed, she just returned salute to all that offered it, as she made her way in the wake of Eric and Treasure.

[William Brand]

Whether on purpose or by accident, Eric and Siren made a mess of climbing the companionway with the sea chest.  They came up under a sky that was clearing more and more with every passing minute, as was the deck.  The carpenters, mates and sailors were finishing up the worst from the Navarra and storm and the weight of workers had almost returned to a purposeful 'watch'.



 

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

Tudor took as much note of the other Marine’s struggles as she did the brightening sky that waited above deck, and whatever delay it caused was only noticed because it caused the slightest delay in her reaching the great cabin, where she might at least find a corner to compose herself before anyone marked her emotional unravelling.

She had to keep moving. Holding still at this point would see her collapse, and she refused to give Saltash even that small satisfaction in death.

 

She would see his hammock borne to the great cabin, and Durand safely tucked into it, if she had to snivel like an upset child the whole time she would be accomplishing it. 

[William Brand]

Durand and Brand stood in a conference of words near the taffrail.  Sentences of mixed language passed between them as they explained all that had happened since the storm, Navarra and the disappearance of the Lucy.  They stood alone, speaking just loud enough for one another.  

For his part, Durand was grateful that Brand had invited him to speak so soon.  Durand, not one to overthink his own mortality, was feeling very alive in a strange way, despite the exhaustion of the night.  He'd had wanted a reason not to sleep right away, and the discussion was a kind of second meal since coming aboard.

Brand was grateful for the distraction, though he tried not to admit this on any level to himself.

They spoke with a candor that seemed surprising to Brand, but not unknown.  He'd met too many people in his life that gave him a sense of instant ease not to appreciate it each time that it happened, but it always seemed a little surprising just the same.  

They both noted the arrival of the Ship's steward, and watched her progress with the other marines to the companionway.  It was the only pause in their discussion and they immediately went back to the subject of Trinidad and what would be waiting there.  

They both prophecied trouble aloud. 

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

She paused only long enough to mark the Captain’s place on deck—Durand at his side—then shifted the heavy roll of canvas higher on her shoulder. With the heel of her free hand she ground at the corners of her eyes, hard, as if she could shove the sting back inside. One more slow breath, ribs aching with it, and she turned toward the great cabin to finish readying the quarters for their French guest.

[William Brand]

Brand and Durand had been joined by Misters Campion, Light and Youngblood.  They'd come to the crucial point of discussing the Lucy and those lost or missing from that injured ship.

"Thoughts...?"  Brand asked, expecting them to mirror his own.  There was a silence for a moment, before they all began speaking in turn, each adding to the other in speculation that no one would be lost while Lasseter lived.  

Some imagined him beaching the Lucy at La Grenade to the Northwest or Tobago to the Southeast, in an attempt to careen.  Others surmised some similar beaching, but with one of the small boats, focused on the needs of lives alone.  All conclusions put the remainder of the Lucy's crew somewhere on the coasts of these current and convenient friends, by whatever means they'd find to get there.  The only alternative was a braver reach to Trinidad or Southward more to the coast of the New Kingdom of Granada, in a vessel not meant for the range and no one expected Lasseter to take such risks.  

Either way, they were nowhere to be seen at any point from the position of the 'Dog, and Brand had sent up fresh eyes three times in the hour. 

A second silence followed, but it was short.  Brand held a hundred souls more than Lasseter.

"Prepare to make way, Mister Light."

"Aye, Aye!"