The Watch Dog

[Bloody Bill Flint]

Bill chewed slowly while he considered the Captain's words. Mr. Lasseter didn't seem at all shocked by what Flint had said.

"Before I return to the surgery sar, I must say one thing more."

The others drew save the captain drew back a bit wondering what new madness was about to erupt from the Master-at-Arms.

"Captain it's not that it was not yet my time to go, I was sent back."

"No, Bill..." Brocke began, but Bill cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"The spirit of the great sachem Tammanend sought me out in the space between Life and Death and offered me my life again in exchange for returning the tomahawk to it's rightful place. I was hopeful that once our business is concluded in Martinique we might inspect the company's holdings in Manhattan. I understand you can give no answer now, but I would like it to merit the consideration of the company."

[Red Cat Jenny]

Silence followed Bill's statement once more, but for the clatter of the surgeon's knife dropping against the wooden plate as she hastened to quiet the utensil. Sounds above them indicating the change of watch filled the space but could not drown out the volume of Flint's words. Miss Ashcome wondered if Mr. Flint had gone mad from his injuries. Surely in his condition he was functioning on some store of adrenaline and she expected him to fall from where he sat at any moment. Brocke sat as if frozen, his face reflecting a blend of the plea for Bill not to repeat what he must have divulged earlier in private and fear for what might befall his fellow crew man for what was now laid out before the Captain. Jenny drew back slightly in her seat should the man become suddenly violent. Flin't face remained calmly earnest and all eyes turned to Captain Lasseter.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Had what Master Flint said been the ravings of a man out of sorts, Captain Lasseter might not have given a second thought to his words. But they were well thought out and respectful, so Dorian again studied the man. He let his eyes search over Bill, touching on the Native tattoos that peeked out from under bandages and clothing. Dorian had only once come in contact with the Red Men of the Americas, and it was a brief encounter, but in that short time he had made a keen observation. Of course those around him did much to put them down as ‘heathens and wild savages’, Dorian had kept his opinion of them as one of a people much truer to themselves than any Englishman he knew. What the Captain knew of Bill Flint, that he was a colonial and had lived among the Red Men, for how long he didn’t know, but from what he had just said he had taken their beliefs to heart. The Captain looked at the others present to see what their reaction was. Brocke looked to be in mild disbelief, and he could not quite read the faces of the two women.

“This tomahawk… the one you carry… you say it must be returned to its rightful place and that happens to be Manhattan?”

“Aye Sar.”

Dorian nodded but once as he noticed Nathaniel put a hand across his eyes and start to shake his head.

“You are correct that I cannot answer where our next port may be… We can discuss such soon enough with Captain Brand. I shall make a note of it.”

As he spoke the final word, Dorian turned in his chair and stood, stepping over to his desk and opening the ships ledger. He took up a pen and inked it, writing a note to himself in the margin. He left the book open and placed the pen in the crease before returning to his chair. As he sat he gave a nod to Bill.

“Thank you, sar.”

The meal was continued in silence for a time, then the simple small take slowly returned, though somewhat hesitantly from some. As Dorian took a drink from his glass he wondered if any of those present might think him mad for taking the request seriously.

[Red Cat Jenny]

Maeve resisted the urge to stand and insist this an imposibility. Instead she kept her seat and her eyes to her meal, already annoyed at her reaction to this strange declaration. Though it was not out of step with the others present who surely felt the same. Being a docteur her instinct was to deny such preposterous allegations. Not having witnessed so herself, Miss O'Treaisaigh had heard of such things happening..those who were pronounced dead returning signs of life. Though usually it was during a surgery or directly on a field of battle and most died some time later.

Her purpose as those in the community of medicine was to pull the injured or sick away from the grasping hands of death and curiosity at the possibility intrigued the medical mind. To understand that which had not been fully explained was always in the interest of those tasked with healing the human body. To seek remedy in new understanding which could be shared. Part of her wanted to examine him immediately having personally removed so much shrapnel from his flesh to see if she had perhaps underestimated his injuries.. she quiety shook off the thought..she had not mistaken.."trauma"..she thought to herself..surely he is speaking through the results of such and practicality would soon make that apparent.

Miss Ashcombe selected a piece of ripe fruit new from the stores brought aboard and chewed slowly wondering what had visited Mr. Flint. She chanced a brief glance at the faces around her as they ate, passing most briefly over the Master at Arms for fear he would speak again. Those who claimed to have returned from another plane to walk among the living again.. It brought a chill as Meaves hand had faltered causing her to start at the sound, to wonder what had visited him, madness or specter. Or had he spoken the truth? Bill sat before them clearly worse for his wear but the sincerity in his voice belayed the composure of madness. Jenny had seen those not of sound health along the back roads of the village. Drunkards and the ill of mind, speaking madness or warding off invisible assailants, yet Mr. Flint showed neither the discord of the mad or the sway of drunkeness. While in the colonies Jenny had heard of medicine men among the natives and wondered at the possibility in their beliefs. The scar she wore as a result of an encounter with them unbeknownst to those at the table. She had always felt being human one could not deny a thing simply because it was not seen or did not fit what was written in boooks approved by those who declared themselves to have proved all mysteries. There was much that was unexplained. She thought of Je'Miah and what he would say had he been present with his strange and quiet wisdom and the fact that Captain Lasseter had taken the request in stride and his own sincerity. The meal continued for a time and Jenny stood to refresh those glasses in need and clear some few plates now empty to the tray on the side table.

[Bloody Bill Flint]

Bill sat in silence. His gaze wondered around the table. Most would not meet it, and the few that dared quickly looked away. Even Nathaniel looked uncomfortable to be in his presence.

"They think I'm mad", he thought. Then again mayhaps they were correct. No, he'd felt the frost on the ground in the meadow and Tammanend's breath on his face. He had been in the Hunting Grounds. Flint wiped his face and excused himself. Brocke made to assist him but Flint waved him away. "Nathaniel you shall serve in my stead til such time as our good doctor shall pronounce me fit for duty again" Brocke knuckled his brow and Flint made his way slowly and painfully towards the surgery.

[Red Cat Jenny]

Hold of The Lucy

As the first Starboard watch since the great guns of the snow had fired upon them came under way, Anthony Coipman and John Black descended among the considerable bulk in the Lucy's hold.

"Bugger!" Black exclaimed stepping aside as a rat scuttled from the light of his lantern and over his shoes dodging off into the further darkness. As he stepped aside his slops caught on the splintered edge of a crate rending a new hole to be mended. With a further swear at the "filthy English vermin" John settled himself amongst several hogsheads. He placed the lanten atop the nearest one to better see the ledger he would transcribe the British cargo into while Mr. Coipman climbed amongst the items hastily brought from the enemy ship even as it had begun to list and sink. Anthony posessed better skills for reading and counting and was of smaller stature which allowed him to make his way within the close space. Being at least half the age of Mr. Black he accepted being tasked with such at the elder mans suggestion and had to repeat himself at times as his Dutch accented english carried over and from behind where he stooped or reached, moving his own lantern carefully as he went. As he waited for the next tally, John Black traced a finger over the bale mark of the barrel he sat on and huffed "Tha King's Fury" "..no match for the fury of men and dogs..aye?" Went down majestically.. may tha King rest in peace at th' bottom" with the last he feigned a bow from where he sat.

"Shouldn't speak ill of the dead"... Anthony muttered more thickly in his own accent as he hadn't intended to be heard beyond his own thoughts. Forced into service as his own fellow crew had perished aboard the Fluyt caused him to have some empathy despite the attack. The memory was still fresh in his mind. But John's ears were sharp and he peered towards the glow of the lantern where it flickered from Mr. Coipman's position behind the stores. "Lad" he spoke slowly but with the benefit of experience, "those aboard would gladly have spilled yer innards on their deck had they the chance. Make no mistake in that.. "

"Two barrels of nails, twenty sacks of feed grain" was the only reply after a pause and John let this pass knowing years would bring the same understanding. The heat of the day began to make it's way below the Lucy's deck as the sun reached its zenith. Above and around them the sound of repair rang out in hammers, orders and the call for Mr. Wenge as a plank which was badly twisted where it joined a bulkhead began to leak and required a more senior understanding for it's repair.

.."Two and Twenty " he repeated, wiped the perspiration from the back of his neck and leaned to his task noting the items in separate places.

[Pew]

Below deck, Charlie made way for Preston's cabin. He knew there were to be two marines standing guard. With some luck, they would be two of his own crewmen from the Bullrush. He rolled his coin across his fingers as he had done thousands of times before.

He saw Johan Stadtmeyer and Robert Jameson standing just outside the cabin. He tucked the coin away and furrowed his brow.

"Gentlemen. Cap'ns called f'r Preston above." He stood just a moment and acted impatient. Johan looked to Robert who shrugged slightly. The guard turned and opened the cabin door, to which Charlie rushed in ahead of Stadtmeyer. Preston was lying in his hammock, relaxed. A slight blood stain was seen on his sleeve, but looked none the worse for wear following the battle with the snow.

"Ah Mister Goddon, a fine for a sail, no?" Preston smiled.

"Wot's gotten into you Mister Whittenf'rd?" Charlie whispered to himself.

"Inta me? Nothing, nothing at all Charlie." Preston closed his eyes slowly. When he opened them, a pall fell over the room. An eerie silence filled the cabin. Charlie felt suddenly uncomfortable.

[Dorian Lasseter]

At two bells of the Afternoon Watch, the meal had concluded, Master Flint gone to the surgery not ten minutes before. Nathaniel Brocke took his leave as Acting Master-at-Arms and all that remained in the Wardroom of the Lucy was the Captain, his Steward and Miss O’Treasaigh, the Surgeon of the Watch Dog on loan to the Lucy. All three looked to be ready to fall fast asleep, each owing to a different reason. Dorian wished to dismiss both of the ladies and allow all three of them some much needed rest, however the pressing matter of the Ships Master had to be addressed. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his right hand and stifled a yawn before addressing the women.

“Well… much as I’d like ta send all of us to find rest… I am ne need to know of Preston… What is his condition Ma’am?”

He fought back the urge to close his eyes and lay his head on his chest, or worse, on his arms crossed on the table. Instead he motioned to Miss Ashcombe for a cup of coffee. Words deserted him but for an ‘If you please.’ While holding up his empty china cup.

[Red Cat Jenny]

Miss Ashcombe stood by from clearing the last of the meal as the two men took their separate leave. Maeve poised on the edge of her seat ready to assist and Mr. Brocke still wearing an expression of concern walked Bill half way to the the few steps. As Flint bore his tortured frame and now thoughts from the ward room with what dignity he coud muster, he knew he was right to hand over his post at that moment, keenly aware of the eyes at his back. He straightened a bit knowing it would bring the Captain and the crew as well, relief to have one less officer compromised at that moment though he was now sure of himself. He wondered further as he descended into the surgery what the news of Preston would be or how fast such news would travel. He was sure he would hear some word by nightfall and hoped it was not grave. As the door closed behind him, Miss O'Treaisaigh settled back in her chair with a sigh relieved to have not been needed at that moment.

Once Brocke had excused himself, the room seemed at peace. For a moment the three remained silent content to have no more than the sould of the waves slapping the hull in concert with muffled sounds from above and the Captain's yawn to occupy their tired minds. As Miss O'Treaisaigh collected her thoughts on his request, Jenny returned from the sideboard with a still hot pot of coffee and poured with care into the Captain's cup. The wear of the previous day and the pending report of his Ship's Master showed upon his face as he allowed himself a less official composure in this more private setting. Miss Ashcombe wondered if the statement of Bill Flint or the unknown condition of Mr. Pew wearied him more.

She settled in her chair folding her hands around another of the china cups as they waited for Maeve to begin.

[William Brand]

Maeve was quiet only for a moment. It was not hesitation for lack of words, but a pantomime of her father, for he had always paused to collect his thoughts in full before explaining his conclusions about any given patient. Once she had the full measure of her explanation sorted out in her mind, she laid it out as bare as an open wound. She explained that there was something the matter with Preston, not because of any rambling or obvious distemper on his part, but rather the opposite. He was over jovial. Carefree past the concern of his own health. This time, he was not the stubborn patient he had been ashore, endlessly ignoring the need for bed rest and care. This time he seemed oblivious of any concern at all. His good humor might have proved a good sign in any other sailor, but it sat strangely on Preston. He was almost manic in his pleasant insistence that all was right as rain. It was a kind of giddiness that Maeve had only ever seen in the face of those whose minds had parted from solid ground. Still, she was careful to admit to Captain Lasseter that the full measure of her concern was based on but a single conversation, and she was also quick to point out that this observed, minute fugue might be fleeting and might leave at any moment, never to return. Many a good man in a hard place might trip a little on his way.

On the matter of his physical hurts, she was more definite in her recommendations, and was absolute in her assurance that he could serve at any time if these injuries alone were the only matter. The malady that had predated Martinique was now a distant concern, and she thought that he might serve well without concern for his physical health.

The doctor's blunt and straightforward observations did not completely remove the weighty matter from the table of Dorian's brain, but as the doctor could make no true dire conclusions, she did at least make inquiry easier. He plied her with a few questions to be certain of her opinions as touching the Ship's Master, and she answered each and every one of them without pause to his satisfaction.

This done, they were able to shuffle off the business and show a little more mortality in fatigue. They even observed openly the tired and weary business of their own health, and some genuine smiles found their way to the surface of the conversation. As the remaining crumbs of the meal before them disappeared and the last dark dregs of coffee or tea were supped, Dorian sent Miss Ashcombe again to see the doctor to a bed, with strong orders not to disturb her unless the care of a patient should require more knowledgeable hands.

[Red Cat Jenny]

The two women made their way wordlessly to a berth suitable, too weary to ponder further the intricacies of Preston's condition. The Captain had exhausted all that could be asked or answered and only time would tell. Jenny provided the churgeon with a wool blanket and further reassurance that her rest as ordered, would not be interrupted unless absolutely necessary. Maeve settled with tired word of thanks and was asleep almost immediately before Miss Ashcombe could inquire if she had further needs. Jenny returned to the ward room knocking twice and entered to find Captain Lasseter still at the table though he had removed his coat, hung his baldric in it's place and rolled his shirtsleeves. She freshened the basin and replaced the remaining chairs against the table. With any luck and no further interruptions sleep would find those in need.

[Pew]

Preston clutched at his mouth as a cough resounded in the small cabin. A small drip of blood appeared at the corners of his strange smile. A gurgling could be head from what Charlie could only surmise to be deep within the belly of Preston himself. He heard a retch and then watched as vomit spewed from Preston. He jumped back immediately and could only watch as blood and bile piled upon the Ship's Master's stomach, then to spill upon the floor.

Calling for the guards to find the surgeon, Charlie sprung from the room and raced to the surgery.

[Bloody Bill Flint]

Bill had scarcely settled into his berth back in the surgery when Charlie Goddon burst in.

"Mistress, come quick it's Master Whit-" his sentenced died on his lips as he realized that, one, the doctor was out, and two, he was faced with Bill Flint. After having heard the stories passing around the crews quarters of Mr. Flint he found he liked being alone with him even less than Preston.

"She's in the Ward Room, what's wrong with Pew?" Bill queried?

"He's dreadful sick sah" Goddon somehow found the courage to say

"Where is he?"

"In his cabin sah"

"well you know where to find here , now go"

Charlie knuckled his brow and hurried out. Bill rose and made for Preston's cabin. The two Marines guarding the door paledat his approach.

"Begging pardon sah, no one's to enter save the Cap'n and those he appoints." Robert Jameson said nervously.

Bill gave a look that brooked no argument and the Marines stood aside. Inside he found Preston doubled over and heaving onto the floor. Flint knelt beside him.

"what've you gotten yourself into this time mate?"

[Pew]

Preston spat on the floor. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and spat again.

"Dunno, Bill. The same as 't Martinique, jus' worse. Feels like I jus' woke up from a bad nap," coughed Preston. "'ave we engaged the snow yet?"

Bill stared at Preston incredulously. He pushed his shoulder under Preston's and helped him to his feet, then gently into his hammock. "I'll be right back."

The Master-at-arms left the room purposefully. He knew Charlie was in search of the surgeon; he went for the Captain.

[Dorian Lasseter]

As Miss Ashcombe went about the cabin, Captain Lasseter stood slowly and walked the handful of paces to the basin she had refreshed with clean water. As he bent closer to cup his hands in the water, the wound across his back along with the other hurts of battle and fatigue made their presence known. Dorian did no more than clench his jaw and bear the pain as he drew the water to his face. The coolness of the water both revived and refreshed him to a degree. After repeating the process several times, he stood and let the water drip off his face back into the basin as he leaned on the sideboard. Dorian let the conversation regarding Preston repeat in his mind, wondering truly what might be the way of things. He could not have his Ships Master return to duty until he was sure of his well being. Another would have to be temporarily appointed until that time, but whom? The Captain could not think clear enough as he had not slept for what felt like a fortnight, but was only closer to two days time. All he wanted was to be able to rest knowing the Lucy was in good hands. A loud knock on the door from the hold shattered his thoughts. Straightening and taking up a towel to wipe his face, Dorian turned to the offending port.

“Enter.”

The door opened to reveal Master Flint. As the Captain was about to scold his officer for disobeying his orders so soon after they were given, Bill spoke gravely.

“Captain, tis Mister Whittingford, ye best come quick.”

Without a word Dorian quickly wiped his face and headed to Preston’s quarters.

[Red Cat Jenny]

Seeing Bill Flint return so quickly Miss Ashcombe excected another strange utterance. When he entered, his face was full of urgency and concern unlike the calm of before. As soon as he had spoken of Preston's condition, he turned on his heel and descended towards the Ship's Master's quarters with Captain Lasseter in haste behind. Jenny followed after both to fetch the churgeon, but as she neared the berth Miss O'Treaisaigh already in the company of Charlie Goddon rushed past to join the others. All heading in urgency to Preston's cabin.

[Pew]

Preston had his feet on the deck sitting sideways, trying to steady himself in the swaying hammock. He could hear the trodding of several pair of footsteps leading aft.

The door swung open suddenly sending air rushing into the cabin. Each man covered his nose with the sleeve or even bare wrist. The cabin reeked of vomit and blood. Preston's shirt was seeped with sweat. The ship's master turned to meet the throng. A pale face with bloodshot eyes greeted them, "Morning?" Preston managed a weak smile as he wiped his lips. "Cap'n. Are we pr'pared t' engage the snow?"

[Dorian Lasseter]

Dorian stood silently for a moment before answering Preston.

“No Lad, not to worry…”

He turned and stepped from the cabin and leaned on the nearest bulkhead.

“Gu sealladh saelbh oirnn…”

Finding the two marines he had left as guards staring at him, the Captain straightened and gave orders.

“Go find Mister Tucker, have him send some men here ta clean up Master Whittin’ferds cabin wi’ mops n’ a mix o’ seawater an’ vinegar… “

Both men, happy to be released from their post made haste from the space below. Dorian headed back into the cabin. He looked at Maeve and did not hesitate.

“We’ll clean him up and put him in my quarters… Have th’ stern bench made up comfortable…”

Turning back to Preston, Captain Lasseter hoped he would understand what was to be done.

“Master Whi… Preston… You are relieved of duty until your health is returned. Until you are declared as such, you will take your ease in the wardroom.”

Not waiting for an answer, Captain Lasseter removed himself from the cabin and with haste headed to the Wardroom. He headed directly for the stern windows and leaned out and down, emptying the contents of his gut into the sea. When there was none left to wretch up, he pulled himself back onto the stern bench for a moment to catch his breath before heading to the basin to clean himself up.

[Bloody Bill Flint]

Flint quietly stepped out and returned to the surgery. He noticed a small amount of blood had seeped through his dressings. But it was not much, at least not near as much as there should have been. He removed his used dressings and examined his wounds. Though the appeared to be healing at a rate normal for him, he couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had settled over him since he awoke to find himself being prepared for burial. He should be more fatigued and bleeding from his exertions, but was not. Was he possessed by some manner of devil as the crew had suggested? Bill sat on the hammock he previously occupied, alone with his thoughts.

[Pew]

Preston simply hung his head and nodded.

Charlie Goddon stepped into the room and helped the Ship's master to his feet. Holding Whitingford to his hip, Charlie turned the man around and slowly walked him from the room. Preston coughed hard but Goddon held him tight. The two managed their way to Ward Room slowly. Several minutes passed before they arrived at the door.

A knock, accompanied by a simple, "Come," was all that bade them enter.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Captain Lasseter had busied himself by preparing some things for Preston’s care. Some blankets were added to the seat of the stern bench along with two ticking pillows at one end. He had briefly exited the room to the deck and retrieved a gun bucket, placing it on the wardroom deck near the pillows. He had stopped to wipe his brow as the heat of the day was further heightened by the humidity. Dorian was about to prop open the side windows when a knock came. Turning to the sound he bade them to come in. Charlie had Preston there, still clothed in his soiled shirt. The Captain drew out a chair for Preston to sit and once he was comfortable had Charlie go fetch clean clothes for the man. Dorian freshened the basin and brought it to the table along with several pieces of cloth. He helped Preston get his shirt off and dropped it in the gun bucket with a wet ‘plop’. Charlie returned with a set of clothing and placed them on the table and was given leave. Soon the Surgeon returned with her pack of medicines and Dorian took the soiled clothing out on deck in the gun bucket. This he sat on deck and took up another gun bucket to replace it with in the wardroom.

[William Brand]

Captain Brand took his turn at the rail and was content that morning to scan every inch of the horizon with a glass. More than once he checked the progress of the Navarra and the Lucy as he watched everywhere else. Jim did the same forward and they reminded the men fore and aft that the Caribbean was a battlefield at present and not to disregard the smallest sign that might present itself.

An hour or more had slowly sifted through the glass as they watched, and while they were quite alone for the present, the exercise was not lost on anyone. Even the prisoners, secured under the fore deck, would chance to look out for any sliver of sea and sky and they had to be reminded not to talk among themselves.

Ajayi was brought out on deck once during that time, to stretch his legs and turn his face toward the sun. It seemed to revive him as much as the air did. It was easy for William, looking at the man now, to imagine what he would look like under the same sun, but in different climes. They exchanged just a little Arabic at seeing one another and William was glad that the old language was not utterly lost to his recollection.

"The Navarra is slowing off to the East again." Jim said, shaking his head.

"They've a poor bosun." William agreed, reading disdain in Jim's face as he came up to the quarterdeck, for the handling of the merchantman demonstrated the poor order of the neighboring ship.

"Poison from the Captain's table." Jim returned. William simply nodded.

"Sail off the port quarter!"

Everyone's eyes shot up. Jim and William crossed and took out a glass each. They scanned the horizon for a time before finding the small vessel. Jim sighted it first and pointed down his arm toward the rigging of a ship too small to threaten even the Lucy. It was also too far off to be taken a prize.

"She has the wind at her back." William thought aloud.

"Aye." Jim agreed

"Too far and too little."

"Aye."

And the day sifted on in this fashion as they watched the small stranger come and go again from their private part of the sea.

[Pew]

Preston exhaled deeply and managed a sharp cough. The surgeon did what she could for the ship's master but whisped to the Captain that rest would be the best bane for Preston's condition.

Charlie stood quietly, then helped Preston to the bench when he finished the small mug of elixir concocted for him. Matser Whitingford rolled gently to watch the following sea trail out behind the Lucy as she sped towards Trinidad.

Dorian thanked both of crew for their time spent with the ship's master. As they exited the Ward Room, he sighed lightly and stood with his arms crossed for a moment. Biting his lip lightly he turned and fetched the log book for the Lucy.

[William Brand]

Life below deck was as one might expect, what with so many new sailors mixed with the old. Already new alliances were forming, but also a few rivalries. The introductions of so many recent prisoners from Martinique and the Maastricht brought with them the foolish bigotry and religious divisions of the wide world into a mix already so eclectic, that their were instant friendships and hatreds within just a few days. These bonds and divisions were expected, and the Bosuns handled them with a balance of indifference and deference applied in measures equal to each situation. Arguments great and small were shouted down, or when too heated, put to work in the open air.

Strangely, some of the conflicts came, not between old and new crew members, but between the newest recruits alone. It seemed that some of the prisoners bore grudges against one another going back to times which preceded their capture. These grudges had not only survived the Fort Royal prison, but had flourished there, growing like a mold in the dark, damp corners of that place.

Still, no great disagreement could be found that didn't fade in the face of the favorable weather. The same could not be said of the conflicts aboard the Navarra.

Life aboard the Spanish merchantman was not so easily comforted by a clear sky and an open horizon. The machinations and politics aboard the Navarra ran deep and all her inner workings were filled with sand and friction. So strange and conflicting were the many ongoing troubles of that ship, that had Captain Brand understood them, he might not have taken on the peril of escorting her to Trinidad.

Already since leaving Martinigue, not one, but two murders had taken place aboard her, each one excused under the guise of preserving order, though they were murders pure and simple. These acts were but the latest in a trail of blood going all the way back to Spain and they were so casually done as to suggest that more would come before her tale was finished.

By comparison, the conflicts which had played out aboard the Watch Dog and Lucy were small, almost trite. Everyone aboard the Navarra was either utterly naive of the evils to which they were connected, or so utterly entrenched as to lie awake by night and to walk in wariness all day.

One of the many who watched everyone all the time, was Lieutenant De la Cruz. Roldán was a young man of few prospects, and had taken on his post aboard the Navarra against his own better judgment. Indeed, in the very act of signing aboard, his skin had crawled a bit, but signed aboard he had.

Now he stood at the rail watching the fair Lucy in her progress, longing to join himself to any ship but this one. He had just come again from the ill company of Captain Avendano, where he had once again urged the man to give better understanding of the Navarra's cargo to their allies.

"Allies...?" Captain Avendano had scoffed, red about the collar. "Brand is a hireling, and I'll tell him no more than he deserves. A hireling and a protestant both. Ally." Avendano had not hidden any disdain, for it was his nature to put the whole race of man beneath him.

It had been what Roldán had expected, but he couldn't in good conscience keep quiet on the matter, for he found it troubling to shake the hand of friends with fresh blood upon his own. His thoughts went back to Le Vedette.

[Pew]

Dorian reached for a tankard from the shelf and placed it upon the table next to the log. Reaching for the bottle currently set on the side table, he paused. Stepping lightly across the small room, he arrived at the foot locker set opposite the table. He fumbled for a moment with the latches but then spent little time finding the vintage he sought.

He removed a bottle of fine Madeira and poured himself a glass. Dorian set the bottle on the table while he drained the glass. Watching Preston on the stern bench, he knew his time for rest was rapidly approaching. He wondered over a second glass if the day's events could wait for the morrow to be scribed into the log.