After the storm, there are conversations and decisions. To those who have reviewed, thank you.
The prevailing mood for days after Dolphin escaped in the storm was anger. Tension, already straining the air in the Commodore's cabin every evening, rose even higher. Captain Collins remained steadfastly belligerent and had begun taking his meals alone in his small cabin, a clear drawing of battle lines between himself and Commodore Norrington. His lieutenants were thoroughly baffled by their superior's odd behaviour, their shock mirroring that of the Dauntless' officers. Gillette couldn't help thinking the captain's sourness was not helped by the wounding of a marine before Dolphin had slipped away. Did he blame the Commodore for not pursuing the sloop more vigorously? In that weather, what could have been done that had not already been?
Thankfully, Collins' first lieutenant had taken over in the Yorkshireman's absence. Thus far, Gillette was impressed, albeit grudgingly, by Forsythe's conduct and competence. He had acted quickly during the storm, when one of his sharp-shooters toppled to the deck as he was reloading his musket, ordering the other corporal to carry the man below. To Gillette's surprise, the lieutenant had then picked up the discarded musket and calmly fired one last shot at Dolphin before the sloop was out of range. Later on, he had delivered his report to the Commodore in a flat tone, not showing a trace of the nervousness he had earlier, on the poop deck.
Tonight, seated across from Forsythe, as the Commodore's steward and the two marine attendants bustled quietly around the table filling glasses, Gillette studied the Irishman. In Collins' pointed removal of himself from the nightly ritual of dining in the Commodore's cabin and a good deal of daily affairs, Forsythe had become, for all intents and purposes, the officer in command of the marines. In sharp contrast to the currently ill-tempered Collns, Forsythe was amiable and thoughtful. Norrington appeared relieved at having Forsythe's receptive ear and fresh outlook on matters, although Gillette had little doubt there would be another 'discussion' between the Commodore and Collins after dinner was ended.
"How is Corporal Hancock faring, Lieutenant? I notice he's out of sick berth at last."
"Indeed he is, sir, though quite against Doctor Finch's wishes." Forsythe's homely face coloured slightly. "I've hardly a mind to order him back."
"Is that so? Rather a reflection of his captain, I shouldn't wonder!"
Gillette briefly closed his eyes, wishing for just one night when sharp comments were not made about the absent Collins. It was becoming tiresome. "More a reflection of Hancock's own resilience, Mister Prewett. It's no small feat to recover from being shot, not the least managing it within mere days." He nodded in Forsythe's direction. "Further, it's hardly fair to Lieutenant Forsythe to speak so ill of his superior in front of him, regardless of his being in command in Major Collins' stead."
"Sorry, sir," Prewett muttered, not appearing sorry at all. "Meant nothing by it."
"I should hope not. Despite his current, odd behaviour, Major Collins is a very capable officer. We're fortunate to have him aboard." Norrington said, drawing surprised gazes his way. Everyone knew of the strained relationship between the two men, and hearing the Commodore speak in Collins' defence was something of a shock.
"But sir, the way he's been behaving, it's bordering on insubordination," Prewett pressed.
"I am dealing with the major as I see fit, Mister Prewett. Any final judgement is mine to make, not yours."
The sailing master lowered his eyes. "Yes, sir."
"Now then, gentlemen, your thoughts on the Dolphin. Clearly her captain is a clever sort and quite capable at ship-handling. No doubt MacFarlane and Yardley are telling him how to evade us, since they were once amongst Dauntless' crew. With that in mind, a change of tactics is in order."
An uncertain silence followed the Commodore's words and the officers looked at one another apprehensively. Allowing them to make suggestions about what to do next? It was unheard of. Gillette took advantage of the silence to motion for a refill of his glass. What could they do differently that might not be anticipated by those two errant sailors?
"I've an idea, sir," Forsythe ventured. "Not really a good one, but better than nothing."
Norrington eyed the marine thoughtfully. "Go on, Lieutenant."
All eyes were on Forsythe and the Irishman swallowed self-consciously. Apparently he hadn't expected his idea to be so quickly encouraged. "We could set men ashore on Tortuga, sir. In guise, of course. Dolphin is bound to turn up there sooner or later." Forsythe glanced at the other marine lieutenant, a lithe, cheerful-faced Londoner called Cartwright, who piped up eagerly.
"None of Dauntless' sailors or marines could manage it, they'd be recognised too easily. Men from the old Interceptor, on the other hand, would not be. Lieutenant Forster will most wholeheartedly agree to lend the use of however many marines are requested."
Gillette arched an eyebrow. Cartwright was certainly full of confidence that this plot would well-received by others not privvy to the current discussion, or even having any inkling that they were being neatly manoeuvred into compliance without their express consent. How clever. Clearly these two had discussed the entire plan thoroughly. Anticipating being asked for their thoughts, or prematurely prompted into presenting it? He cleared his throat in preparation to offer his own opinion, but Norrington spoke first.
"And how do you propose getting such a party safely to Tortuga, Lieutenant? Dauntless and Falcon are hardly the best means to such an end."
"Thought of that, sir," Cartwright answered smoothly. "A smaller ship, not unlike Dolphin, sailed by a hand-selected crew. Only men in whom there is complete faith, naturally. Instruct them to watch every incoming ship for any sign of Dolphin or parts of her crew. The instant Blackburn, MacFarlane, and Yardley turn up, they're caught up and returned to Port Royal."
"I would also like to arrest whomever has been helping them. It's not enough simply to recapture three deserters. Every person invovled with them in any way will suffer the noose," the Commodore stated coldly. "Your plan is a sound one, Lieutenants, but in some need of refinement. Discuss it further and present it to me on the morrow. That, I believe, will be all for tonight, gentlemen."
So soon? They had barely finished dinner. Gillette rose with the rest of the officers, unable to keep from glancing curiously at the Commodore. It almost seemed like the two marine lieutenants had had an audience with Norrington earlier with their plot, and this evening was simply a more public presentation of it. One of the marine attendants hurried past him before he made it to the companion ladder, his stride indicating a sense of urgency. Fetching Captain Collins for another 'discussion', no doubt.
"Sir, a word, if you don't mind."
God, now what? He was hardly in the mood to entertain idle prattle. "A quick word," he said sharply, turning.
"It's about Corporal Hancock, sir," Forsythe began. "He wants back on the guard roll, outside the Commodore's cabin, in particular. I was wondering, sir, how to handle his request."
"Why are you asking me this, Lieutenant? I do not interfere with the affairs of the marines. That's something for Major Collins to deal with..." his voice trailed off as Forsythe looked away in embarrassment. Oh. That was it. He had asked Collins and been essentially brushed off. Damn you, Collins. Gillette sighed. "He is insistent on that task?"
"He is, sir." Forsythe smiled, but the gesture was forced. "I shall deal with it myself. Sorry for troubling you, sir." The marine knuckled his brow and brushed past Gillette, heading for the steps leading below. Blast. Most times, he cared not a whit if he had insulted someone's pride or sensibility, but it was hardly Forsythe's fault that his commanding officer was dead-set on being useless. The trials of having authority and being the ship's wise-ass indeed.
"Lieutenant."
Forsythe paused, glancing reluctantly back. It was clear he expected a rebuke. "Sir?"
"As long as that corporal is fit enough to perform the duty, I see no reason why he cannot."
The marine's only acknowledgement was a flash of a smile and a curt nod, then he continued on his way below. Rubbing his forehead, Gillette headed to the poop deck, where he could find a small measure of peace until the watch changed. Or, he thought with a sigh, until Collins and Norrington began exchanging words. Again. God, would that almost-nightly bickering ever end?
"You sent for me, sir?" Collins asked dully. Norrington turned away from the stern gallery windows and let his eyes drift over the sullen-faced Captain of Marines. The man looked a mess. His scarlet coat was rumpled, his cravat was loosened, and it looked as though he had spilled ink on his breeches. The Commodore shook his head.
"Take a chair, Major."
The sharp brown eyes missed nothing in Collins' stiff movements as he sank into the nearest chair. It seemed as though all his energy had drained from him. What sort of news had Collins received from home, that he was reduced to such unusual, careless behaviour? Moving to a chair himself, Norrington paused before sitting, wondering if it was wise to interfere with the marine's personal affairs. Collins appeared uncomfortable at being summoned to the cabin yet again. Who could blame him, given how badly previous such visits had gone? Never mind that the cause of said visits was his own conduct.
"Would you care for a drink?" The Commodore said after a moment, choosing to try a different tack than he had other nights. He was determined to avoid another fruitless shouting match. "Something to settle your nerves?"
Collins' gaze jerked to meet Norrington's, interrupting his study of the table. "Yes, sir. Thank you." He reached for the glass offered to him, his fingers trembling silghtly. For a long moment, Collins stared down at the amber liquid without drinking, "What's this about, sir? Another verbal keel-hauling before I'm stripped of command and rank?"
"Thus far, you're bringing that fate upon yourself."
"I have been, haven't I." It was a statement, leaving Norrington no doubt that the man knew precisely what he was doing to his career. Collins tossed back the contents of the glass and sighed. "Don't suppose it's right to keep myself in worse shape than my sloppiest marine, eh?"
"I imagine that's your choice, although it's entirely unbecoming of a capable officer," the Commodore replied. "I shall come directly to the point. Your conduct of late has been appalling, Major. If not for your two lieutenants, there would be no leadership of the detachment at all. It's bad enough you have begun shunning evening meals with the rest of the officers, but you have neglected the basic duties that are required of a Captain of Marines. Just yesterday, Lieutenant Forsythe came to me asking about allowing the men - your men - to do their wash on the foc's'le. That is something you are responsible for arranging, Major. I'm glad at least that Forsythe has the presence of mind to ask for help when he needs it!"
The last remark was a deliberate barb aimed at Collins' own stubborn refusal to seek out assistance for whatever was plaguing him. It appeared to have a definite effect, as the marine snapped his head up to glare at the Commodore. Good, at least the man was reacting to something. "My personal affairs are no one's concern. sir!"
"They are when they reduce you to a dishevelled mess, worse than your sloppiest marine," Norrington shot back, feeling a surge of guilty triumph when Collins' anger wilted and he sagged back into his chair. Leaning forward to press his advantage, Norrington said, "Captain Somersby has already told me what is behind your behaviour, but I should like to hear it from you. I prefer learning of difficulties my officers are having from the officer concerned, not another!"
Collins heaved out a heavy sigh and cradled his head in his hands. He seemed more weary than Norrington had ever seen him, weighted down by whatever ugly secret he was keeping. What could possibly cause a man to become so upset that he turned away from his responsibilities, essentially abandoning the men who clearly loved him? The marines were as bewildered by the unexplainable change in their captain as the other officers were. Norrington had heard them quietly - and not so quietly, at times - discussing the matter. There was little doubt as to the red-coats' loyalty to their captain, but Collins appeared to have forgotten that.
"Somersby already told you, eh?" Collins pinched the bridge of his nose, not waiting for an acknowledging word or nod. "Family troubles, is a good way of putting it. Her damn brothers..." his voice fading into a whisper, then silence. "Sorry sir."
Norrington waited. There was something else, there always was. After another lingering silence, Collins looked up at his superior with open distress on his face. Excellent, his tactic was working. "I don't know what to do, sir. It's a bloody mess." Abruptly, the captain stood up, a refilled glass of port in hand. The Commoodore held his silence, watching as Collins paced restlessly on the other side of the table. Somehow, he knew the Yorkshireman would eventually come out with the whole story. It was simply a matter of waiting him out. He was not disappointed.
"It's her damn brothers. All three of them, a meddling lot of fools. If not for them I'd still be home and not in this sweltering, God-forsaken hell-hole, cast aside to rot because they paid off some stuffy bastard in Whitehall!" Collins' lip curled back and he glowered at the glass in his hand, as if it was somehow to blame. "It's not like I didn't tell her this would happen. And here now, it has!"
"Major?"
Collins tipped the glass up and swallowed its contents. His blue-grey eyes appeared duller than when he had first arrived, when he turned his weary gaze to the Commodore. "This what you called me here for, sir? Get me to bare my soul so you can have your Captain of Marines back?" The bitterness in his voice was like a force. Shuddering, Collins looked down at the glass in his hand. "That's about as much use as I am, to anybody!"
"Control yourself, Major!" Norrington snapped, rising to his feet as the shards of glass tingled to the wooden deck. Red-faced, Collins turned away, his hands balled into fists. "I'll not have -"
"It's not enough to be a good officer, is it, sir? Not when there are expectations to live up to, an undeserved repuation to uphold," Collins interrupted, facing the Commodore abruptly. His hawkish features were flushed with anger, although it was hard to tell who that anger was directed at. "My marines think I'm without fault, incapable of failing. Bloody look at me, if this isn't failing, nothing is!"
"Every man has a breaking point," Norrington said gently. "What did the letter say?"
The cabin felt suddenly smaller as Collins slowly withdrew the crumpled parchment from his coat. He stared at it for a long, silent moment before holding it out. Norrington took the letter and read the elegant script that filled the single page. When he looked up again, Collins was filling another glass with port, studiously avoiding the Commodore's gaze.
"Cheerful stuff, eh?" The Yorkshireman attempted a smile that quickly slipped from his face. "I hardly know what to think of it myself, let alone what to do about it. Other than to return home, which is impossible until this commission is over!"
There was truth in that. There was over a year left in Dauntless' commission, and then she would either be sent to another assignment or paid off. Norrington laid the letter onto the table, face-down. The captain was in a bind, that was sure. Small wonder he had been in such a foul, reclusive mood of late. Collins gulped down the port and retrieved the letter, saying, "It's hardly worth moping about over, only a newborn son who don't know he's got a father." He barked a short laugh. "Hardly any different from any of my marines, really."
"I understand your feeilng, Major, but there are one hundred and twenty-seven men aboard who are relying on you. Whatever difficulties have been related to you, you need to leave it in your cabin. Lieutenant Forsythe is a sharp and competent enough officer, but he's not ready to be in command. That's your job."
"Do you think I don't know that, sir? Out here, my marines are all I have."
The Commodore lifted an eyebrow. "By your recent behaviour, that's hard to believe."
"Your confidence is heartening, sir." Collins attempted another smile, and again failed. "I have, however, several options available. Once Blackburn is caught and shot like the bloody cowardly rat he is, I shall have reached my decision. You will, of course, be informed of my choice directly."
"Major?" What the devil was he talking about?
"I thank you for the talk, sir. There are some letters I need to write. Good night, sir."
Norrington rubbed his forehead as the marine left the cabin, hoping that the 'talk' was enough to shake Collins out of his gloom. Personal troubles aside, there were more pressing matters to contend with. If Collins persisted without change, he would have to be replaced.
"A word, sir?"
Lieutenant Forysthe set down his straight-razor and nodded, waving the other marine into the crowded space. "Of course. You needn't ask, nor stand on ceremony so religiously, Arthur. We're in the same bloody wardroom you know."
"Yes," Cartwright said. "Yes I know. I'd like to know what you propose to do about Captain Collins. Standing on ceremony or not, Colin, he's heading directly for a dismissal, the way he's going. Think of the censure he'll face, when we're back in Port Royal. God only knows what'll happen when he's packed off to England in disgrace!"
"Sit down and have a glass, before you work yourself into a proper fit. There's a lad." Forsythe quickly wiped his freshly-shaven face with a cloth as Cartwright helped himself to a generous portion of brandy. "What are you on about, then?"
Cartwright gasped at the fiery bite of the brandy. "Captain Collins. I heard him and the Commodore talking after we were dismissed. Far be it from me to eavesdrop but I couldn't help it! I was standing on the poop deck and I reckon one of the stern gallery windows was open. I heard everything, Colin, it's a disaster about to happen, I swear it!"
"Slow down, you've quite lost me. What is it you heard?" The Irishman settled into the only chair in the cabin while Cartwright perched atop his seachest. "Did the Commodore finally crack him, then?"
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Calm down and tell me what you heard, Arthur, for God's sake."
The other lieutenant shivered, gulping a second inch of brandy. "It's family troubles, A new son, to be precise. That's not even the half of it either." Cartwright leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Do you know, he's not at this posting willingly?"
"Neither is anybody else aboard. There are precious few volunteers for a Caribbean assignment."
"No, I mean he was forced into it. His wife's brothers paid somebody off in the Admiralty."
"What?"
Cartwright nodded. "Aye, pretty under-handed if you ask me. What could possibly be so bad that his wife's brothers paid to have him sent off?" Refilling his glass a third time, the Londoner shook his head wonderingly. "The poor bloke."
"Hardly a thing we can do about it, Arthur. I don't know why you came in here thinking I could suggest anything. I'm only his first lieutenant, I have no real power." Forsythe shrugged and sipped his own brandy. "What did Lieutenant Gillette have to say about their conversation?"
"Lieutenant Gillette?"
"Aye, he was heading toward the poop deck after dinner. He must've left when you went up there."
"Must've."
Forsythe leaned the chair back and propped his feet up on his hammock. "Hmm. What do you about Blackburn, then? Always a quiet sort. Never thought he'd go off and do anything like that. Simply bloody unbelievable."
"What about him? He's a deserter, and a murderer on top of that. We'll catch his treacherous carcass and he'll hang. It's that simple," Cartwright growled and Forsythe lifted an eyebrow at his friend. What the devil was wrong with the Londoner? He had been acting out of sorts ever since the storm. Ah, yes. Corporal Hancock. He was in Cartwright's detachment. So was Blackburn. My God, the poor bastard.
"I'm sorry Arthur. I had forgotten," Forsythe said. "It was, is, the same for me. Haverson and Sergeant Branning were my lads. At least Hancock survived, eh?"
Cartwright lurched to his feet, his handsome face turning pink. "How can you be so calm about this? God, Colin, two of your lads died, murdered by that, that bastard. And you can sit there and not feel a bloody shred of remorse or anger?"
"Not a day goes by that I don't," the Irishman told his friend softly. "Branning was a first-class sergeant and Haverson was simply a steady lad, as hard-working as any other. You don't think I want to see Blackburn hung any less than you do? My God, I'd like nothing better than to slide a bayonet between his ribs myself, like he did to Haverson. But revenge is not ours to pursue, Arthur. Justice. For Branning, Haverson, Frazier, and Bartlett. Ask any of the lads, they're all looking forward to watching Blackburn make that last walk to the noose. Ask them why, they'll name off one of those names, either dead or wounded. Devil what else the blue-jackets tell you, this whole hunt is for Blackburn, not those two sailors."
The Londoner stood still, his eyes clouding over. Without a word he quit the small cabin. Forsythe sighed and rested his head in his hands, listening while Cartwright's hurried footsteps faded as the younger man went forward. "Too young, he's too bloody young!"
Hidden in the shadows on the other side of the thin screen of the cabin, Gillette bowed his head slightly and closed his eyes.
In the stillness of his cabin, he could hear every creak and groan of the might ship's timbers and the faint murmur of voices on the other side of the door. The shattered remains of the drinking glass lay on the deck, untouched. A reminder of Collins' helpless anger. Demonstrative of the overall feeling of the other officers, brought to fierce life by the marine's brief moment of temper? It was hard to say. Dwyer, his steward, had peeked in after the glass had burst against the bulkhead, but Norrington waved him away.
Now, he felt drained. The trials being presented by his officers were wearying. Between Collins' moodiness and Prewett's scathing resentment, he was beginning to wonder if the entire hunt for the deserters was nothing more than a fool's errand. The three men were determined not to be caught, while the marines were equally determined to catch them. That Blackburn, at any rate. Norrington shook his head. What could possibly drive a marine to such extreme actions? Forsythe and Cartwright had not been able to offer any explanations, although he suspected they knew more than they were letting on.
The bell pealed from the foc's'le and the distant patter of feet announced the changing of the watch. Eight bells. The perfect time to make a change in Dauntless' course. A return to Port Royal, to begin implementing Forsythe's scheme. A fleeting smile crossed the Commodore's face. Under normal circumstances he would not seriously entertain such a daring, outlandish plot, but the two lieutenants knew their quarry better than he. When the pair of them had first presented it to him, they had discussed it and worked out every possible flaw. The solicitation of suggestions during dinner had been a farce, a means of sounding out the other officers. It had hardly been a surprise that Forsythe had been the only one to speak up, even if he was following the earlier-established script.
There were, obviously, more than a few risks involved with the plan. Those men who were chosen would be sent to that stinking, wretched hive of scum and villainy known as Tortuga without any hope of rescue should they be discovered. If as many went as Forsythe proposed, it would be a significant loss if the worst came to pass. A whole marine squad's worth, as the lieutenant had put it. And then some. A daring plan, but one almost certain to succeed if left long enough. It was worth trying, anyway.
And what to do with Collins? The Yorkshireman was teetering on the brink of dismissal. However sympathetic he might be to the man's plight, Norrington could not have any man under his command who did not pull his own weight. Not even a somewhat indispensable Captain of Marines. The Commodore rubbed his eyes wearily. At least Gillette was his usual, snappish self. It was comforting to know that something had not changed.
Vengeance was a sour fruit, he thought. Sought after like gold by men who had suffered a grievous offence, but rarely satisfying when finally attained. Norrington had little doubt that Blackburn and his two fellow deserters would be caught eventually. What sort of lingering bitterness would taint the marine battalion and Dauntless' crew once the deserters had been executed? He dared not think of it. Too far in the future, too likely to cloud his judgment. But then, the search for clarity was a never-ending one, wasn't it?
A clatter in his steward's working-space was punctuated by a string of Welsh curses, interrupting his musings. Norrington smiled faintly. He understand none of that wistful, haunting language, but Dwyer was always muttering proverbs and bits of old folk songs in his native tongue whenever he thought no one was paying him any mind. Most of the time, his steward had the right saying to fit any circumstance. Would he know what to say now, if he was privy to the Commodore's thoughts?
"Dwyer."
The sullen-faced Welshman appeared silently, as ever. "Sur?"
"What do you think of all this?" The Commodore asked, folding his hands on the table. He didn't need to explain his question, as he knew the Welshman would already understand. Dwyer's keen pale blue eyes studied him for a moment before the steward answered. His reply was not entirely what Norrington expected.
"A watched pot ne'er boils, sur. Dunna reckon settin' lads in Tortuga will turn naught up, if they're a day or a month there." Shrugging, the steward shuffled forward to begin clearing away the abandoned drinking glasses. Norrington pursed his lips and considered that. It was a fair, succinct assessment.
"I rather think it's our best chance."
"If thou thinks it, sur." Dwyer returned to his working-space with an armful of glasses, carefully closing the door behind him. Such a simple bit of wisdom, but it resounded in Norrington's mind. A watched pot never boils. But an unwatched pot overflows. Which was the more dangerous of the two? He couldn't simply sit by and do nothing. That was entirely unacceptable. Perhaps he would take the chance, and trust Forsythe's cleverness. It was certainly more promising than combing the endless expanse of the Caribbean for one sloop.
The Commodore stood up. Dwyer's quietly offered opinion faded from his mind as he strode purposefully to the quarterdeck, where the sailing master and the officer of the watch stood. Both men offered him salutes at his approach.
"Evening, sir," Groves greeted, while Prewett offered a jerky nod and turned his attention back to the compass he was studying.
"Change of course, Mister Prewett," Norrington announced, noting the sailing master's surprise with carefully concealed pleasure. "We are returning to Port Royal."
"But sir - "
"Port Royal, Mister Prewett. We are going home."
Prewett nodded stiffly and moved to give the instruction to the helmsman. Lifting an eyebrow curiously, Groves cast a glance at the Commodore.
"Are we going to put Forsythe's plan into action, sir?"
"I am considering it, Lieutenant."
Groves smiled. "Understood, sir. It's a sound plot. Definitely worth attempting, anyway!"
That was it, then. Norrington said nothing in reply but Groves' comment was the last bit of convincing he needed. Dauntless heeled over slightly as she was guided into a wide starboard turn. Whether or not he was making the right choice would not become apparent for some time.
"I shall be in my cabin," he said abruptly, and moved toward the companion way. Dwyer had already removed the table and hung up his hanging cot. An efficient sort, was the steward. Norrington removed his hat and studied it, thinking of everything it represented. Gold lace trim, the visible privilege of rank. Also the burden of responsibility that sometimes felt like it might crush him beneath its weight. Chasing deserters and pirates, tending to the mess made by an ineffectual Captain of Marines, choosing between a more personal desire for vengeance and a loud outcry for the pursuit of a murderous former marine. And always that damn Sparrow, hovering mockingly on the edge of my reach. His pride had been savagely bruised by that smug pirate. Never mind he had managed to escape from his own hanging. The current mission aside, hunting down Sparrow was his main goal.
"Damn."
"Sur?" Dwyer poked his head into the cabin, startling the Commodore. He had not realised he'd spoken aloud.
"Nothing. Thank you, Dwyer."
The steward withdrew silently, just as he'd entered. Sighing, Norrington shed his coat. Perhaps, if he baited the trap well enough, he could catch both his quarries. Wouldn't that be something to celebrate, then? It was something to work toward.
