Arte and Jim separated, West heading back towards the fracus, Arte toward the stairs that lead up to the helm. Thanks to the lanterns being shot out the area was cast in shadow. Arte didn't remember day becoming night, he didn't remember the desperate race for survival turning into a war. There was only the memory of a faint, disbelieving hope, and then the sight of the pirate vessel and the cannon, and that first perfect arch of the cannon ball.

Now they were once again giving up the fine lady that they had fought for, some even died for.

It felt hauntingly familiar.

Tossing the two cutlasses to the deck, Arte tore the canvas cover from the life boat and operated the hand crank that would pull the boat away from the deck and over the side.

Had Eleanor been right, he wondered? Was Josiah Creely's spirit in fact connected with the vessel such that he was there, even in that moment, caring for The Cloud. If they escaped disaster once again would they find their way back. Would the world revert back to the way it was before the fateful turn to Africa, and the second, even more fateful decision to continue on their original course.

With the lifeboat in position, he began to turn the lowering crank and knew instantly that it would take too long. The cries from the deck were growing more and more sparse and it wouldn't be much longer before the pirate-in-charge noticed that the Captain's quarters were unguarded.

Gritting his teeth, pressing a hand hard down on the wound at his side Arte stepped back and kicked at the safety mechanism, once, twice, before it snapped free of the crank and the boat plunged to the ocean's surface fifteen feet below.

When he pulled his hand away from his side to scoop up the cutlasses again it was slick with blood, his shirt now plastered against him. No time, he thought. "No time..." He rushed to the stairs again, ignoring the throbbing that weakened his ankle, stumbling down the last few steps and throwing himself at the door to Eleanor's cabin.

She sat inside, tucked into a corner of her bed, hidden by blankets and the canopy. Right where he had left her.

"Eleanor..." He called to her, trying to be soothing, but knowing he didn't have the time for it. "We have to leave."

Her eyes were wide, her fingers playing endlessly with the curls at the base of her neck. The moment he spoke she complied, like a lost child. The last vestiges of sanity that she had been clinging to in the final few days seemed to have left her when the pirates attacked and she had become this compliant shadow of herself. It was better, he thought, than having her fight him.

Before he could get her to the door it swung open. A delighted, shadowy snarl sat atop the elaborate wardrobe of the second-in-command of the pirate vessel and Arte suddenly wanted nothing more than to cut that smile, and the head attached to it, clean off. With a guttural cry Arte charged with both cutlasses extended, meeting the pirate's single sabre in the inverted-V of his own crossed blades and forcing it downward even as he propelled the pirate backwards out of the cabin and onto the deck.

He loosed one blade as quickly as he could and swung it at the pirate's mid-section, closer to his opponent than he was accustomed. Not even waiting for the first blow to connect, his eyes focused on the other man's wrist, Arte swung his second blade blindly upward, aiming for the face, the neck, anything. The double bladed attack threw off his opponent and while he protected his belly, the pirate was unable to protect his head. Arte's blade sliced through skin at the top of the pirate's brow and a cut opened that cascaded blood into his eyes.

Having temporarily blinded his opponent Arte risked stepping even closer, swung the guard of his right hand blade and hit the pirate over the head as hard as he could. The brigand went down moaning and Arte turned back to the cabin door. Eleanor stood just inside it watching him, and waiting.

"Good girl.." He breathed before he grabbed her wrist and dragged her back into the room.

The drop from the top deck would be too far, and too risky to get to, but from the windows in her cabin...he needed rope. Maybe there was time to lower her.

"Arte!"

Gordon snapped his head to the door to catch a brief glimpse of West before Jim ducked under the leaping body of a pirate. Having missed his goal, the fiend sprawled on the floor of Eleanor's cabin and Jim wasted no time in picking him up by his tunic and ushering him back out again.

"The boat is down." Arte said.

"Haversham and North are overboard, I told them to swim to the stern. Can she jump?"

"I..." Arte began shaking his head.

From behind him he heard Eleanor say, "Yes."

Already she had opened the windows, and before he could do or say anything she had leaned into the opening and slipped out head first. Arte ran to the bank of glass as he heard the distant splash below. The lifeboat was already occupied by Haversham; Edward North and, to his relief, Alonzo Alvarez were in the water, the boy clinging to the side of the boat while Edward swam to the spot where Eleanor had hit. They had her in arms in seconds but Arte waited until he saw her head moving sluggishly before he turned away from the window.

"She's made it." He told his partner. "The others?"

Jim shook his head. "The doc, Carl and his nephew got another one of the life boats over the side." Jim shrugged, there was no way to know if they were free, away from the ship, or under attack. "If we don't leave now we may be out of luck."

"That's assuming we weren't already..." Arte said bitterly. A second later a bestial cry chilled him to the very bone. From where he had left him, the pirate second-in-command was howling bloody murder while he struggled to his feet.

The language he spoke was a mix of Spanish, French and something made up of grunts and clicks. None of it was intelligible to the two Secret Service men, but given the attention the pirate was paying to his now marred face it was clear that Arte had royally pissed him off.

"We should..." Jim started, then pointed toward the open window, pushing Arte ahead of him. Discarding his weapons Arte dove at the window, through it and into the numbing cold of the ocean, briefly losing consciousness before his body's need for air woke him, thrashing underwater. He fought hard for the surface, breaking it in the same instant that he felt thick hands digging into his shirt and shoulders, yanking him aboard the small craft.

Haversham hauled him up most of the way before Arte got his foot up on the rim and was dumped unceremoniously onto the seats. He was coughing and desperately trying to breathe at the same time, crawling out of the way so that they could haul Jim aboard too, when he noticed a midnight black, nearly naked African sitting in the far corner of the boat. He was so darkly skinned that Arte had been unable to see him before.

"What's he doing here?" Arte croaked.

Busily hauling up Jim, and then North, Haversham could only shake his head.

In the same moment the pirate leader had appeared above them on the deck of the helm, screaming epitaphs again, waving his sword above his head and struggling with something with his other arm.

Jim was already scrambling to pull one of the oars free of its traces and Arte reached for the other one.

"He sounds mad..." the older man commented, before seating himself on the rowing bench, deja vu hitting him like a brick.

Jim chuckled, bending at the waist to set his own oar in place, then suddenly jolted, a choking sound coming from his mouth. A half-second later there was a gunshot and Arte found himself stupidly looking to the source of the sound.

West stood frozen where he was for a few more seconds before his knees buckled and Arte caught him in time to protect his head.

Time seemed to slow and race all at once. Arte's hands were shaking as he cradled Jim in his arms, his fingers desperately in search of the wound. Jim's face was blank at first, then contorted in confusion, then pain as he struggled to breathe in.

Arte felt Jim's hand digging into his bicep, in regular intervals, leaving bruises that he couldn't feel. He found the wound a second later, high on West's back, bleeding profusely.

"Is he hit?" Harversham asked from behind him and Arte felt his voice crack as he shouted, "Row..ROW! Get us out of here."

The boat began to move a minute later and Arte's world narrowed to the paling face of his friend, the feel of the powerful hand digging into his arm.

"Jim...hang on!" Arte commanded, breathless. He was trying to peel Jim's wet jacket off with one hand, and keep him upright. At the same time they were rowing away from the only source of light for hundreds of miles and even if he could get a look at the wound, what good would it do. He managed to get one of Jim's arms free before he shook his head, apologizing over and over.

He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to fix it, or make the bleeding stop. Jim's eyes were focused intently on his face and Arte could feel the monumental struggle going on inside his friend's body. Each breath took effort, and clouded Jim's eyes with pain. It rattled in his lungs and was exhaled, bloody, through his mouth. A fit of coughing overcame him and all Arte could do was hang on.

When it finally passed Jim was grabbing at Arte's collarbone, trembling as he tried to pull himself up.

"Lay still, Jim. You gotta lay still." Arte tried, but Jim kept struggling. The flow of blood against Arte's hand seemed to double and Arte finally decided to help him, rather than fight him and have him bleed out faster.

James West managed to get his legs underneath him on the bottom of the boat, resting on his knees, facing his friend, with fistfuls of Arte's shirt sleeves in his hands. With some of the pressure taken off his spine he could breathe a little easier and worked at getting oxygen into his lungs. Fighting to stay awake. Pushing the pain and the confusion and the panic to the side.

Right before he'd felt the hot poker punch through his shoulder blade he had seen it. He hadn't expected to see it again, hadn't even been thinking about it, and yet the moment he recognized it something clicked in his mind. Something finally made sense to him.

Before he got a chance to say a word to Arte he'd been back-shot and now he knew...he knew what Arte knew.

He didn't have much time.

"Arte..." He managed, getting the word out between gasps, swallowing saliva and blood, spitting more of it to the side. "S'lighthouse."

Arte didn't get it right away. Was panicked, or deafened by the battle, or Jim just hadn't tried hard enough. He felt a muscle seize up in his chest and pain flashed through him and he shifted one of his hands up until he had hold of Arte's arm and squeezed for dear life until the seizure passed. With the pain gone he was instantly weaker.

Struggling upright, he tried again.

"Lighthouse." Jim's lips contorted, trying to make the consonants sharper, forcing out more air to make it louder.

Artemus heard it that time and felt Jim's hand leave his left arm, saw him point out into the distance and caught the flash of light seconds before he felt Jim's head slump into his lap.

"Jim...Jim." Arte thrust his hands under lax arms, tried to force Jim upright, felt him sliding limply to one side and cried out in agony and frustration knowing in his soul that Jim was gone. Just, simply gone.

He wanted to wail, wanted to turn back to the captured Flying Cloud and kill every man aboard her. He pulled, tugged and shifted until he was sitting in the mix of water and blood on the bottom of the boat with Jim leaning against him and listened for breath, knowing he wouldn't hear it anymore. The blood was no longer pushing against his hand. Jim's eyes were vacant and Arte clutched his friend to his chest and screamed at the heavens.

Ian Haversham never stopped rowing, and when Artemus Gordon screamed and Ed North shot to his feet, Ian shook his head hard and glared the younger man back down to his seat. Miserable, Ed sat for a few minutes, before he stood again and moved to take a seat next to his bosun, taking the other oar.

Without being told both men pointed the boat toward the light flashing in the distance, saying nothing as the thick fog rolled in.