Chapter Twenty-Five
Mulling over the maps and charts, Sam found that his mind was only half on his slide rule, and more entirely on his situation. The offer of a senior commission, plus command of the ship when her current skipper deceased, was an astonishing opportunity. The Perdition was a good ship, certainly older than he had first assumed, but well-made and maintained. Her crew were respectful, and competent enough, though there was room for improvement. The captain himself was an intelligent and interesting man, who seemed quite content to make himself scarce and delegate, and allow Sam licence that would not normally be expected by any First Mate. But if he was actually captain, he would truly have a free hand to do as he saw fit.
And yet...
He swore quietly, cursing that part of himself that could not believe that fortune would possibly smile on him to this extent. But why not? There were those who were born to a life of privilege and opportunity – Sam had encountered many of them during his Navy service, and an overwhelmingly common factor was a complete ease with their good fortune. Rarely did any of them pause to reflect on whether they deserved it. Who was to say that the Fates had not, according to the random design of Providence, smiled upon Sam Winchester?
If it seems too good to be true, boy, then it probably is.
Dean had a description for what Sam was experiencing: he described it as 'waiting for the other boot to drop'.
He would have to make his decision quickly, for with his replotting of their course, they would be in Port Royal in but a few days at most. Rationally, there was no question of what the sensible choice should be: he should seize the opportunity with gratitude.
Why then did he hesitate over some strange feeling that some vital part of information was missing?
Perhaps he could agree to undertake the Perdition's next voyage in the capacity of First Mate, and see how that arrangement suited him: he could find a way to send word to his brother that he was safe, and if he decided that the arrangement did not suit him, he could return to the Navy and explain that he had made his way back as expediently as possible, and resume his commission.
Satisfied with the idea of suggesting this compromise, he went to find the man called Lucifer.
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"You can save yourself the trouble, Captain Winchester."
Dean lowered the spyglass and looked down from his perch above the bowsprit; Gabriel was peering up at him with an amused expression. "Wolf eyes will spot my brother's vessel long before your human ones," the smaller man went on, jerking a thumb upwards to indicate the crew member perched aloft the main mast, "God willing, we shall see her before she notices us."
"Well and good," humphed Dean, clambering lithely back down to the deck, "But I am at a loss as to how we are to approach her undetected."
"We'll have to see what the Old Woman has up her sleeve. Figuratively speaking, I mean," Gabriel qualified, given that Ronnie, like Dean and a large part of the crew, had felt no urge to don clothing yet, despite the stiff breeze powering the ship along – Dean hoped that it would mean that his laundry would dry quickly, although George seemed to be taking an awful long time in getting around to doing it.
"What, she has some strategy for rendering her own ship invisible?" Dean shook his head and chuckled, "Perhaps she will conjure us a cloud in which to travel?"
Gabriel's face immediately became wary. "That is not funny," he muttered.
"No, apparently, it is not," Dean noted, studying the other's face. "What meant you when, earlier, you demanded of your Captain an explanation of her actions? 'What have you done?', you said."
Gabriel turned away and leaned on the gunwales, gazing down at the sea. The water churned and frothed as the She-Wolf was driven along at speed by wind and current. "Our captain is descended from... peoples steeped in pagan mythologies from well before the coming of Christ," he began, "And though those lands now worship the God of Moses, yet not all of their inhabitants forget their earlier ways and traditions." His face was a picture of misery when he turned back to Dean. "Her own mother was a powerful practitioner of wielding such power."
"She told me as much," Dean nodded, "And also that she herself, whilst granted that talent by heredity, nonetheless had not applied the study and practice to become truly proficient."
"No virtuoso, granted," Gabriel agreed, "But... if I speak frankly, Captain Winchester, I fear that, in her determination to rescue Sam, mayhap she has done something godless..."
He was interrupted by a sudden thwap, then screeching, as something small and fast collided with a sail then slid gracelessly to the deck.
"What the fuck was that?" yelped Gabriel, looking around anxiously, "Are we under attack?"
Dean smiled a slow smile. "Not exactly," he replied, reaching down to retrieve the small bundle that had apparently been blown right into the sail. "Although you may change your mind about that, once he starts to..."
"BOLLOCKS!"
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The captain was not at the helm, nor was he to be found on deck, and so Sam headed for his cabin. He knocked, but received no reply.
"Captain? Captain Godson?"
The door opened under his hand, and so he stepped inside.
It was tidy as ever, the table cleared except for a couple of small items including a very good quality mirror – Sam had already decided privately that the captain had a streak of vanity to rival a Spanish pirate – but otherwise unremarkable. The only thing he did not recognise was the large heavily bound book. Curious, he opened it.
It was not like any book he had ever seen before: it was a combination of journal, almanac, and other passages, some in Greek (which he did not read) and some in Latin (which, thanks to Quartermaster Singer, he did, much to the astonishment of many of his seniors and supposedly social betters). He recognised the captain's careful copperplate script from the navigation logs. There were phrases that he was familiar with in biblical context: ad vitam aeternem, towards eternal live, tempus edat rerum, time, that devours all things, but also others that puzzled him: scientica imperium est (knowledge is power) and victoria aut mors (success or death) seemed out of place in such an idiom.
But it was the dates that astonished him; if the book was truly the work of Captain Godson, then the man was older – much older – than he looked, even if his diseased body was failing.
Sam felt as though his hackles were trying to rise once more. It was becoming harder to ignore the way that his wolf-self was telling him that it was time to fight or run.
Feeling decidedly uneasy, he headed back to his own cabin. He had much to think on.
And he wanted to see if those naughty ladies had finished laundering his other trousers, and perhaps putting some more buttons on his shirt.
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"You know this creature?" asked Gabriel, eyeing the squawking parrot warily.
"Aye," grinned Dean, "He is from my ship, the Impala."
"Is he always this rude?"
"Oh no," Dean smiled, "Usually he is much more vulgar than this."
"Bollocks!" Crowley screeched at Gabriel. "Bollocks, bitch! You eat the damned cracker! Piss off!"
Gabriel looked sternward. "Then that means..."
"She is not far behind us," nodded Dean, "No doubt Castiel is intent on pursuing the She-Wolf to complete the rescue of my brother Sam, even as he believes me lost to the deep..."
A howl sounded from the crow's nest.
"He's spotted her," Gabriel translated grimly, "The look-out had spotted the Perdition."
"Then we must hurry," Dean snapped, "We must inform the captain, and then I will need your assistance with this wretched bird..."
"Hello sailor, drop yer rompers, you bitch!"
"I believe she is already informed," stated Gabriel, nodding to where the captain was striding towards the bow, a determined expression upon her face.
"Gentlemen," she nodded briefly, "I bid you give me space for what I must do."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "What be you plotting, Captain Shepherd?"
The smile she gave him was bright and confident. "Oh, I'm sure that Gabriel will inform you that I am dabbling in occult forces and imperilling my very soul," she told him smilingly, "But for a very good cause."
"It is most unamusing, but I know that I will not dissuade you," Gabriel humphed, "Come with me, Captain Winchester, we shall attend to our own errand..."
Heading aft to the castle, Dean turned back briefly to see Ronnie raise her arms and begin an ululating chant in what he assumed was her native tongue. His eyes widened as noticed the wisps of mist beginning to gather to starboard.
"Best just leave her to it," sighed Gabriel, "Now, what do you require of me?"
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To his disappointment (but not surprise), Sam discovered that the seagoing seamstresses had not completed their washing. He was about to leave his cabin and find them, to remonstrate with them about their lack of laundering diligence, when his eye was caught by a something on the floor.
Bending down to check the particles, he realised that it was a small scattering of tiny wood shavings.
It had most definitely not been there when he had tidied his cabin and made up his bunk that morning; immediately, he hunkered down to examine the timber, for any sign of borer aboard a ship had to be taken seriously, so that the pests could be detected and eradicated as quickly as possible to minimise the damage. Although it was daylight, he lit the small glass lantern, and wiggled underneath his bunk, looking for the tell-tale signs of damage, and further evidence of frass.
Peering at the time-darkened timber, he was astonished to see not borer holes, but small letters, carefully carved into the wood, in neat lettering. Bringing the lantern nearer, he could read the Latin clearly:
Eram quod es; es quod ero.
A sudden shudder ran down Sam's spine.
I was what you are; what you are, I will be.
It had the ring, the feel of an incantation. Carved in the captain's distinctive hand.
Sam felt himself baring his teeth again. If you cannot run, then be prepared to fight...
Deep in thought, he went to find the naughty ladies in the hope of getting his other shirt and trousers back; he had an unhappy suspicion that in his newer clothes, he looked like a pantomime pirate.
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Dean and Gabriel stood at the gunwales, watching the wisps of vapour eddy, swirl and coalesce.
"What is this?" Dean asked uneasily.
"Camouflage, I think," Gabriel suggested.
"Of a sort, perhaps," commented the voice of Doctor McGregor.
"Yikes!" Dean jumped at the sound, turning to see that the ship's vampire doctor had once more appeared silently, as if from nowhere. "God's death, man, must you sneak up on people so?"
"I suspect it is just one more aspect of my condition," sighed the doctor. "But as to this fog bank now conveniently forming twixt us and the Perdition, I doubt it will act as true camouflage; if this man styled Lucifer is half of what they say he is, then he will know immediately that something approaches his vessel."
"It is the best I can do," announced the captain grumpily as she joined them. "The doctor is correct – if Lucifer has any facility in the Craft, he will be suspicious; but if nothing else, it will allow us to close with him before he can identify what approaches, or why."
Dean's eyes bugged. "You did that?" he gestured to the forming fog bank.
"Aye, she did," Gabriel interrupted in an angry tone, "And more besides."
"Hold your tongue!" she hissed at him, "Lest I throw you overboard with Becky!"
She turned and began to issue orders; the deck erupted into a swarm of activity. Within minutes, the low rumbling coming to him through the deck told Dean that the gun crews were below, and running out cannon.
"Attend me in my cabin, Captain Winchester," Ronnie smiled grimly as the She-Wolf sailed headlong into the fog, "Although I suggest that you dress first. Unless you have decided to go into this battle skyclad."
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Sam took his midday meal with Captain Godson. As usual, the captain was convivial company; he had Sam laughing hard as he related a story of a younger brother who acquired a trumpet, and was told by their father that he was most definitely not to try to play it indoors; when he did so, expensive windows in their father's study shattered, and rained glass down around the would-be musician.
"And I swear to you," the captain chuckled, "I swear to you, the child howled even louder that that wretched instrument! I tried to sweep up the glass, and the boy hid in my room for a whole day, aye, and I concocted a fabulous tale about a flock of wayward migrating birds, and even went so far as to procure some as evidence, scattering them about the floor, but Father just looked at the birds, and looked at me, and asked with a perfectly straight face what sort of swallow would be migrating in the middle of Summer, European or African..."
"Stop! Stop!" laughed Sam, "Before I break a rib!"
"Ah, me," Lucifer subsided, and poured himself and Sam some more wine. "It comforts me to know that I can recall some happy memories of home, for I do miss my family, as much as we might have quarrelled."
"I understand that," Sam sympathised.
"But enough of my past," Lucifer said dismissively, "I am, as you know, more concerned with the future. And so, you know I will ask it," Lucifer smiled warmly, "Have you given any more thought to my offer?"
"Indeed I have, Captain," Sam smiled back, "And still I marvel at it, for it is an incredibly generous offer."
Lucifer fixed him with a keen stare. "You are an incredibly talented young man," he declared, "And if you accept, I will be content in the knowledge that the Perdition will be in suitable, safe hands."
"What will you do, Captain?" Sam asked earnestly, "If I agree to your proposition? What shall be the logistics of the arrangement?" When Lucifer quirked an eyebrow, he went on. "I would fain speculate on the... timing of your declining health, sir. And yet, if I am to accept your offer, I must have some... indication of a likely timeline."
"Ah, the young, always in a hurry," Lucifer chuckled again.
"I have no wish to be morbid sir, nor do I wish you an accelerated demise," Sam assured the older man quickly, "But I have seen the contents of your hold – you have a considerable fortune aboard. Are you planning to retire ashore in the Caribbean, or do you intend to return to Europe?"
A faint and fleeting trace of annoyance crossed Lucifer's crumbling features at Sam's failure to give immediate assent. "I find that the tropical climate is more agreeable to my declining health," he explained, "And so, as you have surmised, that is why I have sailed to the Caribbean. And if you agree to take over, why, I shall be glad to take this poor old body ashore, where it may rest from such labours."
Sam's face clouded. "Captain, I am not here to tell you your business," he began carefully, "But, well, Port Royal, I am sure that you well know already, it is a... lawless place. If you go ashore there, seeking a pleasant retirement, I would fear for your safety, and that of your goods, given what you have."
Lucifer's expression became threatening. "I assure you, Lieutenant, I have nothing to fear from Port Royal," he asserted, "In fact, I would describe it as the other way around. But fear not," he smiled easily again, "Once we are in port, this sad old carcass will trouble this ship no more."
Something about the unusual expression caused Sam to hesitate – now that he thought about it, the captain was in the habit of speaking about his physical body as if it was actually separate to his true self. "I was planning to ask you whether you would consider making trial of the arrangement before I give complete agreement," he began, "Of allowing me to act as your First Mate for your next voyage, which would also give you opportunity to make further trial of me, and satisfy yourself that I am as competent as you think..."
"I have made my decision!" Lucifer snapped, before subsiding. "I beg your pardon, Lieutenant," he sighed deeply, "Humour an old man, aye, older than I look, but I had truly set my hopes on seeing the Perdition skippered by a younger, able-bodied captain..."
Sam smiled understandingly, although with a flash of insight he saw how angry Lucifer was at being thwarted.
"...And so I beg you to consider the offer. Please, say yes to me, Sam."
As Sam hovered on the brink of indecision, a call came from the deck.
A number of the crew were clustered at the gunwales on the port side, squinting into the distance. Sam found that his wolf eyes let him see what they could barely make out: a gathering bank of fog drift in their direction.
Lucifer unfolded his spyglass to inspect the strange meteorological manifestation. "Fog."
"Fog, sir?" Sam commented, wondering why the appearance of the mist would be cause to alert the captain and cause agitation to the crew. Unusual, certainly, though not unheard of in these waters."
A crew member approached them, touching his cap respectfully. "The lookout spotted it, sir," he told Lucifer, "We thought you should be told at once, 'acause it be so much like the ones you call up when we..."
With an angry snarl, Lucifer turned and backhanded the man, who scrabbled away.
Sam stared at the captain keenly. "Captain? What does he mean? 'The ones you call up', what means this man by that?"
Lucifer's face grew grim. "I had hoped that all would be made clear to you in good time," he said, "But it appears that is now a luxury I cannot afford. Something not entirely natural approaches us, Sam, and I must make haste to finalise matters."
"What?" Sam stared at the rolling cloud bank, seeing that it was definitely travelling rapidly, almost deliberately, in defiance of the prevailing conditions. "Unnatural? What matters? Captain, speak plainly, for I do not..."
A brief breath of wind stirred the air, blowing in from the direction of the fog bank, and Sam gasped as his wolf-self caught a trace of a scent he recognised.
The She-Wolf.
His mind raced. Why was Captain Shepherd sailing in haste towards the Perdition? And, if Lucifer was correct, using some occult phenomenon to mask her approach? The She-Wolf was no pirate, why would she take such desperate measures just to raid another ship? It made no sense...
Unless she was intent on something other than piracy.
Say, for example, a rescue mission.
Captain Godson began barking orders, issuing commands to ready the ship to go into battle. Sam felt guns run out beneath his feet.
"Captain," he began, trying for a tone of good-natured bemusement, "Firing at fog will not achieve aught, save to deplete your powder..."
Without warning, the captain turned and brought his spyglass around hard against Sam's head. He heard the glass shatter, but then he was out cold before he hit the deck.
Oh noes! Sam in peril! And still a werewolf! Dean sailing to the rescue! And still in the buff! Hopefully he'll at least put on some trousers! But Lucifer knows they are coming! Sam's out cold! On the same ship as the naughty ladies! With barrels of chocolate for unwitting Winchesters to fall into on both ships! And I'm running out of exclamation marks! OH GOD WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN NEXT?! Feed Dirty Miranda the plot bunny reviews to find out!