He was woken by the sound of the four bells. Groaning, Percy blearily opened his eyes and swung his legs out of his hammock. He didn't need to be bothered changing back into his uniform, after ten years in the Navy, Percy had long since learned to simply sleep fully clothed.

Captain Andrews had been right, all those years ago. Life in the Navy was a challenging one. This life was a hard one. The challenges are merciless and seemingly unending. It was taxing on both the body and the spirit, but at the end of the day, Percy wouldn't have chosen the same as he had ten years ago. He loved his life. It had its difficulties, but Percy had found a life for himself on the sea.

It had not taken long for it to become clear that Percy was a natural born sailor. Whether it was climbing the sheets, navigating, preparing and discharging the long boats, Percy was a natural on the waters. Beyond just his natural affinity for life on the sea, however, Percy found himself enjoying the structure that the Navy brought to his life. When he had been younger, Percy had not enjoyed structure to his life. Had hated the feeling of being told what to do, of where to go and what needed to be done.

However, losing his mother had changed him.

Ever since, Percy had welcomed the distractions that the Navy provided. There wasn't much for downtime when on a professional sailing vessel. The officers of a vessel were never happy with idle hands after all, and the structure of the life proved to be the precise kind of distraction that Percy needed. The more he worked, the less that he dwelled. Percy did not like the thoughts that entered his mind when he was alone, when he had the time to think and dwell on his mother's death. Did not like the feeling of rage and hate that blossomed to life in his breast.

So he worked.

He worked, he did the jobs he was assigned, and tried to busy both his mind and his body. The Navy provided that for him. Gave him the ability to distract himself, to stabilize him, to keep him so occupied and exhausted that he did not have the time to consider the hate and rage brimming beneath the surface.

But there was another reason that Percy did not enjoy having idle time.

Percy was well aware that he was…different. That there was something unnatural about him. He had first noticed it when he was still a small child. It had happened when he was only about seven or eight. He had been knocked over the edge of the ship by a careless midshipman and thrown into the sea. Percy had never been taught to swim, most sailor's, ironically enough, never learned the ability. However, as soon as his small body had hit the water, he did not drown. Did not feel scared or uncertain.

Quite the opposite.

Falling into the dark depths had given him a sense of calm and safety that he had never enjoyed previously. Being in the water was akin to being wrapped in the most comforting blanket. He felt strong, safe, happy, as though a part of himself that he had never known had been missing had finally reconnected with him.

But there was so much more to it than his simple comfortability in the sea. Percy did not need to breach the surface in order to breathe. He could breathe under the water, could swim for leagues without stopping.

Could speak to sea-life…

If he were honest, that was what was the most concerning. That was inherently unnatural. For some time, he had thought himself going mad. Sea-madness was not an uncommon occurrence to sailors, and Percy had met many a man who believed himself capable of speaking to angels and demons and the like. But Percy was not capable of speaking to just any animal, only those creatures that lived beneath the depths.

His abilities did not seem to end there however. Percy seemed to be naturally in tune with all matters of life at sea. He had the ability to know on instinct when a squall was coming. Which direction the winds would be coming and going, and when it was going to happen. He knew when the currents were changing, when the tides were calm and when they were going to whip into a frenzy.

Worst yet, was the strange manner in which the weather seemed to be tied to his emotions. When he got angry, the weather reflected his distress. Thick clouds, heavy rain, and blustering glass that matched the roaring sense of anger inside of him. But when he was calm and relaxed, the waters too matched his inner peace.

He did not understand these strange connections, and they scared him. Percy was all too aware of what happened to those unfortunate enough to be labelled as strange. Sailors were, by their very nature, superstitious. Percy knew that, should he confide in these strange abilities in someone, he would be labelled as either insane or worse…

A child of the devil. Even maybe a witch.

It would not be the most absurd conclusion. Percy himself had asked, lying in his hammock at night, whether he truly was a child of Satan, or gifted with the powers of a witch. Was he even really a human, or simply a demon given human flesh. It would explain his great strength, the strength of a man twice his age, or even his strange inhuman capabilities. But demons were creatures of evil, monstrosities that lived only to kill and to maim, and Percy did not believe himself to be evil. He had not even been in a fight in his ten years in the Navy.

Though, that was not strictly true. He had been involved in the occasional mess-deck row, but that hardly qualified as a fight.

To be more specific, Percy had never taken a life. Had never been forced into the flames of combat and been forced to fight to survive. He liked to think that he would not succumb to the darkness he feared within himself, but he was still scared. Scared deep down that, should he be forced to kill to survive, he would enjoy it. That his fears would bear fruit and he really would be forced to acknowledge that he was not human.

So he would bunker down, keep his nose clear, and try and forget all about these strange abilities. Not just for his benefit, however, but also for the benefit of the man who had taken him. The man who had given him purpose.

Admiral, formerly Captain, Haythem Andrews.

Andrews had been a harsh taskmaster. He had expected a lot from Percy, had pushed him hard, but had given much in return. While he had expected a lot out of his men, Andrews was the epitome of what the general public perceived of what became of a proper British Admiral. The man was every bit the father that Percy had never had, and both would be lying if they said that they didn't both cherish that relationship.

Percy had even been there in London for his ceremony.

While Andrews had been moved to New York to oversee the operations of the Navy in the colonies, Percy still had occasion to see him every once in a while. Percy was greatly looking forward to their return trip back to New York for some much needed shore leave.

Percy missed the old man, and he missed just as greatly Elizabeth Andrews, the venerable wife of the daunting admiral. While she could never replace the hole in Percy's heart reserved for his mother, the woman had certainly done her best to welcome Percy into their family.

At great potential risk to their own reputation.

It was an unfortunate truth of their society, one that Percy was intimately familiar with, that reputation was everything. For some of the most influential members of society to have welcomed into their home and their life, little more than a street urchin, had caused more than a minor scandal at Whitehall, where the admiralty resided.

However it paid to have friends in important places. A lesser man would have been unable to overcome the challenges of such association, but not the likes of Haythem Andrews.

For that, Percy could not have been more thankful.

But as always, when matters of family were in his mind, his thoughts drifted to his mother. He hoped that she would be proud of him, be proud of the life he'd made for himself, of the choices he'd made. But he didn't know. Never would know. He hoped she would, but part of him wasn't convinced. She had tried to escape from the violence of the Old World. Tried to get away from the very thing Percy now found himself deeply embroiled in.

But it was still his life.

He had made something for himself. Had crafted a life for himself that was better and something more than he and his mother ever had back in England. He made more in one voyage than she had made in years. Granted it was still a pittance in comparison to others, but at the end of the day it was something.

And he would take it.

He supposed that he could only hope and pray that she would at least be happy for him, because he truly was happy. His life was a hard one, but one that enjoyed. He didn't think his mother could be happier for him than because he was happy with his life.

He could live with that.

"Evenin' Jackson," grunted Wilks, one of the other midshipmen. He was a man in his mid-thirties, and had long since lost the last shreds of his hair to the yellow-jack. His pock-marked face was covered by a patchy black beard, and his pale grey eyes seemed permanently unfocused and hazy.

"Evenin' Wilks," greeted Percy back, "Boring night so far?"

"Aye," nodded Wilks around a yawn, "Best watch out though, Erichson's been on the warpath tonight."

Percy bit back a groan. Erichson, the second lieutenant, had a temper to match his fiery hair. In the three years that Percy had been on the Heritage, he didn't know if he had ever seen the older man so much as crack a smile. The scuttlebutt around the ship was that he had been a promising young lieutenant some years ago but had found himself on the wrong end of an incident between a Lord and his young daughter. His career had been stunted at lieutenant as a result and had a penchant of taking his frustrations out on the crew.

More than one man had been forced to face the lashes tail as a result of his anger.

Sighing, Percy nodded his head. "Thanks, I'm up top so here's hoping I can avoid his ire."

Wilks snorted, "For your sake? I certainly hope so. You have an uncanny ability to get under his skin."

"And he has an uncommon ability to be an arsehole," said Percy snidely, and Wilks snorted.

"Careful boy," he laughed. "Would hate for you to end up like Brookes."

Percy shuddered involuntarily at the reminder. "Aye, too true."

"Best climb, Jackson," said Wilks.

"Right," muttered Percy, wrapping his hands into the rigging. "Have a good night Wilks."

Then, Percy began his climb up the rigging. When he'd been young, he'd been frightened to make the climb. Heights terrified him, and he felt unbalanced and disjointed on top of the riggings of the ship. But after a decade of life on the sea, Percy didn't even need to think as he put one hand above the other and climbed up to the top sails.

Reaching down to his belt, Percy tugged free the eye-glass from the leather and brought it to his eyes. The moon was full, and its milky glow reflected beautifully off of the still waters of the sea. It was easy to lose track of time at the top of the ship like that. With the smell of salt and the sea in his nostrils, and the gentle breeze tickling at the whiskers on his cheeks. He kept a watchful eye on the horizon as the moon began to raise higher and higher into the sky.

His eyes darted back to the leeward side of the ship. Something at the edge of the horizon had caught his attention. Lowering the glass from his eye, he squinted and then rubbed at his eyes. It was easy for the exhaustion of life on the sea to play tricks on the eyes. The last thing he wanted was to report something that wasn't there and waste everyone's time.

He brought the glass back up to his eye and found the target again. But this time, there was no mistaking the image for a mirage.

"Sail ho!" He called out over the ship. The call was repeated along the ship, and a moment later he felt the rigging shift as someone else began climbing up to his position.

"Glasses, midshipman," ordered Lieutenant Forrestor, a good-hearted young lieutenant with hazel eyes and dark-brown hair. Percy passed the glass over to the lieutenant and pointed off to the horizon.

"Leeward," he said softly, "Three trims, and look at the shape of the hull. She's French sir, I'm certain of it."

"I've learned better than to bet on you, Mr. Jackson," muttered Forrestor, a wry grin on his face. The smile vanished however as he stared through the looking glass.

"I fear that you're correct, however. Come." He handed the glass back to Percy and began to scramble down the rigging, Percy only a second behind him. They hit the deck at the same time, and met with Lieutenant Erichson, a deep scowl on his face as his eyes darted over to Percy in disdain for a moment.

"French sails," said Forrestor quickly.

"Privateers?" Asked Erichson.

"Most probable," nodded Forrestor. "There have been reports of many of them operating along the straits. Best go rouse the Captain," he turned and gestured over to a drummer boy beside him and nodded. The drummer boy raised his sticks into the air as the call to quarters was beat around the ship.

Percy was the first down and onto the gun-deck, his operating theater. Already climbing onto the deck were the numbers of the gun crews.

"On the tracks!" Percy barked. "Round and chain shot! Primers and charges set and ready!" Percy was in his element on the gun-deck, as a thrill of excitement raced through him. Thus far, Percy had miraculously managed to go through his entire career without seeing combat. Not entirely too surprising, they were in the midst of the most prolonged period of peace in some time, but he was antsy. It would be the first time he felt the true thrill of combat. It was one thing to perform well during drills and exercises, but it was something else entirely for it to matter for real.

Those who were really warriors made themselves known in the heat of combat, and the rest floated to the bottom of the barrel, and Percy was excited. He was also scared. His fears of his own nature, of his strange power, they brimmed just under the surface. Percy, however, viscously stamped those feelings away. There was no time for such uncertainties.

It was hot on the deck, surrounded by burning charges and so many bodies cramped into such a small space. He lost track of time, but knew that some moments must have passed. Through the gun doors, he could see the sails of the French vessel grow larger and larger in the moonlight. The orders barking in the deck above told Percy precisely what was going on. They were running an intercept course directly at the oncoming ship.

As it drew closer, Percy got a better look at what they were dealing with. It was a smaller vessel, but far from a common schooner. Percy could count only one gun deck, and judging from the size of the vessel, would have been surprised if they were handling much more than nine-pounders. The Heritage herself carried a complement of twenty-four and twelve pound guns with nine-pound chase guns at the bow and the stern.

In terms of raw firepower, they almost certainly outgunned the smaller vessel, however the smaller ship would have been far more maneuverable. Even as the Heritage closed the distance, Percy could see that the smaller French vessel was tacking back away from the wind in an effort to try and outrun the Heritage. But the winds were not on its side, it was tacking directly into the wind, and whoever was captaining the ship was clearly in a panic, uncertain of what to do or how to do it.

The hours ticked by, the ship drawing nearer and nearer. The moon was still high in the sky, the inky glow of the late hour, however, had not yet laid an effect on Percy. He was still brimming with energy and with excitement.

A blast from the upper deck jolted the gun-deck out of their sleepy stupor. Peering through one of the gun-ports, Percy watched as the warning shot sailed several hundred yards ahead of the ship. Percy heard the call for the colours to rise, and waited. It was customary sea-fare to signal to an opposing ship to strike its colours, and stand-by for boarding. A ship that strikes its colours could not be fired upon, as it had signaled its surrender.

However the colors did not come down on the opposing ship, and Percy watched in mounting excitement as it tacked back into the wind, exposing it's broadside to the Heritage. There was a flash, and a following echo of thunder as cannonballs soared through the air. Percy's initial suspicions had been correct. The enemy vessel was carrying considerably smaller armaments, and the balls fell lamely into the ocean half a mile away from the Heritage.

This was it.

Combat.

His first fight. His first volley.

The ships drew closer, and Percy barked out his order to prep and prime charges.

The cannons were loaded.

Percy's heart hammered in his chest.

The Heritage had closed the distance, and the other ship was nearly upon them.

The signal came.

And the seas roared.

AN: This story is dedicated to MethWishes and Const3llations for driving me to actually write this one, so I got three more chapters coming for you over the next month! So I hope you enjoy this, I had a lot of fun working this one out and I think it's one of my better stories. So buckle up and enjoy the ride! As always shoutout to Double0Sxvxn for being an awesome Beta and dealing with my bullshit and as always if you enjoyed this but haven't checked out my other work, give them a try you never know you might find something else you like. I'm also on discord now, where I and a bunch of other writers hang out, chat and brainstorm ideas, you just have to copy the link that's in my profile bio if you want to come and hang out with us. Stay safe, stay healthy and have an awesome week.

All My Love and see you next week,

LilDB

BN: Fuck you Meth