Every street, every corner I try to memorise in detail so that I can walk through it again whenever I feel disconnected, or as if I don't belong somewhere. So that, only by closing my eyes and summoning the picture from my memory, I can return to these strangely familiar streets and travel back in time to guard myself from the uncertainty I fear. So much time I spend on bottling up the past and safely storing it away on the shelves of my mind in order to secure my future, that I forget to enjoy and savour what little time I have left here.
I'm aware of how easily memories fade. The faces of my parents are long gone and Egypt is a distant blur with only a few persistent moments remaining. Even serving at the Canterbury Estate seems like part of another life which slowly slips through the fingers of my mind.
And yet, I'm not fully willing to give up New York so easily. The persistent cry of the seagulls above my head, the sailors from all over the world flooding the harbour in the search of taverns to drink away their wages and a stranger's arms to comfort them, the smells and sounds of Water Street Market, one carefully absorbed jar of memories after the other. There's no time to travel to Boston and do the same there, no jars for the Green Dragon Tavern and red brick houses, so I'll have to make do with what I have here.
Only the piercing wind and persistent drizzle of the cold November morning accompany me on my way to Fort Arsenal, the streets of Greenwich as if swept empty with only a few unfortunate souls hurrying about to finish their business and get back into their warm homes as quickly as possible. Even the most optimistic person among them must have admitted to themselves that winter is inevitably on their doorstep by now and with it the time for cosy evenings by the fireplace and the avoidance of anything involving stepping even a foot outside.
I wrap my coat even tighter around me and readjust the kitbag on my shoulders, keeping an eye out for the stone arch which marks the entrance to the Fort. It's hard to miss, the building's walls towering a few feet above any of the other houses in the area. Shay truly couldn't have chosen a more imposing home for himself.
I hesitantly raise my fist, the cold has coloured my knuckles bright red, and knock twice, almost hoping he won't answer.
The door opens only seconds after and I'm greeted with a weary smile and a "Mornin" before he disappears inside again.
I follow him, closing the door behind me, and take a look around.
A high white ceiling above my head, with wooden beams stretching over it like a cobweb and pillars supporting it whenever the beams intersect. Red, expensive tapestry and a matching carpet on the floor. Very few pieces of furniture, a desk and a couple of chairs dimly lit by a simple chandelier. If I had to describe this place, homely wouldn't be the first thing on my mind. It seems deserted, almost desolate, with no personal items lying about to fill the empty spaces which seem to populate this house.
Taking a few steps forward, I lean my bag against one of the chairs and let my eyes wander around.
Shay, who has just re-emerged from one of the adjacent rooms, catches my expression and laughs. "If you ever asked yourself if there are any advantages to being a Templar, this is it."
He rather ungently flings a bag of his own on the floor next to mine and scans the room with a last, scrutinising look.
"Must be strange for you to leave this place.", I say in an attempt to bypass an even larger amount of awkwardness by keeping the conversation alive.
There's an almost solemn expression on his face, his eyes fixed on the water outside of the window where the Morrigan's masts and red sails sway in the wind. "This was never my real home."
Haytham has decided that the Morrigan is both unfit for such a long overseas journey, and infamous enough to be recognised by potential enemies and therefore organised an anonymous vessel and crew for us. It took a lot of convincing, stern glances and the promise of allowing Shay to captain the ship to win him over, but it's still evident how much of a sacrifice it really is to him.
"She'll be taken care of until you return.", I try to cheer him up a bit.
"It just feels so strange to leave without her y'know? The only consistency throughout it all she was. Feels like betraying an old friend."
I'm not entirely sure if it's me he's talking to or just voicing his thoughts to himself. He slightly shakes his head as if trying to rid himself of a persistent thought the way other do so with flies, and flashes me a quick grin. "Ridiculous how we bind ourselves to some things, it's just a ship in the end."
"No.", I reply. "It isn't."
Shay chuckles softly and reaches for our bags. "What about yourself then? Sad to leave Fort George?"
"I left my home years ago, and Fort George hasn't managed to replace it."
"Boston?"
"For a while."
"Well.", he says, the grin still there. "Might as well find yourself a new one then."
He starts moving towards the door but quickly turns around after I don't make any move to follow him and raises his eyebrows.
"Listen... I know you're not exactly enthusiastic about me coming along, and I understand but I can at least promise you that I'll try my best not to get in your way.", I say after a few shaky breaths and force myself not to break eye contact.
After a long sigh he hesitantly replies. "I... It's nothing personal, lass. Just that I prefer to work on my own. It makes a lot easier for everyone."
"I know."
Holding the door open with one hand, he makes a large gesture with the other. "But, since we're stuck with each other now, we can just as well make the best of it, aye?"
The ship Haytham chose for our journey turns out to be an impressive fully rigged Royal Navy frigate called the HMS Princess. A remnant of the ending Seven Years War, it sports four masts and two spacious decks along with 36 twelve-pounder cannons which even Shay in his scepticism can't help but admire.
I don't recognise any of the crewmen hurrying about and rise to my toes, trying to spot Gist's hat in the crowd, but fail to find him.
Shay notices my searching look. "Something wrong?"
"I was just looking for Gist, shouldn't he be here by now?"
"He's not coming. Different mission."
That takes me by surprise, it didn't even occur to me that the Quartermaster might not accompany us. What mission can possibly be more important to him than this?
"Oh, I didn't know that. Sorry to hear, I gathered you two were rather close?"
A shrug. "Aye, but some adventures have to end for others to begin."
He evidently feels guilty for making me feel unwanted so acts like he's actually looking forward to whatever lies ahead of us.
We step onto the deck, significantly bigger than the Morrigan's, and have a look around.
"There's a private cabin for ya below deck.", Shay says while scanning the rigging above our heads. "Think you'll manage?"
I take a deep, nervous breath. The question is warranted, the last time I was confined on a ship with nothing but men around me he had to yield his cabin to me, and I mostly slept alone in my room in the months which have passed since then. He cannot afford another one of my fits with an unknown crew who have yet to learn to trust him. I've tried to convince myself of my recovery in the past few weeks, but this will be the ultimate test to prove me right or wrong.
"Don't worry about it, I'm much better now."
He gives me one of his unreadable sideway glances and a short nod, slightly turns and makes his way to the Captain's cabin, leaving me standing in the middle of the deck surrounded by strangers who heed me no attention.
I watch him disappear behind the door, take another deep breath and walk over to the stairs leading to the berth deck.
My cabin is small, but cosy. Due to its location below water there are no windows so I light a few lanterns and start unpacking the few personal items, a few spare clothes, candles, ribbons to tie my hair back, courtesy of Anette, and a brand-new copy of Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. Beneath them lie the two daggers Haytham gave me to kill Alexander Canterbury with.
I stare at them as if they could transform into a pair of silver snakes any second.
They weren't there last night when I packed the bag. Haytham must have somehow managed to put them there in between then and my departure this morning.
A cold chill runs down my spine. I hastily shove the bag under my bed and flee out of my cabin and back upstairs where I finally allow myself to breathe again.
The men have completed their preparations and lifted the anchor, while the steady morning wind has already taken us a fair distance away from the harbour. Shay, as usual, has refused to accept a separate Helmsman and is already positioned at his usual spot behind the wheel, where he's talking to a bald man in his early thirties, presumably the assigned Quartermaster.
I stroll along the deck until I find a comfortable niche in between a few barrels where I can sit in peace without being much noticed or in the way of the crew and watch the buildings of New York shrink more and more, letting my thoughts wander off and feeling the iron fist of sadness tighten its grip on me.
For the second time in my life, I leave behind all I've known to sail away to a foreign country with a stranger I owe my life to, watching the American shore grow smaller and smaller in the distance until it's fully swallowed by the morning fog and I can wipe away my tears in a silent farewell.
It feels like every new day crawls by even slower than the last one.
Not having anything to do or contribute, I distance myself from everyone else as much as I can and confine myself in my cabin or somewhere on deck. The sailors leave me in peace, only giving me a few glances here and there when I emerge from my hideout to eat, too occupied in their daily routines to pay me much attention. Even Shay, who I occasionally join at the helm when the boredom threatens to kill me, is usually too busy to give me anything but a fleeting "Alright?".
"How far is it to London?", I ask him on the sixth day since leaving New York
"Distance is around 3000 nautical miles, if we have favourable winds and manage to maintain a speed of say... 5 knots an hour, we'll arrive in Gravesend in roughly a month."
"Gravesend?"
"London has no direct access to the sea, Gravesend is the nearest port."
"Oh."
A month, which usually doesn't seem like a particularly long period of time, suddenly feels unimaginably long, as if having to spend a lifetime on this ship with nothing but the endless waves as company.
I read Crusoe once, then a second and third time within the first week, until I feel like I could recite it if reading it even a minute longer.
On the seventh day, I finally feel brave enough to climb up into the crows' nest again, where the air seems a bit fresher and I watch the waves stretch to the horizon.
I read the book again.
The sun burns my skin so badly that it robs me of even the few hours of rest the sleeplessness and nightmares grant me. One of the sailors gives me his old leather hat and winks at me while whistling along to one of the crew's shanties.
There are some exceptional voices among them which make the overall song pleasantly melodic, prompting me and even Shay to sometimes quietly hum along when recognising a familiar tune.
It takes me ten full days until I am desperate enough to approach him.
"One more day of being completely useless and I'll go insane." I tell him. "Just give me anything to do, really. I can scrub the deck, it's no problem, I've cleaned floors before."
He grimaces, shaking his head in disapproval. "I sure as hell won't let ya crawl around on your knees like some half-witted greenhorn."
I immediately open my mouth to assure him I really don't mind, but he prevents me from doing so by raising a gloved hand.
"However, since you already spend most of your time up in the nest anyway, how about being our lookout for the journey, that an idea?"
It suffices for a time and brings me a bit closer to the crew, as my responsibilities now force me to actually interact with most of them. I sometimes spend an hour or two with playing checkers with them at night, a game in which I, thanks to Thomas Hickey's extensive tutoring, prove better than most of them. Especially Shay never seems to fully get the hang of it, but doesn't fail to joke about his lack and my apparent overabundance of talent every time I take his last piece off the board.
The winds aren't fully in our favour, but not against us either, usually gently pushing us forward at a medium speed beneath a grey sky and constant layer of thick clouds through which we solely see the sun. Overall, not many complaints are voiced among the crewmen and the spirits remain jolly throughout the second week. I spend many hours up on the mast pondering what might await me in London, the big old city which has withstood wind and weather, and even the Great Fire which had devoured it mercilessly a mere century ago. Shay keeps whatever knowledge he holds to himself, and I don't feel as if I have the right to ask him yet, though there are times where my curiosity, fuelled by my boredom, nearly drives me to making inquiries regardless of my inferior rank.
Halifax is the last familiar place we pass before heading east to the open sea, the shore only visible through a spyglass. After that, the only thing left are the unpleasant greyish-blue waves of the North Atlantic stretching as far as the eye can see. The winds grow colder, the days shorter and everyone more miserable when having to exchange their hammocks and cots for the rough and freezing deck every morning. Showers of rain and occasional snow make our lives harder by the day thereafter. By the beginning of the third week, about two weeks away from Christmas Eve, all calculations point towards the winds having blown us well off course and our position to be far more north than originally planned. All of this does not fully crush the crew's spirits until I spot sails on the western horizon a few days after passing Greenland's icy shores in pursuit of regaining our course by catching a southeastern breeze.
I pay them no great heed at first, taking them to be some unfortunate souls not unlike ourselves which were forced to sail under such dire conditions, but keep an eye on them for the next few hours, in which the smaller and significantly faster ship manages to close a great distance to the Princess. For lack of better knowledge, I signal the crew below, but it seems that they are already aware of the other ship's presence.
"Anything of interest?", I shout loudly enough for them to hear me.
"Seems to be a merchant's vessel, Ma'am.", one of the boatswains responds. "Square-Rigger. She's no threat to us."
I nod and return to watching the ship through my glass, not out of suspicion but solely because it's the most interesting thing I've seen in a long while.
The ship is riding noticeably low, heavily laden with cargo – though I fail to think of anything heavy enough to weigh it down this significantly, except maybe something made of iron or a similarly heavy material. It's a foggy morning and the cloud are hanging low in the sky, partly obscuring the other vessel and significantly blurring my vision. Their upper masts disappear in the grey mass of the winter sky so I focus on trying to spot anything interesting on deck.
"Flag?" Shay calls up to me, still at the helm and turning back to the approaching ship, squinting his eyes trying to see for himself. The question is appropriate, we're sailing under the cloak of a British flag, which grants us some kind of anonymity within the waters in which we started our journey and in which Shay's ship might still have been recognised, yet it also comes with the risk of enmity with both France and Spain. The current fragile truce between the respective empires does not guarantee us safe passage when confronted with potentially rogue enemy ships in these ends of the world, which are off-route for other patrolling ships to come to our aid.
I point my spyglass at their masts again but the fog is still too thick for me to make out the ship's allegiance, even if they're only a few hundred yards away from us now.
"I... Can't quite tell yet."
The men below me are evidently starting to get more and more agitated, nervously scurrying about the deck, all eyes fixed on the strange vessel. Up in my nest, still trying to make out their flag, I'm starting to wonder why they are not adjusting their course to overtake us, which is precisely the moment in which one heavy billow of fog finally lifts and I catch a short glimpse of the ships empty mast.
Taken aback, I squint, certain that I must be mistaken.
There is no doubt.
Confused, I lower the glass again and call down to the crewmen, first hesitantly but then with a louder voice so every last one of them can hear me.
"They're flying no flag!"
Shay whirls around. "What?"
But I have no time to repeat my statement, as my voice is drowned by the deafening and unmistakable sound of cannonballs being fired in our direction.
None of us is prepared.
The impact sends several crewmen reeling off their feet and me slithering towards the nest's edge at an unstoppable speed. Before I can even think of grabbing a ledge to stop my fall I'm already over the edge and falling downwards. It would have been my last thought if I had not, as always, gone through the trouble of safely tying myself to the mast. The sudden yank of the taut rope brings me back to reality, and I immediately start struggling to regain some sort of orientation while fully aware that I'm dangling in the open air a deadly distance away from the deck. I can hear distant cries and shouting and only have time to grab the rope before the enemy vessel released a second battery of shots. The Princess groans, splinters of wood are strewn in all directions and a screen of smoke joins the fog. My ears are ringing. Someone is screaming, I'm not sure if out of pain or fear. My kicking feet find the solid wood of the mast and I pull at the rope while pushing myself upward with a strength I could not have imagined I possess. Slowly, I work my way up, ears pricked in case the enemy launches a third attack. I didn't fall too far and swiftly reach the edge of the crow's nest again, heaving myself onto the platform and crawling back to safety. From that position, clutching the mast, I try to assess the situation below. Several crewmen are lying face down on the deck, with others hurrying about and carrying the injured to the relative safety of the quarters. Shay is still at the helm barking orders to a group of gunners who are hastily preparing a counterattack.
"Gun crews at the ready!"
"Two six, heave!"
He loses no time. "Fire!"
The Princess swivels sideways as the crew follows the command and the canons find their target. The wind is picking up and the sea grows more restless by the minute, the high waves violently rocking the ships and making it exceedingly difficult to both navigate and attack at the same time. Simultaneously, the enemy ship's position at our starboard rear puts them in favour, well out of range of our broadside cannons but still able to use their front carronades on us.
They planned this, is all I can think of. This is no unfortunate coincidence, they must have been trailing us for some time, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Something is happening, the enemy crew having mostly ceased their direct attack and speeding up their ship until it's practically flanking ours. The realisation of what they are doing comes a precious few seconds too late, the warning shout of one of the men and Shay's angry cursing being followed by the whizzing sound and thunderous impact of a round of chain shot hitting one of our masts, the wood splintering under its force.
They don't only intend to board us, they intend to render our ship immobile and kill us all.
Another round of cannons fired, swiftly responded to by an attack of our own. The Princess shakes violently, each beam groaning in exhaustion.
I raise my head and try to assess the damage done, the stinging wind and smoke from the guns bringing tears to my eyes and the darkening sky making it increasingly harder to make out anything. One end of the top gallant high above my head is fluttering uselessly in the wind, loosened by the chain shot having shattered one of the yards from which it was rigged. It's not necessary to be a mariner to realise how much loss in speed and damage this one compromised sail could do, the loss of balance could well costs us part of our mast if the wind continued to be this furious. The first few drops of rain gently strike my skin, heralds of the looming storm.
Down on all fours, I crawl towards the nest's edge and peer over the rim.
Shay has somehow managed to navigate us further away from the enemy, almost out of range for their cannons now, our stern now facing their bow. They're close on our tracks though and with the topgallant rendered useless in clear advantage, it's only a matter of moments until they'll catch up again. The smoke is slowly lifting but the now heavy rain obscures my view, pulling at my clothes and hair and soaking me to the core. My whole body is shaking but I clench my teeth and flex my muscles in an attempt to keep it at bay.
Water is running into my eyes, my hair and clothing stick to my body like barnacles to a ship's hull. Something tells me that this is it, that I won't survive this time, that I've only escaped the prison to die miserably at sea but I ignore the little voice in my head and shout with all my might.
"Hey! You down there! Topgallant is loose!"
At first, it appears as if they hadn't heard me, but then some of the men start pointing hectically, now in turn shouting at each other and drawing their Captain's attention to me.
"Julie!" he calls back to me. "Have you lost your mind? Get down here at once!"
Even through the howling storm I can hear how angry he is.
I throw a quick glance back at the impaired sail and consider the situation. One of the men would have to climb all the way up and refasten the sail to the mast, the rope which held it fortunately not too heavily damaged. This would however come at the risk of the sailor's weight adding up to the already unbalanced distribution and the thin mast could potentially break, dragging the poor soul down with it. Adding the raging storm reduces the chances of success even further.
Unless it could be fixed without the extra weight of a full-grown, heavy sailor.
There's not much time to consider this thoroughly, it's one of the situations where its more pure gut feeling and impulse than brain and I have already made my decision.
Asking Shay's permission would be pointless, he'd never give it, too wary of the consequences my death would bring upon him. Haytham made him swear and Shay doesn't take oaths lightly. Not even the possibility of losing the mast in exchange for my guaranteed survival can change that.
I fumble with the knot tying me to the mast.
My fingers are numb from the cold and the rain doesn't make it any easier, they slip several times and the rough material makes them sting and burn.
After several attempts, the knot eases and I pull it apart, loosely tying the rope around the mast before standing up on shaky legs and tightly hugging the solid wood. There's a net fluttering in the wind next to me, but I'd have to hold my balance for a few seconds to grab it. It's risky, if I fall before reaching it I'd be dead, my body either crushed on the ship's deck or swallowed by the sea.
The storm and constant cannon fire doesn't make the endeavour any easier, the ship is dangerously swaying from one side to the other while desperately trying to escape both the enemy and the natural forces of the raging sea around us.
I wait for the enemy's cannons and then for our own, giving me a few precious seconds while both crews are reloading. Once the fire has ceased, I hurl myself at the net with all my strength, pushing my entire body away from the safety of the mast. My outstretched hands grasp at the ropes and my fingers close around them a mere second before the weight of my body and the momentum of my jump sends me flying further over the edge of the nest. I dangle in the air until my feet find a mesh and I regain my stability. My heart is pounding in my chest, I blink hectically to sharpen my rain-soaked vision while clutching the ropes tightly. The entire net is shaking violently, tossing me around like a helpless puppet. I force myself to take one hand off it and reach for a higher mesh. Once found, my grip secure enough, the other hand follows. Slowly, then one foot and the other. One by one, careful. After some time I learn to estimate the interval of the gusts of wind and stop every time a new one is coming, as if avoiding waves on the sea. One hand, stop. Next. First foot. Stop. Second foot, first hand. I work my way upwards, cautious and slow. Whatever is happening on the deck below is long lost to me, the howling of the storm is the only voice I hear. First hand, stop. I crawl my way up, the loose sail fluttering above my head. Almost there. The net ends a few feet below, I need to climb the last bit of the mast to reach out. First hand, slung around the wood. I pull myself up. Second hand placed above the first. Repeat. After what feels like an eternity of agony, I'm face to face with the rogue Topgallant. One hand and both feet gripping the mast, I reach out for the end of the torn rope at the end of it. Splinters of the damaged wood deep in my flesh. It doesn't matter. My outstretched fingers catch something but it slips away before I can close them properly. Again. Nothing but air and water. Again. There. I pull my hand back, rope tightly clutched, and bring it around the mast, where I can use both hands to tie it down while my arms hold me in place. That surprisingly proves the easiest part. I wait a few moments to make sure the sail is fully secure, then make my way back. Now it's first hand, first foot, second hand, second foot. I shudder from having to look down now and realising how high up I actually am, the deck looks frighteningly small. Step by step. There's the net again, now it's easier. Hand, foot, hand, foot. There you go, Julie.
My feet touch the solid wood of the crow's nest and the warm rush of relief floods through me. I made it. I'm alive. One look towards the deck stifles the flame as quick as it came.
Not quick enough. I only have time to wrap my arms around the mast before the enemy ship, now significantly faster than ours, rams out broadside with its entire strength.
Dozens of voices cry out in terror, amplified by the sound of splintering wood and howling storm. The ship is jolted sideways and for one, terrifying moment I'm certain we will sink then and there, our masts coming too close to the raging see to regain balance. It's a terrifying sight, the impact and resulting tilt mercilessly sweeps sailors off their feet and into the sea, others manage to hold onto something only to be crushed under the weight of a loose cannon or barrel. Ear-piercing screams followed by a sudden, fatal silence.
And the victorious howling of the enemy crew.
I hold onto the mast sobbing even though I can't fully say why, is it out of terror or relief of having survived this far?
How many have died?
Chaos rules on deck now, whoever is left uninjured struggles back on their feet and tries to regain their bearings or flee below deck. Some have drawn their weapons, ready to fight the faceless force which has taken so many lives today. And with so many more to come, death has become inevitable.
Shay, who is already back on his feet and does his best to get his men under control, has yielded the helm to another crewmember and is now everywhere at once to prepare a shaky defence for the upcoming fight.
Weapons are still being handed out and men positioned when the first grappling hooks claw their iron fingers into the ship's side.
Everything goes extremely fast, whoever is attacking us has done this countless times before, both efficient and merciless at the same time. With the element of surprise and the weather on their side, we had no chance from the beginning.
I should be grateful, my position is currently among the safest on this ship, who will think about the crow's nest in the midst of battle? If we lose, I might become the last person standing. With a bit of luck, they won't sink the ship after having raided it and I might even survive a few more days. I'm under no illusion about the inescapability of my situation then, even if I survive the attackers I'll die of starvation or thirst. Quite an eerie thought, imagining myself like this, the last person to die on a ghost ship floating aimlessly through the Atlantic, until the vultures have devoured my body or the next storm shattered my remains against the nearest shore. I'd sink to the bottom of the sea and no one would ever know what happened to me. Haytham would care, at least a bit and maybe somehow I would be remembered this way. A comforting thought, not to be forgotten after one's death. But is a slow, agonising, lonely death really that much better than dying side-by-side with the men below me? Is it really better to stay up here in my safe haven and watch them die one by one like a coward? What if the enemy finds me after all, what if they don't kill me after all?
What if they torture me?
What if they do worse?
Shay would tell me to stay safe and he's the one in charge, but what if he dies today? There's no one but him with the authority to tell me what to do and besides, I've already disobeyed him by climbing up to the Topgallant. A dead man can't punish anyone either.
He could yield to the enemy, raise a white flag and hope for the best but that's hardly his manner of dealing with things. Besides, there is no guarantee the attackers would cease their attack, this isn't some Gentleman's Warfare conducted by a honourable General of the Royal Navy. No, he wouldn't go down without a fight, rather die in battle than in chains.
I'm indecisive, no option seems desirable enough for me to make an immediate choice.
The first few attackers swing climb on board, met by the remaining crewmen's pistols and swords, but partly obscured by rain, fog and smoke. I don't really see the fighting, just hear the deafening noise of metal and screams and incomprehensible commands. The winds seem to applaud, like a blood-thirsty crowd longing for death to entertain them for a while.
But our crew doesn't go down easily.
We might sail under a British flag, but most of them aren't British soldiers. These men, hardened by years of unyielding wind and waves have done their fair share of fighting, and very little of it could be called 'gentlemanly'. They weren't trained in the safety of a camp, but had to learn to survive on their own. No one showed them how to handle a sword or musket, yet life forced them to learn themselves to survive. Hired by lowly and badly equipped merchants, each and every one of them had to quickly adapt to the life on sea during the height of piracy in the early days of the century and its aftermath after the Honourable East India Company made sure to shatter any hopes of them ever being able to afford a life outside of the sea. Trade, industry and handicrafts blooming ensured a small number of the population riches beyond compare, but the rest weren't off any better than before. Sailors were in high demand, but in higher supply, all dreaming of making a fortune at sea and most of them never returning.
Considering that these men, none of them particularly simplehearted and most of them past their golden age of naiveté, have made it this far is already quite an achievement for our side. Haytham chose them deliberately. They won't go down easily.
Most of the enemy have boarded by now, occupying every single one of our men, some of them fending off two at a time. My fingers clawed into the wood, I try to assess the situation from my vantage point.
Corpses litter the ground, clothes indistinguishable from another. They could be anyone, friend or enemy, anonymous in their deaths. The attackers have the numbers, but our men seem to be more skilled. Most of the survivors are still on their feet, each and every one of them essential to the other, using all their might, swords, cutlasses, pocket knives and pistols to stay alive.
Fighting back to back with their companions and protecting them where they can.
The sea is an odd creature, months on it can make men of steel forge bonds which exceed any connections mere blood could ever form.
These men are a family, each of them essential in the grand clockwork of surviving at sea, and they are all too aware of it.
Shay has been isolated from the other crewmen, fighting off five attackers at once. While every other man would be dead within seconds, his fighting style is like nothing I've ever seen before. Observed from above, it seems as if he knows and reacts to each opponent's move before they even start executing it. His motions are fluent and ceaseless, he never stops a single moment to take a breath or let the attackers take the reins, relying on both tactics and brutal strength equally and never missing an opportunity to strike.
He is merciless, easily blocking off one man's attack while dodging another with his sword and using his cutlass to do the killing. Sending two to their doom with as much as a light sidestep. In his proximity, every single attacker is immediately turned to prey.
A cold shiver which has nothing to do with the rain runs down my back, unable to avert my eyes from the massacre below me. I should have expected him to be skilful, Haytham wouldn't have taken in anything less than an exceptional fighter but this chills me to the bone. This isn't simple swordplay between men but like watching a spider dance around a fly caught in her net. It's a terrifying sight, a reminder of the sort of men I dine with, the sort of men no one should dare to cross. The men I have sworn myself to. A reminder that being a Templar is a one way street and the only way to leave them is in a coffin. Something you tend to forget over cosy nights below deck and a few rounds of a light-hearted game of checkers.
What a coward I am, hiding high on the mast, a literal crow who'd rather cower and watch the brave men below die than stand beside them. Death was such a pleasant bedfellow a few months back, why am I so scared to face him now? My hands are back on the rope, clutching the knot by not moving to untie it yet. What if there's pain? What if the pain just goes on and on and I just don't die? What if death is nothing but endless pain? What if hell is real?
But what if I don't act and we lose? Isn't it infinitely better to at least die with the security that I've tried my very best to save them? Knowing that I've tried to repay the debt I owe?
The rain has eased a bit and the smoke is lifting. The sailor who gave me his hat has been backed into a corner, slashing and grunting and not yet giving up in his hopeless position. He is right below me, they wouldn't see me coming. I'm not armed though, the two daggers Haytham gave me still in the bag under my bed where I left them on the first day. No one would've dreamed of needing them back then, least of all myself.
I scan the ground. Not far from the spot I'm aiming to land lies a dead man, a deep red wound washed clean by the rain stretching across his chest. His arm grotesquely outstretched, his sword still in hand. If I'm quick, they won't react in time. I'll need to make sure to roll forward upon impact to minimise the pain, use the speed of it to my advantage. My fingers fumbling with the knot. I can do this. I'm trained, they're not. Check if the rope is still safely tied to the mast, make sure to be in control when you hit the ground, land on the balls of your feet first. I can do it, I only need to focus. I've conquered the rogue sail, today might be my lucky day.
Maybe I am a coward, but I can make sure not to die one.
I jump backwards, making sure to push myself off the platform with enough force to at least not fall straight to the ground but use the rope as a sort of swing. My rain-soaked clothes make me a lot heavier so the momentum doesn't carry me as far as I calculated.
Icy drops lash in my face while I hang in the air for a split second, floating in the wind and with nothing but the raging storm holding me. Then I crash downwards, holding onto the rope and hoping that I won't collide with the other mast or swing overboard. The deck comes closer and closer, the wind singing in my ears and the raindrops piercing my skin like tiny bullets.
I draw my feet to my chest and let go of the rope.
The impact forces all air out of my lungs and the world goes black for a moment while the force and speed of it sends me somersaulting further until a wall which seems to have manifested out of nowhere brings a sudden halt to it. I lie there, dizzy and disorientated while the drowned-out sounds of the battle around me slowly catch up on me. Screaming, full of fear, anger and pain. The ceaseless tune of swords clashing and men dying, pistols being fired and the storm singing them a song of war is all around me, muted by the veil of my dazed mind yet terribly present. With one shaky hand I push my wet hair aside from my face and blink rapidly to clear my blurry sight.
Dozens of feet on the deck around me, dodging, lunging forward at their opponents, fleeing, dancing their deadly dance. Bodies litter the ground, expressions of terror and pain grotesquely frozen on their faces. Severed limbs, wood washed with streams of crimson. My heartbeat like a hummingbird's stroke of wing. How easy it all seemed to me from the safety of my mast, like a freshly hatched bird overlooking the world beyond its nesting tree.
Have they spotted me yet?
My thoughts clouded by fear and desperation, unarmed and disoriented I could die any minute if discovered by the enemy. I press myself as closely to the wall as possible, cowering against the wood and praying to whatever God may be that I remain unseen. Another man dies only a few feet away from me, his eyes wide and empty before his body hits the ground. I whimper and immediately start crawling away from him, along the wall and as quickly as possible, perhaps if I stay on all fours they won't spot me and I could try and reach the quarters, crawl under my bed and retrieve the daggers from my bag, miles away, centuries away, yet perhaps-
The sword.
I stop, eyes frantically scanning the ground around me, featureless heaps of flesh and bone and cloth and yet no steel, so many screams ringing in my ears and the ground shakes from the deafening impact of another cannon, and where is he where – there! Only a few more feet to my right lies the dead man I saw from above. His hand outstretched as if reaching out and in it the gleam of metal. Not paying any attention to my surroundings anymore I lunge forward, eyes and mind fixed on the price. Crouching next to him, don't look at his face, don't look at the wound, just the hand and what's in it. His fingers locked around the hilt. I can't bend them, can't loosen his deadly clutch, pull harder, don't pull at his fingers, pull the sword out from underneath them instead. I can't die now, not after everything yet his grip is to strong and my fingers slippery from the rain and I'm shaking and perhaps sobbing yet I can't tell because of the noise around me and I just have to pull a little bit harder. With a scream, I finally manage to yank the dead man's sword from his hand. Steel still pink where the rain hasn't washed the blood away but otherwise intact, I hold it with one hand while carefully pulling myself up with the other. Crouch and have a look around. Still no one looking at me. This is my chance, my element of surprise yet my limbs feel heavy and paralysed.
I try to tense my muscles to stop myself from shaking and focus my thoughts away from the death around me to the living – where is the sailor I saw from above? The rain has eased but the people around me are still little more than fast moving shapes merging into one another and the dark sky and sea, indistinguishable in their mighty rage. With a few hesitant steps and tightly clutching my sword I move forward towards one of them, a man heavily leaning against the mast. It's one of the crewmen, I recognise the distinctive tattoo on his forearm. His head is slumped onto his chest, hair stuck to his forehead, right arm clutching his side. Blood seeps through his fingers and slowly stains his shirt, mixing with the dirt and sweat and rain on it. My arm feels strangely numb when I reach out to him, fingertips gently grazing the wet fabric stuck to his shoulder. He raises his head slightly, his eyes staring right through me with a glazed, distant look in them as if barely registering what is happening to him, searching for the invisible horizon beyond the endless water and clouds. He opens his mouth but the words never leave his tongue. A gloved hand has appeared on his shoulder, fingers digging into his flesh. With a single, dreadful movement they yank the man backwards towards the person behind him and right into their outstretched blade. A horrible gurgling sound coming from somewhere deep in the sailor's throat escapes his lips, eyes wide in shock and disbelief, then he sinks to his knees and slumps to the side like a felled tree. In his place stands a man nearly twice his size, broad shouldered and built like a brick, every inch of him thick and bulky. His chest is exposed, with every breath his muscles protrude from under his skin, covered in a seemingly impenetrable layer of tenacious meat. He draws back his sabre without as much as wasting a second glance on the dead man lying at his feet, his eyes now resting on me. Fear turns my blood into ice as soon as I meet his gaze, is expression not giving away any of his intentions and his eyes as dark as night. There isn't any surprise in them, no bloodlust or terror. They are simply devoid of any emotion, empty pits in his ugly scarred face. It's this lack of anything remotely humane which terrifies me more than anything about him. We stand there for a few moments which seem to drag out into eternity, frozen in our movement with our eyes locked onto each other like predators stalking their prey – each one of us waiting for the other to make their first move. In the end it is him who breaks the moment, a humourless and grimacing smile appearing on his face. Slowly, as if wanting to salvage every second of the moment, he takes a step forward. I stumble backwards, heart racing trying to think of solutions. A single casual strike of his weapon would kill me, sever off a limb or impale me like the poor fellow who died just seconds ago. I doubt I'd have the strength to parry any of his attacks, he towers several feet over me and is probably three times my size – even a strike from the back of his hand could easily break my jaw. No, I must find some way to outwit him. My mind is blank with fear, thoughts racing in useless circles, looking for a way out which doesn't exist. He takes another step forward, I retreat further. No familiar faces around me to come to my rescue, what was I thinking swinging down here and to what point? A death without any meaning, the opposite of my noble thoughts up on my high mast where everything seemed easy and achievable and clear. Another step, he doesn't make a move yet, savouring the moment, predatory calmness before the final strike. He knows I have no way to escape, trapped on a wooden vessel surrounded by endless icy waves infuriated by the storm. It is calmer now, the wind blowing it westwards but the ship still violently sways from side to side, daring every lost soul on it to lose their footing. Next step and there's unforgivable wood pushing against my back, I've reached the railing. I clutch the dead man's sword even though I'm fully aware that it's as useless as a feather in my current circumstances. My opponent comes to a halt before me, his eyes remain devoid of any emotion but the smug grin lingers on his lips. He raises his weapon and I prepare mine to block his imminent attack, every inch of my being focused on dodging his blade, perhaps too focused while he in turn carries himself too confidently, knowing that I pose no threat to him and that he can devour me like a cat a trapped mouse. It is perhaps because of this channelled energy and rapt fixation on one another which causes us both to blend out our environment entirely. Which is why neither of us hears the warning shouts of some of the men around us or notices how the ship's nose slightly tilts downwards before being violently yanked upwards again.
The wave, more majestic than any of its predecessors, crashes into the Princess's front, its sheer force demanding the ship to kneel at its feet. Seawater becomes rain as it sweeps over the deck and takes everything and everyone with it who wasn't quick enough to grab a nearby rope or plank. The ship's head rears up and for one horrifyingly long moment it threatens to fully lose its balance and fall backwards or swing even more sideways but then it leans forward again. I don't register any of this. The moment the wave hit, I was flung backwards and so was the man before me, just that he was thrown in my direction. I reflexively raise my blade to block the impact but the momentum is too strong. He crashes into me like the wave into the wood a mere second ago and we fall backwards, the railing in my back suddenly gone and we fall for too long and I realise that I would have hit the deck by now. There's a split second in which I still hover in the air, right before I'm met with the ocean's icy embrace that my thoughts are suddenly as clear as never before. In this instant, I realise that my fate is sealed and accept it with immediate calmness. My second thought is all I care about, I marvel at the beauty of the ridge of sunlight and blue sky which has momentarily parted the dark clouds above me. A glimpse of a long-awaited end to this dreadful storm.