A/N:

"Ever gazed upon the green flash, Mr. Gibbs?"
"Aye, it signals when a fanfiction comes back to this world, from hiatus!"

... In other words, after a really wild (and long) time, I'm back! I recently looked over my old notes for this story and it got me out of the dry spell I've been in. It's mostly been due to hecticness in life, including a big move. I'm really grateful to everyone who's been following along and waiting for it to continue. I have it planned out all the way to the end, so I won't give up on it.

To give a glimpse of what's coming ahead: This one will be a Murtogg&Mullroy chapter, and the next one has Allie and Rob thinking about their futures. Then we'll have more stirrings of intrigue within the Company, then finally a visit from a well-known pirate...

Hope you enjoy!


4. The Likes of Us

The outpost of the East India Trading Company in Port Royal was a large four-story building near the town's main square. Formerly, it had served as the naval headquarters, but since the Company's takeover a decade prior, the Navy's presence had diminished. Now, the two organizations shared the premises, red-uniformed marines walking alongside black-coat Company men, each world going about its own business.

As the morning sun climbed to its apex, Murtogg and Mullroy entered the foyer. They took a moment to adjust their hats, wiping the dust and perspiration that had accumulated during their hours on guard shift. All around them, men in uniform and bureaucratic attire were hurrying about, the air vibrant with business and schedules.

The two guards stepped into the flow of the crowd and ascended the staircase to the second floor. Their destination was the office of their direct supervisor, an efficient chap called Commodore Watson. He presided over all Company activity in the Port Royal harbor, keeping track of their ships and overseeing the harbor crews. To no surprise, there was a long queue of men at his door, with many others occupying the benches.

With a sigh, Mullroy set down his musket. After a few awkward apologies and some reluctant scooting, he and Murtogg managed to get a space on the very edge of a bench, squashed side-to-side at a right angle. Murtogg crinkled his face as if from a sour taste, and for the umpteenth time that day, reached up to rub his nose.

"I think my skin is getting sunburnt," Murtogg mumbled.

Mullroy replied with a neutral grunt. "Mm."

"No, really. Whenever I do this it hurts." Murtogg crinkled his nose again. "You know, last week it was so bad I could hardly open my mouth. So whenever I started to eat, I—"

"Murtogg! Please!" Mullroy cast his friend an appalled glance.

Murtogg blinked, looking sheepishly at the people around them. "Sorry…"

They went back to being silent. At times like these, it was easy to see the difference between them: Murtogg sat straight and alert, despite the discomfort of their seating arrangement, as if he were still occupying his guard post. But Mullroy had let his aching back droop and resembled more of a lump.

Usually, he'd be all for filling up the moment with conversation. But today he just wasn't in the mood. It wasn't even the heat or his full stomach; it was the fact that they had just been on their way from the coffeehouse that day when they had unluckily run into Smith, the first mate of the Lady Jane, who had unluckily been passing by and noticed that they were off-duty. So Smith had asked them if they would be so kind as to deliver a letter to Commodore Watson straight away. And unluckily, it was nearing the busiest part of the day, which meant that the halls of the Company-Navy building were bursting at the seams. Which meant that it would be at least another hour until Mullroy got home, maybe more.

At long last, their turn came. The final Company official who had been before them left the office, and Mullroy sprang from the bench before anyone else could protest. He rushed to knock on the door. "Commodore Watson?"

"Come in," came the reply.

Mullroy stepped inside, greeted by the familiar sight of the commodore surrounded by his ledgers and maps. He and Murtogg both saluted.

"Good day, sir," Mullroy began. "We're here on behalf of Allan Smith, first mate of the Lady Jane. He wanted us to deliver this." He brought out the letter that had been tucked under his elbow.

Commodore Watson opened it, lifting his spectacles. "So. The Lady Jane. Ever the enterprisers… Even more cargo she wants…" He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Unfortunately, the remainder of the outgoing cargo has already been assigned. I won't be able to give Captain Peterson any more unless another captain is willing to share with him." He jotted this down on a new sheet of parchment, sealing it with a hot wax stamp. "Give this to the crew if you could, sir. I don't have the time to seek Captain Peterson out myself."

Mullroy accepted it with a nod, though his heart sank at the prospect of another walk to the harbor. "Yes, Commodore, sir. Thank you."

He and Murtogg left the building, setting off once again for the docks. As the masts of the Lady Jane came into view, Mullroy became aware of an unusual commotion of voices rising up from the pier. The ship's gangplank was lowered, and the crew was rushing about, hauling things to and fro about the deck.

Mullroy ascended the steps onto the pier, squinting in puzzlement. He still couldn't make out what the crew was doing, but he did recognize the face of Allan Smith, the first mate, who was overseeing them by the railing with a look of satisfaction.

Mullroy cupped a hand around his mouth. "Oi, Smith!"

The first mate turned at the sound of his name. Mullroy walked up the gangplank, and before Smith could get a word out, he thrust the letter into his hand. Smith frowned down at it as if it were a piece of seaweed. "What's this?"

"It's a letter from the commodore," Mullroy said. "The captain can't get his extra cargo unless another ship gives you some of hers."

Smith tapped his chin with a hm, as if he'd expected as much. But he gave them a smile as he stowed the letter away in his coat. "Thank you, gentlemen. We'll find a workaround."

"But you were already assigned sixty barrels of grain and fifty barrels of sugar," Murtogg spoke up. "You won't have space for more. Her cargo hold wasn't designed for so much."

The smile on Smith's face spread wider. "Well, we're renovating."

At that point, Mullroy's eyes flickered to what the crewmen were moving about, and his breath caught in his throat when he realized they were guns — cannons, from the six-pounders that lined the Lady Jane's quarterdeck to the large twelve-pounders on her main deck. The gunner was raising them up on the ropes and depositing them into wagons, which would carry them off the pier.

Mullroy's heart hammered. "You're disarming her!"

Smith responded with a shrug. "Captain Peterson has a new vision for the Lady Jane. Not a mediocre convoy defender bogged down by the weight of her own munitions, but a light and fast cargo transporter."

"That's not what she is!" Mullroy blurted. "She's supposed to be a cargo defender! No other ship can have so many guns and still keep her speed!"

"And is that something for you to judge, Midshipman?"

Mullroy's mouth worked angrily, but none of the retorts he'd had at the ready ended up making their way out. He resorted to tapping his foot. Beside him, Murtogg continued to watch the crew unload the guns, an uneasy expression on his face.

At last, Mullroy backed away. "Fine. Not our problem. Deliver the letter to your captain, and we'll be on our way."

"Wait," said Smith. "We're actually very busy right now and Captain Peterson has gone to Kingston to inspect a potential cargo source. Would you mind delivering it to his home? It's just outside of town."

Mullroy's face ticked in anger. "You're asking me to walk across the entire town to deliver a letter to him?"

"Please, Mullroy. We've been working in this heat for hours."

"We've been standing guard here for weeks!"

"Fine, then deliver it to the Company postman, at least! Richard Hastings is his name. He'll take it through the regular mail system and have it sent to Captain Peterson's house."

"Fine," Mullroy echoed. "Where is he?"

"His office is in the Company headquarters."

Mullroy felt as if a barrel of cannonballs had crashed over his shoulders. It was all he could do to keep from slapping a hand to his face. "Fine." He took the letter. He went back to Murtogg, who had begun to argue with two crewmen about cargo hold capacities, and pulled him along by the arm.

"Let's go."

"Where are we going?" Murtogg asked.

"Back to the headquarters to give this to Mr. Hastings." The word seethed out of Mullroy's mouth like soured brew.

"The postman? I think I've seen him before... His office should be near the Commodore's."

Mullroy grumbled. "If there's a queue again, so help me…"

Right as they stepped off of the gangplank, Mullroy heard someone skip after them. "Oh, Mullroy, wait! Wait a moment." Smith appeared beside them again, waving another folded letter in the air. "Since you're going to Mr. Hastings, could you please also take this letter and tell him to deliver it on Captain Peterson's behalf, as quickly as possible? The captain's found a good buyer for the twelve-pounders and wants to confirm the deal as quickly as possible. If you could, ask Mr. Hastings to deliver it by the end of today."

Mullroy scowled, but the letter was thrust into his hands before he could respond. Smith bade them a nod. "If you could do that, we would be extremely grateful."

Mullroy narrowed his eyes and gave his best vindictive smile. "Well, if we can persuade Mr. Hastings to deliver it by the end of today, then certainly."

"I'm sure you can," Smith replied. He gave them an upbeat salute and hurried back towards the ship.

Mullroy squared his jaw and trudged off from the pier. Murtogg jogged after him, spreading out his hands. "How are we supposed to persuade Mr. Hastings to deliver the letters today? We're not persuasive!"

Mullroy gave a grunt. "Well, I suppose it's simple. We walk in, look 'im in the eye, and…" He pointed a finger threateningly, scrunching up his face. "And we…"

"Strongly insist?" Murtogg concluded.

Mullroy shrugged a shoulder. "I s'pose."

"But what if he refuses?"

"Then we insist again. Until he accepts."

Murtogg bit his lip. "But will he?"

"He has to!" Mullroy fired back. "How else does persuasion work? You insist! There's no other way to do it!"

Murtogg thought this over, biting his lip. "But how's Smith going to know when the letters were delivered?"

Now it was Mullroy's turn to ponder the conundrum. He sighed. "Fine. We'll insist twice, then if he refuses, we'll simply tell him to deliver it normally."

Murtogg nodded. "I like that plan."

They made their way back to the Company headquarters, this time not bothering to take off their hats and holding their muskets more like bothersome furled packages. After a few inquiries, they located the office of Richard Hastings, on the left wing of the third floor.

Thankfully, there wasn't a queue here. In fact, there wasn't a waiting room at all: The wing was a dead-end hallway, with just three doors after the staircase. Richard Hastings' door was the end, in a somewhat shadowy corner. Mullroy approached to find a notice nailed to the wood: Away on leave.

He rolled back his eyes. "Lovely. They send us to him and he's not there."

"What do we do, then, hold onto them?" asked Murtogg.

Mullroy glared down at the letters in loathing. In the space of those few seconds, they seemed to have taken on a ten-ton weight. He paced around the corridor, looking for any letterboxes or containers, but apparently the official Company postman didn't provide such luxuries.

"If only we knew how long he was on leave for," Murtogg mumbled. "Then we could just come back once he's here."

Mullroy came back to the office door and peered down at the tiny crack beneath it. "Why don't we slip them under? Then we won't have to come back at all."

"No! That would be worse, what if he steps on them?"

"Urgh…" Mullroy's gaze went to the peephole, where a tiny point of light shone out. "You know, I bet he's not even gone. I bet he's just in there, sleeping." He knocked. "Mr. Hastings?"

No answer. Mullroy knocked again, louder. "Mr. Hastings? Company postman?"

Murtogg tapped his shoulder. "No, that's not the right way, I think we need to announce to someone—"

"Oh, I've had enough of this!" Mullroy slapped his side. He held up the letters, shaking them neurotically. "These — these things are certainly about to go somewhere, and most definitely not into a postbox!"

Murtogg laughed, ducking his head. In the meantime, a beat of footsteps rose up the stairs, and another man appeared, carrying a large box in his arms. He passed by the two of them with a nod and went into a neighboring office.

An idea flashed in Mullroy's mind. He rushed after the man. "Sir! Wait! Wait a moment, if you could!"

The man looked back. "Can I help you, gentlemen?"

"Are you with the Company, sir?"

"Indeed. Secretary Fletcher, at your service."

"Could you hand these letters to Mr. Richard Hastings when he comes back from his leave?" Mullroy asked. "They're an urgent message from the Lady Jane. Her captain wanted them delivered today, but of course since Mr. Hastings is out of town, that won't be possible."

The man winced and adjusted the box; clearly, it was as heavy as it looked. "Hold on a moment. Let me at least set this down…" He hurried into his office and heaved the box down with a thump. Mullroy and Murtogg approached the doorway to see him remove several thick record books from it. He beckoned for them to come in.

"Mr. Hastings will be gone for a while, I'm afraid," Fletcher said. "He's gone to Montego Bay to care for his ill parents. Left just yesterday."

Mullroy's hope deflated. "Oh."

"If your captain really needs the letters mailed by today, I can do it. I'll just pop an urgent seal on them and take them to the post office. I'm Commodore Watson's record-keeper."

Mullroy's smile returned. "Ah! That would be wonderful, sir!"

"But you'll have to help me in return," Fletcher continued. "Otherwise I can't manage. Swamped with paperwork, all these books and ledgers, you must understand. And there's only one of me, unfortunately. So if you could, please take those two boxes over there and bring them to the Company archive. Just put them down in the filing room; the secretaries will know what to do with them. They're all the manifests from last month."

"But the archive's only accessible to Company officials," Murtogg said.

Fletcher tossed him a golden key. "There. You're officials now. Just bring it back to me and I'll mail your letters."

"Where's the archive?" Murtogg asked.

"Just south from here, on the intersection of First and Fairway."

And so, Murtogg and Mullroy once again left from the Company headquarters, this time hobbling with large boxes in their arms.

"Blasted God-damned ruddy secretaries…" Mullroy grumbled. "Now we're hauling bloody boxes!"

They walked slowly, turning from side to side to glimpse the path ahead of them. Despite their efforts, they managed to bump into several people, all of whom clutched their hats and shouted complaints their way. At one point, Mullroy's boot splashed into a puddle of something wet, which he inspected to confirm that it was indeed mud, some of which had splattered onto his breeches in large blobs. He bit back a curse and kept going.

At last, they made it up the steps to the archive, although by that point the boxes were nearly slipping out of their hands and they had to engineer a way to open the doors. Mullroy set down his box and opened the door for Murtogg, who first set down his box inside, then held it open for Mullroy.

The interior of the building was cool for a change, though rather dusty and cramped with bookshelves. They walked the last of the way towards the designated room, a pair of black French doors with golden handles. Mullroy was about to repeat the procedure — he set down his box, took out the key the secretary had given him, and proceeded to open the door.

But to his surprise, it was already unlocked.

Frowning, Mullroy pushed it open. A large worktable appeared, surrounded by more messy shelves, accompanied by the sounds of scuffling. And also, strangely, the smell of smoke. Mullroy poked his head into the room to glimpse a man in a gray wig scuffling about in the corner. His back was turned; he didn't appear to have heard their entrance.

Figuring that less attention would be better, Mullroy lifted his box and ushered Murtogg inside. They set down the boxes with a group of others on the far side of the room. All the while, the mystery man didn't so much as turn in their direction. He was fully occupied by what he was doing, which Mullroy now saw was burning letters with a candle and scattering the ashes into the fireplace. He worked his way through an entire pile he had isolated. Then he picked up his own parcel of letters, this one pristinely tied up with string, and turned for the door.

Whereupon he jumped as he locked gazes with Mullroy. The man gave a tiny cry of panic, letting the letters fall out of his hand, which untied the string and sent them spilling over the floor.

"Terribly sorry, sir!" Mullroy said. He stooped to pick them up. "Here, let me—"

"No!" the man squeaked. He smacked Mullroy's hand away and snatched the letters back. "No, no—thank you, to be sure—but… there is a… particular order…" He collected all of them into a clump and tied them back together with the rope. He straightened and met their gazes now, face slightly red, but calmer. Behind his glasses his eyes squinted, the slightest bit suspicious. "Why are you here?"

"Oh, we're doing a favor for someone at the headquarters. Delivering boxes."

"A favor? Who exactly are you?"

"We're… Midshipmen Murtogg and Mullroy, sir," Mullroy responded. "We're members of the harbor crew." He held up the key he was holding. "We've only borrowed the key, sir. We'll be returning it right away."

"Oh." The man's shoulders dropped in relief. He gave their uniforms a once-over, splattered in dust and mud. "Midshipmen, then? I take it your regular station is the harbor?"

"Yes, sir," Mullroy said.

"I see." The man's posture had relaxed by degrees, which puzzled Mullroy. But at least their unwarranted presence wasn't incurring any anger.

The man's gaze scanned the carpet and alighted on a pair of letters that were lying on the floor. He gave another nervous jump and rushed to picked them up, but moments later he seemed to recognized them as foreign. He waved them in the air. "Are these yours, by any chance?"

Mullroy blinked. "Oh! Beg your pardon, sir, that's ours. We were going to have them mailed on behalf of our captain."

"Former captain," Murtogg amended dryly.

Mullroy nodded. "Yes, former captain." He couldn't keep the sour expression from turning down his mouth. "Who's a selfish saddle-goose that mutilates the best ship afloat for the sake of beefing up his delivery report."

"And the fact of the matter is—" Murtogg lifted his hands and held his palms a margin apart, "—her cargo hold isn't even adequately shaped to hold that many barrels! They're trying to fix the problem by stacking them on their sides, but no matter how they turn them, there's no way they're going to fit them all inside! It's geometrically impossible!"

Mullroy scoffed. "Then they'll take to reshaping her hull next, I imagine."

"Yes, unfortunately that seems to be their only way out," Murtogg said with a morose expression.

The man's gaze shifted between them, eyebrow lifted. "I see this is an issue you both feel rather passionate about."

"Yes, sir," Mullroy said. "We sailed aboard the Lady Jane for ten years. She was… well, she was like our own."

Murtogg nodded in agreement.

"I see. I sympathize." The man tucked his pack of letters under his arm. "Still, I hope you know this is not the post office, this is an archive."

"Yes, sir."

The man sighed and beckoned with a hand. "Well, give them here then, I suppose I can send them—" Right then, he froze, and grew red in the face. "Ah, that is…"

Murtogg blinked surprise, then leaned closer towards the man. "Wait. I know who you are! Mr. Hastings!"

The man drew back, all pins and needles again, affront swirling in his eyes. "What do you want?"

"Your colleague next door said you were in Montego Bay!" Murtogg said.

Hastings' eyes widened and his lips thinned into a line. He jabbed a finger at them. "Listen, you. You are to tell no one what I am doing here, or I will have you both purged from the Company in the matter of a fortnight. Then you won't have to worry about cargo overload anymore."

Mullroy's mouth opened and closed, words frozen on his tongue. Then, like a lightning spark, an idea formed in his mind. "All right then. In that case… you must do something for us." He proffered the letters with a growing smile. "Mail these letters today. Or we'll tell everyone."

Murtogg caught on and gave a firm nod. "Yeah! Absolutely everyone!"

Hastings seemed bewildered. His face paled as his gaze flickered between them, then finally, he grumbled. "Fine." He snatched the letters from Mullroy's hand and placed them into his stack. "Deal. Now off with you!"

Mullroy smiled. "Thank you, sir!" He saluted and waltzed in triumph out of the room.

Once they were marching back down the streets, Mullroy gave Murtogg's shoulder a brotherly nudge. "See, I knew it'd be simple! There's a trick to everything, and the trick to persuasion is leverage."

Murtogg pursed his lips in lieu of a reply, but Mullroy was in too sunny a mood to care. They walked back to the Navy-Company headquarters and returned to the office of Commodore Watson's secretary. Mullroy stepped through the half-open door and proffered the key. "We've returned, sir! Your ledgers have been delivered to the archive. You have our thanks."

Fletcher smiled. "And thank you, gentlemen. I've managed to finish the rest of my errands. Do you have the letter?"

"Actually, we ran into… a secretary who said he could mail it for us. So we gave it to him."

Fletcher lifted an eyebrow. "Really?"

Mullroy nodded. "Indeed!"

"Hm. Well, in that case, I'm glad I could be at least of nominal assistance to you. Good day, sirs."

Mullroy bowed his head. "And to you as well!"

At last, they left the building, this time turning on the path towards home. The midday heat had cooled down, and now the sky was dabbed with the orange hues of afternoon. Mullroy took a breath of the freshened air. "Well, I'm about to head home. Mistress Wright is going to make some stew. Unless you want to join us?"

But Murtogg's expression was still clouded over, his gaze fixed into the distance. "We only had leverage because Mr. Hastings was doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing."

Mullroy's thoughts traced back to the postman. "Oh, him? Well… what of it? He probably came back from Montego Bay early and didn't want anyone bothering him. What's the problem?"

"Montego Bay is two days away by carriage. And that Fletcher man said he left yesterday."

"Perhaps he changed his mind."

"About helping his sick parents?"

Mullroy turned up his palms. "Perhaps they got better!"

"Or perhaps they were never sick in the first place."

Murtogg turned to Mullroy, slowly. Mullroy pursed his lips. "Oh, don't look at me like that!"

"I'm merely suggesting that there might be some dishonesty at play. Particularly due to the fact that he was burning Company letters."

"Oh please, there's dishonesty everywhere! Would you call what Pete and Smith are doing honest?"

"There's a difference between dishonesty from ship crews and dishonesty from high-ranking officials."

Mullroy scoffed. "A postman isn't a high-ranking official."

"But how could he have the authority to purge us from the Company? Within a fortnight?"

"He just said that to frighten us. Anyways, if he really could have us purged, then that's good indication that whatever he's doing is none of our business. Now let's get going."

He pulled Murtogg along and managed to get him to fall into step beside him. But the taller man walked with his shoulders drooped, gaze fixed on the ground. Mullroy knew that stare all too well. It was the stare of a man who was thinking too much again.