Snippet #2661895

Hull-down just out of sight of the port, the Acheron rocked gently on the swell. Silhouetted by the setting sun, the furled sails moved a little in the wind, the masts moving from side to side with the motion of the sea. A few members of the crew clambered around the rigging, moving carefully to avoid the great tears in the lattice work. Ropes dangled from the masts, and on deck broken spars and splinters were being packed away or thrown over the side. The crew was working quickly, repairing as much as they could. Ropes replaced or tied end on end, sails sewn, holes in the side of the ship plugged as well as could be. As the ship’s bell sounded four bells and the end of the first dog watch, the crew descended from the masts and dispersed about the ship.

The Acheron was in a sorry state. Her hull was holed below the water line, her rudder nearly shot away, and he rigging was in tatters. A chance encounter with two ships of the line had nearly spelled her end. Now, flying Royal Navy colours, she laid in wait off the port town, hoping for a miracle. The decks, so recently awash with blood and flying metal had been cleaned as best as possible, the wounded and the dead moved away. She had suffered terribly. A third of her crew killed, and her captain wounded. Things had not been helped by the furious captain’s order to turn and fight. The lucky shot on one of her pursuers’ magazines had nearly set fire to her sails with the resulting explosion. However, she managed to escape, limping away in the early hours of dawn.

A flash of dirty blonde hair signified the arrival of the Acheron’s captain on her deck. Nathaniel Sellars clambered up the ladder and onto the quarter deck, scanning his surroundings with a calculated, oppressing eye. His fury the night before had settled into a stony coldness, and his crew avoided him as he inspected the work. A sling held up his left arm, blood already soaking the bandages and the blue cloth of his coat around his wrist. The gold epaulettes he wore glimmered in the dying sun, and contrasted sharply with the powder stains and blood spatters on the rest of his clothes. The tie holding back his long hair had long since broken, and his matted locks lifted a little in the breeze. His pacing ended at the taffrail, where he stood and stared out to sea.

“Damn it.” He cursed quietly to himself. Those Navy ships had snuck up on him far too easily. He had known raiding shipping in the channel was dangerous, but he had allowed himself to be hunted like a lieutenant on his first command. His good hand gripped the rail till the knuckles went white. He and his crew had suffered badly, too badly to stay in the channel. But this was why they were here. Lying to near the port town was a risky move but necessary. Nathaniel needed to repair, refit and press more crew, and this place was the perfect one to do all of those things.

Spinning around Nathaniel caught the despondent expressions of some of the crewmen. Piercing them with a cold stare he guessed exactly what they were feeling. They’d been winning, living the high life. Now this defeat had set that all back. He would have to win over his crew again, those that lived at least. Stepping down from the quarterdeck Nathaniel called to his boatswain. “Mr. Peters, I will be going ashore. Choose a party of eight of our best and get my boat ready.” Barely waiting to see if his order had been acknowledged he grabbed another seaman. “Mr. Dogood, take another eight men in the other boat, land to the leeward of the town and meet us at the shipyard. I will need you to help secure it before we bring in the Acheron.”

“Aye sir”, the gruff seaman replied. Though disappointed by defeat, the old salt knew enough of his captain to expect a quick return to glory. “I’ll see it done sir.”

“Good man.” Finally, Nathaniel turned back to the quarterdeck. “Sailing master, bring the Acheron into the harbor when you hear the signal gun fire. We won’t have long before someone alerts the Navy so we will have to make our repairs fast.” Walking briskly to the side of the ship, Nathaniel flipped himself over the side and climbed down into the waiting boat, the bosun’s whistle signifying his departure. Settling at the prow of the boat he turned to the boatswain, “let’s go Mr. Peters.” With a quick word of command, the crew lowered their oars, and the boat pushed off towards the town. Nathaniel glared in its direction, his temper simmering as he relived the defeat. “Soon”, he said to himself. “Soon.”