Admiral Johnson ordered the flagship of the fleet, and its sister craft, out into this deserted area?
"And I'll tell you what else isn't right round here," said Able Seaman Warren Richmond, taking up from where Fleetwood left off. The two often worked as a team, each man encouraging the other.
"And what might that be?" asked Danny O'Rourke, a small, cheerful Irishman, who was determined to keep his spirits up despite the oppressive atmosphere.
"You know as well as I do," said Richmond as he looked round hurriedly, fearing that the captain was in earshot. His voice sank down to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's not right having a woman on board."
"The captain's sister?" shrugged O'Rourke. "She's just a girl. Nothing but skin, bone and gristle."
"It's against nature," muttered Richmond darkly.
"And it's against sense," added Fleetwood, his eyes hungry with his troublemaking. It was no secret that he yearned to be in command. He loathed his lowly position of second lieutenant. He wanted total control over the crew, not to work under the watchful eyes of Fitch and the captain. "But what should we expect from a captain who drinks so much of that devilish green liquid each and every evening, and who—"
"Ship ahead!" cried a voice from the bow of the ship, cutting off Fleetwood's insurrectionist mutterings.
The crew jumped and looked ahead. Perspiration dripped down the faces of the men as they strained to see what lay ahead through the wet, heavy mist. The dangers they faced ranged from slavers to pirates to privateers, who were often little more than officially recognised pirates, paid by various governments to do work considered too dirty for official business.
"Status, Mister Fitch," said a quiet voice. The crew jumped afresh. Despite the months at sea, they still hadn't adjusted to the captain's disconcerting quietness as he prowled the vessel.
"Unknown ship sighted, Captain Hartwell," replied Fitch, nodding his head in respect to the man who stood taller than any of them. Hartwell's long hair, drawn back in a ponytail, was almost white despite his relatively young age, while his navy uniform of dark blue was always crisp, clean and unruffled, much like his demeanour, despite the burning heat of the Caribbean.
"What is the admiral's course of action?" asked Hartwell.
"What's happening, Mister Tench?" bellowed Fitch to the man at the bow. Tench had the best eyesight on board and was often used by the captain as an early warning system.
"A boat has been lowered from the ship and is heading for the admiral's vessel," Tench shouted back.
"Whatever it is, it's turning toward us," said Fitch, squinting into the fog. "We should get a better view of her soon." As he spoke, the mist parted and the crew caught a glimpse of the strange vessel as the sun hit it and illuminated the craft in silhouette.
Hartwell caught his breath. For a brief second, he saw the ancient shape of a galleon, Portuguese or Spanish given the size, with the old-fashioned castle design prominent. Four huge masts reared up into the fog and the massive sails fluttered in the wind. At the very front of the ship, a faded carving of a mermaid looked out over the sea. The figurehead looked as incongruous as the rest of the vessel when compared to the modern and more powerful design of the Plymouth and Morning Star.
"Look at that wreck," sneered a voice. "It must be a century old."
"We'd blow that out the water with one cannon," laughed another voice.
"No need," added a third. "Look at the way its listing—the thing is half sinking already!"
Hartwell and Fitch exchanged glances. The sight of the old galleon had moved both men, valiantly ploughing through both the ocean and time despite being left behind by developments in ship design and naval warfare.
"Orders, Captain?" asked Fitch gently.
"We wait," said
"And I'll tell you what else isn't right round here," said Able Seaman Warren Richmond, taking up from where Fleetwood left off. The two often worked as a team, each man encouraging the other.
"And what might that be?" asked Danny O'Rourke, a small, cheerful Irishman, who was determined to keep his spirits up despite the oppressive atmosphere.
"You know as well as I do," said Richmond as he looked round hurriedly, fearing that the captain was in earshot. His voice sank down to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's not right having a woman on board."
"The captain's sister?" shrugged O'Rourke. "She's just a girl. Nothing but skin, bone and gristle."
"It's against nature," muttered Richmond darkly.
"And it's against sense," added Fleetwood, his eyes hungry with his troublemaking. It was no secret that he yearned to be in command. He loathed his lowly position of second lieutenant. He wanted total control over the crew, not to work under the watchful eyes of Fitch and the captain. "But what should we expect from a captain who drinks so much of that devilish green liquid each and every evening, and who—"
"Ship ahead!" cried a voice from the bow of the ship, cutting off Fleetwood's insurrectionist mutterings.
The crew jumped and looked ahead. Perspiration dripped down the faces of the men as they strained to see what lay ahead through the wet, heavy mist. The dangers they faced ranged from slavers to pirates to privateers, who were often little more than officially recognised pirates, paid by various governments to do work considered too dirty for official business.
"Status, Mister Fitch," said a quiet voice. The crew jumped afresh. Despite the months at sea, they still hadn't adjusted to the captain's disconcerting quietness as he prowled the vessel.
"Unknown ship sighted, Captain Hartwell," replied Fitch, nodding his head in respect to the man who stood taller than any of them. Hartwell's long hair, drawn back in a ponytail, was almost white despite his relatively young age, while his navy uniform of dark blue was always crisp, clean and unruffled, much like his demeanour, despite the burning heat of the Caribbean.
"What is the admiral's course of action?" asked Hartwell.
"What's happening, Mister Tench?" bellowed Fitch to the man at the bow. Tench had the best eyesight on board and was often used by the captain as an early warning system.
"A boat has been lowered from the ship and is heading for the admiral's vessel," Tench shouted back.
"Whatever it is, it's turning toward us," said Fitch, squinting into the fog. "We should get a better view of her soon." As he spoke, the mist parted and the crew caught a glimpse of the strange vessel as the sun hit it and illuminated the craft in silhouette.
Hartwell caught his breath. For a brief second, he saw the ancient shape of a galleon, Portuguese or Spanish given the size, with the old-fashioned castle design prominent. Four huge masts reared up into the fog and the massive sails fluttered in the wind. At the very front of the ship, a faded carving of a mermaid looked out over the sea. The figurehead looked as incongruous as the rest of the vessel when compared to the modern and more powerful design of the Plymouth and Morning Star.
"Look at that wreck," sneered a voice. "It must be a century old."
"We'd blow that out the water with one cannon," laughed another voice.
"No need," added a third. "Look at the way its listing—the thing is half sinking already!"
Hartwell and Fitch exchanged glances. The sight of the old galleon had moved both men, valiantly ploughing through both the ocean and time despite being left behind by developments in ship design and naval warfare.
"Orders, Captain?" asked Fitch gently.
"We wait," said
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