Anto's eyes glanced across the sea, the wind blowing softly at his back...

Three English ships now lie sunk and destroyed, a 'fleet admiral' cries and laments to higher powers, asking Jah 'why!?' in between sobs and weeps.

Nothing short of unexpected.


It would seem piracy would give a new meaning to Anto; a new found calling in life becomes him.

Victory.

Bekah stands at the rail of the "Big Booty" and gazes out to sea. She is tired and her face is covered with smudges of soot from cannon fire. Whisps of hair have pulled loose from the leather thong she uses to keep her long thick hair in place and they wave in the breeze. Instead of the usually fresh smell of the sea, her nostrils are filled with the scent of flames and the sickly sweet smell of burnt flesh. During the battle she has had no time to think. Her life has depended on following the orders of Captain Capone to the letter. She has been clambering in the rigging, trimming the sails as each ship has tried to manoeuvre around, trying to wait until the last minute to show broadsides so that they can fire on each other. Once they were broadsides, there was no time to think or to even feel afraid. It was all about ramming the powder into the enormous barrel of the cannon, hefting the solid ball into it and adding the rags. Then it is all heave-ho on the ropes, trundling the cannon forward until the deadly muzzle points out of the gun port. One touch to the fuse and *BANG*, the noise so loud that it makes you jump even though you are ready for it. Then the hanging on to the rope as the recoil rolls the cannon back. A quick clean of the smoking barrel, careful not to burn yourself and then it start all over again. Every now and then you hear a thud and the dreadful sound of splintered wood. Any one of those hits could be the one that sends the ship down, any one of them could put a hole right through you if you get in its way. There is no time to think, no time to fear and no time to give in to exhaustion. She doesn't know how long the battle lasted, she only knows that now every muscle in her body aches and her fingers sting from some minor burns. Yet she cannot sleep. She stares forlornly at the blazing ships, some of them still in the dock and she hears only the cries of drowning sailors. There is salty moisture on her cheek. Surely that is sea fret right? I mean, no hardened warrior cries for the dead do they? Or do they? Angrily she turns away and looks at the damage to the ship. No time for regrets, right now, there are wounded people in need of her care and a ship to make right. She takes a deep breath and slips nimbly below decks to start to salve burns, bandage wounds and take care of a multitude of scrapes and bruises.