 Sept. 10, 999, 8:30am, course due south, speed 9+ knots. Gale NNW, storm gathering to the north. Courses and topsails full-reefed. Barometer 29.35 falling, heavy following sea, temp. 44 deg. Will try to clear Land’s End before worst of it.
Mairin Fotharta, Sr. Captain, Province Squadron
Captain’s Official Log
Chapter 5
The Caillech pitched heavily, sailing large with a following sea. Mairin hovered over the chart table with her two lieutenants, all three rocking in time with the ship’s motion.
“Where do you have us now?” Mairin asked Rowenna.
“Here, sir,” she pointed, “eighty-five miles northwest of Land’s End.”
“Plenty of sea-room, sir,” Sinea commented. “We need to head southeast soon.”
Mairin nodded towards Rowenna. “Your evaluation, Lieutenant?”
Rowenna straightened up and thought carefully before answering.
“I estimate, sir, that the storm will overtake us late afternoon. By that time we could be within an hour’s sail of Land’s End if we make our turn now. I see two hazards. One, the Scilly Isles. The passage between them and Land’s End is only twenty-five miles. We need to clear that passage before nightfall. Two, if the wind backs to the northwest or west, we’ll be driven hard towards the point or towards the Isles if we decide to clear them to the west.”
Mairin glanced up at Sinea, who added nothing. It was a sound evaluation.
“In my position, what would you do?”
Again, Mairin noted the pause, longer this time.
“I believe we can clear the point before nightfall if we turn now. There is the chance of a westerly gale. If that occurs earlier than I expect, we can go to a starboard tack, round the Isles well to the west, run with the wind past the point and into Falmouth.”
Mairin signaled Sinea with a raised eyebrow for her opinion. “I agree, Captain. Storm sails and harnesses may be a good idea as well.”
Without warning the ship pitched more sharply, forcing all three of them to seize hold of the table.
“Right,” Mairin said. “Get all the officers and chiefs down here now, except for those needed on deck. I’m going up for a moment, then we’ll meet in the wardroom. Stow the table.”
Reaching the quarterdeck, Mairin struggled to conceal uneasiness at the look of sea and sky as the storm gathered strength. A deck of clouds nearer to black than gray rolled and boiled across the sky from north to south, seemingly low enough to touch from the crosstrees. The wind blew steady at gale force. Every sail was reefed to the last point and yet stretched as tight as the backstays. What worried her most was the following sea, which had taken on a confused look as if waves were being piled up to the north in random fashion and then driven to grow and clash on their way south.
I could have held us in Wexford, she reflected. Why didn’t I? Afraid to look timid in the eyes of the Commodore, or the crew? Or was I fleeing the bad news brought to me by Liadan? Too late to second guess now, we have to ride it out as best we can.
For the moment, Caillech rode the crests and troughs well enough, though Brigid at the helm was fighting hard to keep the ship’s yaw under control. Sailing Master Cholmain, posted a step forward of the wheel, wore a tense expression that confirmed Mairin’s assessment of their predicament.
“Finnsech,” Mairin said, “we’ll rig for a major storm. I’ll be giving out orders below, meanwhile clear the tops and have the watch on deck double-bind all sails. Haul in the courses and break out storm topsails.”
“Aye, sir,” said Cholmain. She lifted her trumpet and set the hands to work.
Below, the wardroom table had been folded away and all of the remaining officers and chiefs crowded into the room. Mairin edged her way to the doorway leading to the main cabin.
“My guess,” she said to the group, “is that we are in for it. Once the storm sails are up and the yards double-lashed I want no one in the rigging except as specifically ordered. All hands to wear safety harnesses at all times, below decks and above. Rig safety lines fore and aft, if I give the order to attach, I want everyone on deck hooked on unless you’re moving. Very soon we will not be able to heave to if someone pitches overboard. Watch below will check and secure our cargo and everything else that can move. All hands to don heavy weather clothes and have oilskins ready to hand. Officers and chiefs will carry speaking trumpets. Storm lanterns at the wheel and in the tops. Station an experienced hand in the well, man the pumps if the level is over a foot. Danu, galley fires out and doused. Mor, do your best to be ready for injuries.”
She scanned the roomful of swaying figures. Confident faces, mostly, a few worried ones among the newcomers.
“Most you have come through storms before, we’ll be fine if we keep our heads and stay alert. Questions?”
There were none.
“Let’s get to work. Dismissed.”
The room emptied except for the two lieutenants. Mairin turned to Rowenna first.
“Lieutenant, I’m counting on you to keep us on a heading between the Isles and the Point. You know as well as I do that if the wind shifts we’ll need to make quick changes and we may not be able to use the charts. Can you do it?”
“I can, sir.”
“Very well, on deck then.”
Rowenna touched her hat and climbed to the quarterdeck.
“As always,” Mairin said to Sinea, “don’t wait to ask me if something needs doing. I trust your judgment.”
“Thank you, sir. Captain ... at Wexford, I saw you talking to someone on the pier. Would it be out of line to ask if it was news of the battle?”
Mairin swore a quiet oath and laid a hand to her forehead. “I should have said something to the crew. I got word at Squadron HQ that the fort held. Make sure the word is passed around.”
“Conor? And your brother?”
“Conor is fine, that was his mother on the pier. Kellen isn’t.”
“Alive?”
“Yes. Not by much, I think.”
“I’m very sorry, Captain. The army surgeons work miracles, he’s in the best hands. We’ll get some word at Falmouth, I’m sure Conor will see to that.”
“Yes, he will.” Caillech’s plunging motion moved up yet another notch. “Time we got to work. I’ll be on deck in a few minutes.”
In her cabin, Mairin opened a cupboard to retrieve her own safety harness. Her hand strayed to the top shelf where a waterproof box nestled among sweaters and sox. She took it down and slid open the lid. Familiar documents lay on top: citations she had received over the years, her captain’s commission, the deed to her rarely-used cottage in Killinick, letters and poems from Conor, and beneath them, letters from Richard she had never answered. At the bottom of the box lay two pictures she had saved from an anguished childhood. One was a drawing of her at age nine, inked by a talented artist at a fair. Though he made her rather prettier than she had been then, he captured the apprehensive expression she wore until the day she signed up for the Squadron. The other was her only picture of Kellen, a finely-drawn likeness she had taken from home the day she left forever. He was nine years old in the image, small for his age yet already handsome, wearing a rare smile. Neither of them smiled much in those years.
She studied his child’s face and recalled events that she wished could be erased from her memory. Thirteen years she had been at sea, since the day she first stuffed this picture into her duffle and ran away from that evil place, not stopping until her lungs ached and her knees trembled. Now the young lad in the picture was beyond her protection. How she wished she had not asked Conor to watch out for him! When the warpipes sound, everyone watches out for everyone else. At this moment Conor would be suffering too.
She set Kellen’s picture on top of the pile, slid the lid shut and re-stowed the box. Following her own orders, she donned a thick wool sweater, heavy trousers, and a sturdy leather safety belt equipped with a spring-loaded hook. Though it was not yet raining, she added the oilskin over the sweater; it would be pouring soon enough. She hesitated a moment before opening the cabin door. It was time now to clear her mind of sadness and distraction. Seventy-one women and two men trusted her to bring them through the storm alive. Let the sea have at them, the Caillech would anchor at Falmouth tonight.
On deck she found matters well in hand: fair weather sails lashed hard to the yards, tough, gray-canvas storm sails snapping from the topmast yards and the forestays of the mainmast. Though driven by reduced sail, Caillech raced ahead at eleven knots measured by cast of the log-line. The frothy following sea towered thirty feet high at the stern. Brigid worked a crew to double lash all boats and set up the safety lines; Eavan Sechnaill had taken over the griping wheel.
“How is it?” Mairin asked the Weapons Master.
“Still answers, sir. In the troughs we’re starting to lose a bit of rudder.”
Mairin nodded and scanned the angry northern sky. The cloud deck seemed to skim the masts; a squall line laced with lightning swept towards them from the northwest.
Mairin lifted the trumpet. “Hook on, fore and aft!”
Sinea ran forward to make sure everyone was clipped to an anchor point. Rowenna scribbled notes on a pad, checked the compass in the binnacle and again ordered the ensigns to cast the log-line. Mairin took a second to focus on the barometer. Its ornate red needle pointed to 29.10, down three-tenths in less than an hour.
She had just closed the binnacle cover when the squall line blasted over the ship, bringing with it blinding lightning, deafening thunder, and a wildly choppy sea. Simple breathing became a chore in the spray-filled gale. Mairin clamped her hands onto the wheel next to Sechnaill and together they fought to hold the ship steady before the wind. When the worst of the squall passed, she was able to breathe a sigh of relief. The storm sails held and the ship raced downwind again. Now the wind bit hard with cold and the following sea piled itself into foamy, spray-capped mountains.
Sinea returned from the bow, hooked her belt to the starboard safety line and patted the railing. Catching Mairin’s eye, she gave her the thumbs-up signal. Mairin knew what she was saying: trust the ship and the craftsmen who built her. Mairin answered in kind.
Rowenna shouted to Mairin over the howl of the rigging, “Sixty miles to Land’s End on this heading.”
Sixty miles, Mairin thought. About the distance from Rosslare to Dungarvan by horse, an easy days’ ride with a stop for lunch at Waterford. Or, six squall-plagued hours of wild sailing with the ocean bottom waiting if the ship should broach to but once. Sixty miles.
* * * *
“Ten miles northeast of the isles,” Rowenna reported. “We need to start watching for St. Martin’s.”
The squalls abated at last. Wind and rain pounded the ship steadily from the northwest and it grew ever colder, the cold of premature winter. The thermometer inside the binnacle hovered at thirty-six. Wet hands and feet stiffened into useless lumps at that temperature in a gale. Mairin cycled the watches every thirty minutes. Though it was only slightly warmer below, it was dry and sheltered from the biting wind.
Towering waves lifted Caillech’s stern into the air while rollers from the west heaved the starboard side, giving the vessel a corkscrew motion that made handling her a second-by-second trial. Mairin kept her eye on the masts, for it was this kind of motion that strained the finest oak and ash and maple to the limits of tolerance. The light press of storm sails gave them plenty of headway and stabilized the masts to a degree, yet the topmasts swayed side to side with each corkscrew. The turn to the southeast would bring the sea directly onto the stern again. With as much leeway as they were making, she had to be sure they were not too far east of St. Martin’s. They needed to spot the island’s lighthouse as soon as they possibly could despite the awful conditions. If they were not as far east as Rowenna estimated, a sudden shift of wind could force them onto the island’s ship-destroying reefs.
Rowenna said into her ear, “Captain, best I replace Lieutenant Danaan in the foretop, she’s been there an hour.”
“No, I’ll go. Stay here and navigate as best you can.”
Mairin unclipped from the binnacle post and clambered forward hand over hand to the bow, then into the foretop where Sinea scanned ahead with her glass, watching for reefs and for the St. Martin’s lighthouse.
“Very close to freezing,” Mairin said into her first officer’s blood-red ear. “We may have ice soon.”
“Already started, Captain,” Sinea said, pointing towards glistening forestays.
Caillech buried her bow into roiling green ocean. In spite of their position forty feet over the deck, icy spray blew over them both.
“What a profession!” Mairin shouted with a grin.
Sinea answered with a grin of her own. “None better, sir!”
“I’ll take over here. Take the quarterdeck.”
Sinea nodded, unclipped her harness and descended through the lubber’s hole. Mairin secured her own harness, then pulled out from under her flapping oilskin the powerful glass given her by Richard. A memory flashed through her mind as she focused the prized instrument. Her twenty-sixth birthday ... Tredinnick House north of Falmouth. Opening an ornate box, she found the beautiful naval telescope, her name engraved on the gleaming brass tube. She shed tears and Richard kissed her. More than two years ago. Where is he now?
She divided each wild, pitching minute of the next thirty into two halves: one to wipe the lens of the glass, train it in the direction of St. Martin’s, and steady it enough to see, the other to sweep her eyes over the fast-icing Caillech and take a quick glance at the quarterdeck. Cholmain and Auteini, two of the strongest sailors on the ship, now gripped the wheel together, with equally strong Sechnaill posted close by. Rowenna Briuin was in constant motion, checking their compass heading, calling for the log-line, scribbling figures with a wax pencil on a slate and then rubbing them off with her sleeve. Overhead, the storm sails held together so far, it was the yards and the topmasts that worried Mairin. Caillech continued to corkscrew in the tumultuous sea, and every violent twist threw terrific strain on masts that grew heavier by the minute with thickening ice. Snow mixed in with the rain but it did not signify except to worsen visibility. Anxiety began to gnaw at her stomach: the shoals extended out from the island at least three miles. Surely they would see the lighthouse beacon before then?
She was one last telescope search away from chancing a new heading when she caught a flash of faint light in the glass. She swept it back and forth. Imagination? Wishful thinking? No, the welcome blaze of St. Martin’s Lighthouse, about six miles off the starboard bow. Under the worst imaginable conditions, Rowenna Briuin had brought them right where they needed to be. For an extra second, Mairin focused on that lovely rotating beacon and called up from memory the ancient stone tower that held it ten stories aloft.
“On deck,” she cried aft, “St. Martin’s light, six miles off the starboard bow. Hold your course, I’m coming down.”
Frozen hands and feet made the descent painful and awkward and she nearly fell flat when her boots touched the ice-coated deck. Two sailors grabbed hold of her and seconds later she clipped her harness to the binnacle post next to Rowenna Briuin.
“Fine navigating, Lieutenant, very fine indeed,” she said into Rowenna’s ear.
“Thank you, sir,” Rowenna said, blue-faced with cold but smiling nonetheless.
To Sinea she shouted, “all hands below ready with tools, we may have damage when we come about.”
Sinea disappeared down the quarterdeck hatch.
With miles to spare to the reefs, Mairin bided her time for the maneuver. Caillech labored under tons of ice and would respond sluggishly to the rudder. The new heading would be a safer point of sail, a beam reach off the starboard quarter. Speed would increase and the rudder would bite more securely. The catch: during the maneuver the ship’s pitching and rolling would increase, subjecting ice-laden masts and yards to even greater stress.
She waited for the ship to mount the top of a wave, when the wind was strongest in the topsails, then gave the order to bring the bow to port. Cholmain and Auteini together eased the wheel counterclockwise two full turns. For several seconds the ship did not respond and Mairin wondered in horror if rudder cables had parted. Not so: the bow reluctantly turned from south-southeast to east-southeast, a course that would bring them safely past St. Martin’s reefs and then under the welcome protection of Land’s End. Sailors clumsily worked the topmast yards to accommodate the new wind direction.
Mairin opened her mouth to order “hold this course” when a crack-splinter sound overhead made her pause and look up. The mizzen topmast had snapped off at the lower cap. The mast, yard, and now-flapping sail toppled into the stays and shrouds feet above the mizzen-top. For a moment Mairin had hopes it would lodge there, giving deck hands time to scramble aloft and secure it. It was not to be. The raging wind forced the tangled mass free of the rigging and down it came. Fifteen feet above the wheel, the massive wooden cross snagged on mizzen backstays and twisted upside down. The point of the mast itself slammed through the deckplates a foot in front of the wheel and the yard crashed flat into the deck with a thunderclap, taking two mizzen backstays with it.
Under enormous tension, one backstay whipped loose and struck Mairin across the shoulder blades. She fell forward, getting her gloved hands out in time to keep her face from striking the deckplates. Pain intense enough to gray her vision flared from her back. Struggling to her feet, she found Cholmain and Auteini motionless on the deck. Rowenna was pinned beneath the wreckage yet judging from the stream of obscenities as she fought to get free, she was not badly hurt. The ship itself was in terrible danger of broaching. The sheered-off mast and rigging and sails covered the wheel and interlaced with its spokes. Meanwhile the following sea hammered on Caillech’s stern, slowly swinging her broadside to mountainous waves.
Sinea and a dozen hands leaped up from the hatchway and attacked the tangled, ice-coated wreckage with hatchets and sledges. Mairin clamped her own hands on the jammed wheel. A moment later Rowenna squirmed free and joined in the frantic effort to free the wheel. No shouting and no orders: everyone knew what had to be done. Hatchets and saws and hammers cut and splintered, and after thirty agonizing seconds, Sinea heaved the last jagged splinter free from the wheel’s spokes. Rowenna leaped up and seized hold of the damaged wheel at Mairin’s side.
“Here we go!” Mairin called out.
Hand over hand they eased the bucking wheel to starboard. Point by point the bow swung out of danger and Caillech gathered way again, driven hard by the two surviving topsails. The immediate danger to the ship passed, but not the danger to the work crew whose harnesses were not secured. Halfway through the gentle turn, an enormous wave slipped under Caillech and pitched the deck forty degrees to port. Sinea and the more experienced sailors caught hold of rigging or wreckage. One tall, slender newcomer skidded full speed into the port rail and toppled over. Her body disappeared—leaving one blue-cold hand clamped onto the safety line secured to the railing.
“Sinea!” Mairin screamed.
Sinea had seen it too. The hapless sailor was hanging over the side, in danger of being dragged into the sea or dashed to pieces against the ship’s hull. Sinea boot-skated across the deck, leaned over the rail and seized hold of the sailor’s wrist. Before help could reach her, a monstrous wave forced the portside into the churning cold waters. Sinea disappeared from sight, and Mairin’s heart sank. Unsecured, she would surely be lost. With seemingly infinite slowness, the water subsided. Sinea hung half over the side herself, legs wrapped around the safety cable and hands still clamped onto the invisible sailor’s forearm. Nearby sailors slid across to help while Mairin and Rowenna fought for control of the ship.
Yet another towering whitecap blasted the portside with water and spray, obscuring vision. When it cleared, Sinea and the near-drowned young woman had been hauled back over the side. Gods of the sea, thank you, Mairin prayed silently.
“Get them below!” Mairin shouted.
Auteini was on her feet again, a lump on her right temple and blood oozing from her mouth.
“I can take the wheel, sir,” she said, spitting blood. “Master Cholmain’s in a bad way.”
Mairin and Rowenna moved aside and let her take hold. On this point of sail, the ship was handling well and the violence of her motion diminished. Fresh hands led by Mor Dal Reti flooded up through the quarterdeck hatch and helped all of the injured below. An unconscious Cholmain had to be carried and Mairin did not like the anxious look on Mor’s face as he followed the stretcher. Sinea made it with help, her left shoulder clearly dislocated and her face white with pain.
In short order the wreckage obstructing the quarterdeck was chopped, sawed and heaved over the side. Caillech now raced on a beam reach for the lee of Land’s End.
“I’m going below,” Mairin said to Rowenna. “Can you manage until I get back?”
“I’m all right, sir, I was very lucky. I saw you knocked down by something.”
“Loose stay. First time I’ve been lashed!”
In spite of pain that flared from her back, Mairin pasted on a smile and made her way through a main cabin filled with dripping sailors trembling with cold, some bleeding, many still gripping hatchets and hammers and saws. In the surgery she found Mor bending over Cholmain, who was strapped tight to an anchored table and buried in heavy blankets. His fingers were gently probing her temple on the left side.
“How is she?” Mairin asked him.
“Not good,” he said, straightening up. “Depressed fracture, bleeding inside her skull. In a moment I’ll drill a small hole to release the blood. That’s the most I can do under these conditions. Just get us into Falmouth as fast as you can.”
Mairin pulled a towel from a hamper and mopped her face and hair.
“You were very close to her,” Mor said, “and not a scratch?”
“Nothing visible,” she replied. “A broken stay whipped my back.”
“Hurts?”
“Like sin.”
“I’ll look at it as soon as I take care of Sinea’s wrist.” He nodded towards the first officer who lay in a hammock under blankets, talking with one of Mor’s assistants. “Her shoulder was dislocated too, I’ve already dealt with that. The sailor she saved is conscious again, bruised and cold is all, frightened to death of course. Nothing else serious among the crew, some frostbite and hypothermia.”
Mairin handed him the towel. “Do what you can for Cholmain. We should reach Falmouth in four or five hours.”
She headed back up the stairs through the quarterdeck hatch. The rain and sleet had abated to a cold, freezing mist though the storm-wind still blasted over the portside. Auteini managed the wheel alone and Rowenna was staring into the binnacle.
“Course east southeast and steady, sir,” she reported, “temperature down to twenty-eight. I’m going forward with my glass, we should have Land’s End lighthouse in sight soon off the port bow.”
“How’s she handling, Brigid?” Mairin asked her bosun.
“Tolerable, sir, heavy but the rudder answers well.”
“Go below and get warm, I’ll take the wheel. Once we reach the lee of Lands End, we’ll bring up all able hands to work the ice.
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the rugged woman. “Captain, I’ve been at sea since afore you were born, never seen ice in October.”
She disappeared down the hatch shaking her head and muttering. Mairin took a position by Rowenna’s side at the wheel.
“You sure you weren’t hurt, Lieutenant?”
“A few cuts and bruises, nothing more, sir. My hands are losing feeling.”
“Go below, get dry clothes for yourself, gloves for both of us. Lanterns fore and aft. Make sure everyone uses a harness, I’ll be damned if we lose anyone now. Let the watch chiefs know, reefed courses as soon as we clear Land’s End. We need all possible speed for Falmouth.”
An hour later, Caillech raced past the Land’s End lighthouse. The towering storm-driven rollers barreling down the Channel could no longer reach them and the ship steadied herself. Driven by reefed courses and topsails, Caillech plunged ahead swiftly through a calming sea. When they cleared the next lighthouse at Lizard Point, Mairin swung the ship further to port. Next they raised the lighthouse at Coverack, a mere ten miles out from Falmouth.
Sinea returned to the deck, her left arm in a sling.
“Strange,” she said, “now all we hear is the water and the creaking of the ice. I thought I’d lost my hearing entirely back there.” She gazed up into the darkness above the masts and pointed. “Look, Captain. We have stars ... and moonlight too.”
“What’s the time, Lieutenant?” Mairin asked Rowenna.
“About eleven-thirty, sir, Kernow time.” She raised her glass. “I have the light at Pendennis Castle, sir. And the castle itself ... the Admiralty is working late as usual.”
“How many injuries?” Mairin asked Sinea.
“About twenty, sir, none serious except Cholmain.”
“Unconscious?”
“Yes, sir.”
“None lost, Lieutenant. That’s what counts.”
“Indeed, sir. That is what counts.”
Caillech sailed into the familiar and friendly waters of Falmouth Harbor. The shoreline on either side was dotted with porch lanterns of cottages and illuminated signs of inns and pubs. Ship’s lanterns hanging from the tops spread a warm, yellow light over sailors chipping and hammering the ice away from lines and braces and blocks. Mairin ordered the courses struck as they glided past the hulking mass of Pendennis Castle, headquarters of the Kernow Admiralty for many centuries. As Rowenna reported, light glowed at most of the six-over-six windows though it was now near to midnight. The strangely-deserted warship pier a mile ahead was dark and silent.
“Make our distress signal, Lieutenant,” Mairin ordered Rowenna, who passed the order forward to a sailor posted in the foretop. “Let’s hope they’re paying attention.”
The sailor worked the lantern’s signal shades. No sooner had she completed one full pattern than alarm trumpets blared from Pendennis Castle’s central tower. In immediate answer to the alarm, lanterns blazed up along the entire quay, doors to barracks flew open, and barefooted men by the dozen sprinted towards the Pier Number One where Caillech would tie up. Pier lanterns ignited and Admiralty sailors manned the docking bollards. Further ahead, Mairin spied the lights of the port hospital flare up and heard its own low-pitched horn call for medical personnel to report from the town.
Rowenna handed off the wheel to Brigid Auteini for the last maneuver. Caillech flew up into the wind, glided a few yards ahead and sideways until her starboard planking thudded gently against the pier’s bumpers. Docking cables sailed to willing hands, the planks slammed down, and sailors and officers swarmed aboard. A young ensign with his shirt hanging out over his trousers presented himself to Mairin with a sharp salute.
“Ensign James Lethlean, Captain, what do you need?”
“My sailing master is below with a skull fracture, get her to the hospital fast as possible. We’ve attended the rest of the injuries. My crew could use some hot tea and warm quarters for the night if it’s not too much trouble. As you can see, the ship has taken a beating.”
“I’ll be about it,” he said, snapping another salute. “Welcome to Falmouth, Captain.”
Mairin retreated alone to the aft rail. In a moment, Sinea joined her.
“A hard day, Captain,” Sinea said.
Mairin nodded, her eyes following the stretcher bearing Finnsech Cholmain down the aft ramp. She smiled at the shivering, bare-chested sailors who carried it.
“I was never so happy to hear the Pendennis trumpets.”
She turned to face her first officer. “Sinea, when I saw the sea wash over you and that poor sailor, I thought ... ” she swallowed hard, “well, I thought Davy Jones had you.”
Sinea shook her head. “Not finished with living yet, Captain. T’will take more than that to send me to his locker. I’m going below to collect a bag. See you ashore, sir.”
Mairin waited alone a bit longer, reveling in the friendly banter and jokes hurled back and forth between her crew and the half-dressed Kernow sailors. A hard day indeed. But we made it through. Poseidon, we beat you again.
Continues... |
|
No comments:
Post a Comment