On the Renown, January 1802

Inside the captain's chambers it was oddly quiet, compared to the chaos and din of the fighting outside. Sawyer had his hands over his ears, and was reading aloud from a logbook to muffle the noises that made their way inside. He didn't notice Wellard slip into the chambers and lock the door behind him. Wellard raised the pistol in one hand, ignoring how his hand shook.

"I can't let you remember."

Sawyer looked up, expressionless.

"I can't let you get to Kingston. And I will not see them hanged, either of them." He moved closer to the desk, and the former captain stood up, facing him.

"Then you best use both hands if you want to pull the trigger." Sawyer said simply, reaching out and taking the pistol from Wellard's hands. The young midshipman dropped his eyes in shame.

"Its a clumsy weapon," Sawyer said, looking it over, "for anyone, and no use for a boy like you."

Wellard's eyes narrowed for a moment, and slowly he looked up, meeting the former captain's gaze. "Don't call me boy."

"Oh? What would you have me call you? Coward?"

"I'm not boy, sir. And I'm no coward." Wellard took a deep breath, and his shoulders straightened. "And I'm no scarecrow that has to be tied up so he don't bite his own shadow, sir." With courage came the disdain in his voice for the formal address. Sawyer raised a hand and slapped Wellard across the face. Undaunted, Wellard turned back to him.

"See? I'm no boy. And you're no man at all to strike me so."

Quite for a long moment, Sawyer calmly looked at him.

"No."

The moment was broken by the window shattering behind them. One of the spaniards had broken the glass and was reaching in to unlock the door. Sawyer and Wellard both moved behind the desk, watching.

"Wellard?" Sawyer's own shoulders straightened. "I know who pushed me. Here." He handed the pistol over to the young midshipman.

"At least one of us can face the enemy with a clear head. Mister Wellard?"

The door burst open, and a ragged spaniard raising an ax rushed in, yelling.

"Fire!" The pistol held in both hands, Wellard fired, and the spaniard rushing in dropped to the floor.

"Brave lad." Sawyer nodded, putting his arm over Wellard's shoulders.

Behind the one enemy were two more. These two with rifles. They shot, and Wellard and Sawyer both dropped to the floor.

Ages later, years slowly- or was it minutes, bare seconds, just a moment?

Hobbs leaned over Wellard, his face actually touched with concern. He glanced to the dead Sawyer, then looked back.

"He recovered at last, did he?"

Blood stained his lips, but Wellard managed to answer. "He said I was brave."

"You are."

"He knew. He knew who pushed him."

Hobb's eyes lit up, and he leaned closer to the dying Wellard. "Get it off your chest- tell me."

Fading and coughing, Wellard managed to whisper a last reply to Hobbs. Maybe it was a name. Maybe it was not. Even though it was after dawn, the room darkened to his eyes. Wellard heard footsteps approaching,

but it all started

fading

away.