He can feel the sting of the lash against his skin even still as he stares down at the face of his tormentor, his dreams rimmed in wild white hair and as sharp as the hawk-like nose. He can feel the gaze of both lieutenants on him as he stands apart from them, their eyes full of resignation sketched in an outline of horror.

"An accident," Hornblower says softly, almost beneath his breath. He meets Mr. Kennedy's eyes and there is a silent communication between them - Wellard can almost see the words as they pass. "The Captain fell. An accident."

Wellard nods, his eyes widening as Mr. Kennedy's gaze finds him in the gloom. The sound of footsteps and shouts grow nearer and there is a bond formed. He owes these men much, and he knows it. He owes Mr. Kennedy for his kindness and indignation, Mr. Hornblower for his refusal to look away as every lash struck home.

"An accident." He echoes the words, the sound bringing Hornblower's gaze on him and he straightens as those dark, knowing eyes find his. "The Captain fell. Tripped."

"Exactly, Mr. Wellard." Kennedy's voice is strained, his eyes back on Hornblower, the blue almost black in the shifting light. "He was distressed. Confused. Upset."

"He fell."

"An accident."

Hornblower nods, agreement and silence inherent in the quick motion, the jerk of his chin against his collar nearly imperceptible as the Marines crowd in, Clive pushing through the bodies. Wellard slips back into the shadows and the whispers and wonders if he might drown under the weight.

Wellard stands watch, his hands clasped behind his back, his body stiff and sore and straight. The wind whips at his uniform, the air growing warming as they continue on their course. Still, chills race along his spine and he fights the need to shiver as the rough rasp of Captain's Sawyer's voice calls out to him.

"Tell me, boy. Tell me what you know. Tell me, boy."

His eyes lock on Hornblower and Kennedy in the distance, talking to Mr. Bush. Acting Captain Buckland casts an eye toward them, paranoia etched in every line of his form. Wellard knows paranoia. He's felt its tight grip around his spine, feels it now as Sawyer's voice continues calling to him.

"You saw it all, boy. Tell me which of them did it, boy. Did you do it, boy? Tell me, boy."

Kennedy's eyes catch his and he nods, casting a smile in Wellard's direction. Wellard returns the nod, his teeth catching the inside of his lower lip. Sawyer's words beat at him like waves on the bow, but he holds his course. He knows his duty.

He saw nothing, knows nothing. But he knows that he will do what he must. There is honor at stake and pride. There is self-worth and self-respect. But most of all there is debt, and Wellard always pays the debts he owes. He watches as Bush nods and Kennedy and Hornblower fall in step, moving across the deck with the roll of the waves, both surefooted as the deck pitches slightly.

"I saw it all, boy. And I will remember. And when I do, you'll swing alongside them both."

He closes his eyes for a moment as the bell peals sharply and silences Sawyer. "Watch is over, Captain," Wellard whispers, offering Mr. Hornblower a salute as he joins Buckland on the deck, setting Wellard free from the slow, rising laugh that echoes from Sawyer's cabin, riding over the sound of Buckland's voice.

The weight of the gun is heavy in his hand. He feels it, lets it slide against the damp skin of his palm. His fingers curl around it and his thumb strokes the butt of the pistol. He holds it out with one hand and watches as it shakes before dropping it down to his side again. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, inhaling and exhaling, seeing the steady calm that masks the stormy darkness that lurks in Mr. Hornblower and Mr. Kennedy's eyes.

He can do this.

He raises the gun again, his body turned slightly to the side. His fingers are slick with sweat and it slips slightly and his breath catches in his throat in a rough moment of panic before he regains his grip. He forces the pistol up again and sights along the top ridge, his hand shaking even more than before.

He will do this.

He hears the commotion and rushes toward the door, stopping as the scattered Spanish words reach his ears. He slips out of the room and along the dark corridors, threading in and out of shadows. The pistol is heavy in his hand, but growing lighter as he sees Mr. Kennedy and falls back against the wall beside him.

They communicate in silent signals, and for a moment, Wellard wonders if some day he will look at this man or any other and know without speaking or movement, the way Kennedy does with Hornblower. Yet as Bush calls out and the first shot is fired, he doesn't follow Kennedy's command, but heads up the stairs toward his destination.

He hears Mr. Kennedy's voice and Mr. Bush's. Hears shouts and cries and the crash of cutlasses and swords. He slips into the room like a shadow himself and turns the key in the lock, the voice of madness calmed to the steady drone of past glory.

He turns and holds the pistol up, his arm straining from the weight of the gun, of what he is about to do. His hand shakes as he aims, his expression betraying nothing. He will never betray anything again.

And when he fires, when he kills this man who threatens him and those he cares for…when he kills his Captain, it will be no accident.