It was not sudden, he is sure, though it appeared to be so. The voices that before were just the rumbles and grumblings of his crew are suddenly clearly the ones whispering to him of mutiny and betrayal. He knows that they are warning him, like the ghostly hint of a gale before the skies ever change, before the sea shifts.

He watches his men like a wary hawk, weakness easily spotted and sought out, claws clinging to unhealthy flesh and tearing into it. Tendons stretch and snap and the spray of blood on his skin is like victory, tastes of sweet satisfaction. The voices cry out for blood and for vengeance and, in the darkness of night, locked away in his cabin, he wonders if it is them he hears or the bitter core of his own soul that seeks out reparation for what has befallen him.

His eyes fall on his Lieutenants, watching them as they rise and fall with the swell of the sea, feet steady beneath them, eyes sharp as knives. He knows them from the fire forging the steel, was once one of them. He knows the need to climb higher, feel the burn of rope beneath his hand as he pushes faster, harder than the rest. He knows the glory of battle and the smell of gunpowder. He can taste it in the air, like musk from their skin.

He ignores Buckland for what he is. Weak, ineffectual. He is an officer who does as he is told and nothing more, floundering like a landed fish at the mere taste of real power. The others concern him in varying degrees. Bush is a man who follows orders and steers his course, but he is prone to the wind, his sails easily filled with words whispered in the dark.

Kennedy's eyes flash with more than fire, they burn with hatred. He has seen the marks on the young man's back, seen the scars that mark his soul. He watches Kennedy, watches his eyes and knows, as Kennedy knows, that there is only one man to fear on this ship, one man who the fire doesn't burn.

His lips taste of salty wine and he makes his way to the deck, the darkness like a warm blanket of air around him. He moves with caution, the voices silent. He has bested them, found his way free of them as he moves across solid plank, the gun in his hand. He thinks he has found victory as he stops. He senses the voices stirring, lulls them back to sleep with his own voice, one born for shouting commands at the height of a storm, whispering them in the heart of an attack.

"Mr. Hornblower."

Hornblower wakes and they wake, but he knows he has a few moments before they realizes what he wants, what he wishes. He holds the young man's life in his hands, but the opposite lies true, it can be true, and then it will end. He will die and they will die with him if he can make the man see, make him agree. It is worth it, he thinks, though he knows he would never have thought so before. Pride and honor are nothing to a man like Hornblower, young enough to know nothing of sacrifice. He has earned the right for his death to be one of glory - in battle or in betrayal. He will make it so.

He offers the gun, but the boy is smart, too smart. The voices flare before the end run, and he knows he has lost this round. He acquiesces to Clive's grip, leaving Hornblower with a look that lets him know that vengeance is swifter than death, but death, oh sweet death, would have been easier.

He is mad.

He knows this now. Knows that madness beats in his blood, in his brain. He can hear the voices and feel their touch like a weaver sorting and spinning, threading insanity through his veins. The problem with madness isn't the disease itself, isn't the thrumming surety that everyone is against you. The problem is that, even if you are mad, you are still right.

There is mutiny aboard his ship. His Lieutenants gather and discuss, they plot and plan and their whispers are as loud as the voices in his head. They hide nothing from him as they skulk in darkened passageways saying his name with regret and uncertainty, none of them bold enough, strong enough. None of them Captain enough to take command from him.

They were wrong, he realizes. He sees the fire in Kennedy's eyes as he corners him, inches closer, light words nothing but fuel to the flame, lies spoke with the devil's own tongue. His guns weigh heavily in his hands, pulling him down, anchoring his courage . He feels them closing in on him. Betrayers. Mutineers.

He was wrong. Led astray. The lantern light glints off of Kennedy's golden hair and death is promised in those blue eyes, far more than the dark abyss of Hornblower's. He feels the edge beneath his foot and sees his future, sees freedom. Let him serve God, serve the King.

Let him die.

He wakes to the voices, only now they are distinct and precise. Buckland and Hornblower and Clive and Bush and Kennedy. They discuss him like some object, some thing. He is under their watchful eye, wrapped in blankets like a babe. Their words make no sense, don't coalesce in his head, just swim and float past, full of anger and vitriol and despair. They are not men meant to lead. They are children, clutching at the nursemaid's skirts, clinging to his belt and begging to be lifted toward the sky.

The gap has lessened now, or grown so vast that he cannot see it. He is no longer mad. He is the man he was, Nelson's man. His mutineers are locked below, useless in form as well as function now. He stands straight and tall as they sail into Samana Bay listening to the calls as they edge closer to shore. He will stand and fight. He will fulfill his duty as sworn to King and country.

He lifts his face to the sky as the first shots hit, the feel of battle coursing through his veins. Everything comes clear in the haze of smoke and splintered wood, the pounding pulse of shot as it thrums through the air, shattering from stem to stern. He wants to laugh with the joy of it, wants to rain fire down on his enemies. Instead he faces Buckland and Wellard with his pistol in his hand and demands his command. He will win this.

And then the sea betrays him. The ship hits and shifts and falls and he feels the world collapse beneath him. Everything rushes in on him at once and he sees it all so clearly. Darkened shadows swarming around him. Hands reach out for him, grab at his coat and tug at his legs. Hands on his chest and his back and the whispers of betrayal and mutiny fill his ears.

This is the end. He will fall with his ship, go down in a blaze of pure glory, in a fire of vengeance. He will go down and he will take them with him. Take them all straight to hell.

It slips from his fingers so easily now.

Truth is ever present, always in his mind. The rest of the world has gone mad around him, he is on the only safe harbor of sanity. He knows the truth and the whispers that stay with him, slip out of his mouth like words from God himself.

Hobbs whispers the words in his ears, and he knows that there are men of great value, men he can trust. The razor is like a sword, it cuts through flesh and finds bone so easily. He can feel it slice against his skin as it shaves away the rough hewn edges of whisker. He closes his eyes and imagines the blade against his neck, imagines death dealt with a quick strike across his throat.

Better still, he imagines standing on deck again, in command. He imagines it all until fate deals him a swift view of the chasm once again, Hornblower's words echoing across the vast canyon, sending him tumbling into darkness.

He was lauded once, a man of courage and skill. He basked in glory and now, as the blade slices his skin, he bathes in blood.

In the end he knows he is mad. There is no mistake, no misunderstanding, no misrepresentation. He has been deserted by all he holds dear and can only see the hint of the man he once was. It is there, he thinks as he stares at his hands. Where once he could salute, now he trembles. Where once there was honor, now there is fear. Where once there was command, now there is quiet. Where once there was a great man, now there is nothing.

Memories bombard him like hot shot setting fire to dry timber. He rocks under the constant beat of them, sways as they boil the sea around him. He cannot sink and cannot swim and the boat sinks beneath him. Names and faces and facts and figures assault him, points on a compass swinging wildly in search of true north.

He remembers everything and nothing. All is clear as clouds, sharply defined and spilling rain like tears on the slick wood of the deck. Spanish ladies sing songs to his soul and he closes his eyes, dancing a minuet in full splendor. The song stops in mid-verse and he hears silence that pulses with the sound of distant footsteps.

Anchoring himself behind his desk, he pulls out the book and opens it. Fine cursive covers the page, and he doesn't read the words but speaks them, knows them from memory as capture comes close to home. He looks up as the door locks and closes his eyes for a moment. Captive is captive whether in the binding white of a strait jacket or staring down the barrel of a gun, held by the enemy or one of your own.

Mutiny.

Such a child, young Wellard. So full of nothing but the desire to do well, stumbling and bumbling along in the wake of his betters. Better, he supposes, that he follows on Hornblower's heels than those of Buckland. Perhaps Wellard will live to see his hero hanged. Perhaps Sawyer will himself.

The fragile truce holds no longer and the ghost of the man he used to be rises from the pages of the past in the wake of the rushing voices. Wellard's sharp words drown them all out and he realizes what he should have seen all along. Some men will die for King or country. Others will die for something much simpler, much easier. Some men will die for honor.

He will die for his honor, Wellard for theirs.

"I know who pushed me, Mr. Wellard."

The boy wants to know, wants to hear the words, wants to know who he's dying for, but it doesn't matter. Sawyer knows now, the shadows fading to darkness. Kingston can hang them, but God will acquit them all.