At Sea – Tuesday, 22nd December 1676

Tuesday's dawning awakened me, and I rolled to my front and up onto my elbows to watch the sunrise, surprised by the spattering and runnels on the windows. But the sky barely reddened last night.

We had not seen a glum day in over two weeks. Some clouds and short showers, yes, but not a solid overcast and heavy rain such as this. The horizon was lost in the hazy grey of heavy rain, no line between sea and sky. How will we know our latitude? Then I thought, if the lost horizon is a concern, surely the Watch Officer will have called.

Charles lay on his back beside me, lightly snoring, and I moved the rumpled sheet to see whether Cyclops had arisen. No, still splayed across a hip, asleep with his master. I giggled to myself. Should I again have Miss Cunny awaken them?

As I deliberated, I wondered what it would be like for me to be awakened in a similar manner. This warmed me, so I rolled to my back, remaining uncovered as I feigned sleep – but for my hand caressing Cyclops.

For a long while, no response. Then Cyclops began swelling and shifting across his master's belly, away from my hand. I questioned whether I should follow, but decided to not put my ruse at risque. Instead, I rolled my head a bit and squinted an eye open to watch.

Charles continued his gentle snoring, uninterrupted, so I opened both eyes and lifted my head to better examine. I sighed and moved a hand to my nethers.

Then my thoughts turned to Mother's admonitions. Would she have had cravings such as these? In the beginning, at least?

An innate urge, a normal desire, Ruth had said. Designed to foster procreation, but wisely used for much more than that. To strengthen the bond between two people, she had said.

Had Mother and Father ever united solely for the pleasure? For the bonding? From Father's words, I think not. An arranged marriage. A duty to perform.

Oh, God! How cold. Little wonder she ...

My thoughts were interrupted by the whistle of the voice pipe beside Charles. He immediately awoke, licking, smacking and chewing to clear his mouth, then he replied, "Captain."

"Sir, we have sails ahead, fine the port."

"How many? How close?"

"One ship, Sir. Hull above the horizon. Just emerging from the haze of the rain."

"I shall be directly up."

He rolled to kiss me, then he rose from the bed and pulled on his breeches, Cyclops peeking above the cincture as he tied it. He looked down and chuckled. "Thank the gods for a long shirt."

He put on his shoes, and taking up his shirt, he shrugged it on, buttoning it as he hastened out the door. I arose as soon as he had disappeared, thinking it best to be dressed for ... I paused to think. For what? I shrugged. For whatever.

Not long after I began lacing the vest, I stopped to question its need, now that all know. Then I thought to the excitement both Charles and Cyclops find in the wabbling. To not arouse the crew, these need restraining.

I continued lacing, then paused again. But not compressed. Only held.

Then I recalled what Mistress Duncan had said about enhancing. About lacing from the bottom, rather than from the top. I undid the lace and began again, this time lifting, and I saw in the mirror what she had meant.

I turned to examine the appearance from each side, delighting in the image, and now understanding the source of the high bosoms I had seen on my cousins and their friends. They would not now think me too young.

As I stepped into my breeches, I thought of crafting skirts from the remaining Calicut; I had bought far too much. Then with the cincture tied and the shirt on, I stood again in front of the mirror, examining. And I can cut and restitch the bagginess from my shirts. Father's shirts.

I reflected upon my hasty packing when Chris had banished me from the house. Books from the library and some shirts, breeches and cravats from Father's garderobe by which to remember him. He would swim in these now as much as do I.

After a visit to the privy, I took my small sewing kit and the remaining cotton to the chairs by the window, and I had not for five minutes sat when the bell pealed loud and long. Then Charles descended in a rush, sopping wet. "Up top, Camille. We might be engaged, and it is safer there."

He took my hand and led me to the steps, saying as we ascended, "There is a possibility it is Santiago, the pirates' third ship on its return."

We emerged into the pouring rain with the hands rushing to their stations, and Charles pointed to the starboard aft corner, my place out of the way this time.

The ship was now less than two miles away, dim and hazy, a point off the starboard bow, her side facing us. I strained to see her gun ports, but through the rain, I could not discern whether they were open or closed. We were sailing almost directly toward her. Oh, dear, God!

I looked across to Charles, now in discussion with the officers and Master. Are our guns ready? He surely must have ordered them before he descended to fetch me. I hoped.

Then leaning out over the rail, as I had seen Edwards do when we practised the firing, I saw below me the port covers raised. It was then I realised there are guns beneath our great cabin. Of course, there are; Charles had said the gundecks run the entire length of the ship.

I turned my attention back to the other ship, Santiago, he had called her. She was still a point off the bow, but closer. Surely they can see our open ports through their telescopes. I snapped my gaze back to Charles and those with him, Father now among them, and seeing them with glasses raised, I wondered. What do they see? What are their thoughts? Their intentions?

It was not until I shivered that I realised I was soaked through to the skin. We all are. Looking down, I saw my shirt was slicked tight to my body, my shape prominent and my nubbins standing proud through the cloth from the cold.

Time seemed to slow as we continued closing Santiago, and I shivered again, wishing I had thought to put on my duffel.