The sailors from White Harbor dropped their ropes and abandoned their daily chores, surging toward the bow from their stations.
They gathered in the open space on deck ahead of the mainmast, their scimitars flashing brightly in the afternoon light, the edges trembling slightly in the sea breeze.
Two sailors cradled light matchlocks, their fingers resting outside the trigger guards. Their muzzles pointed upward, but the guns were already loaded with powder, and their slow matches burned steadily in the wind, the rising smoke drawn into thin gray threads by the sea breeze.
The wind whipped the sailors' thin clothes, their hems slapping against their legs, but none of them dared make the first move.
The first mate and second mate stood at the entrance to the passage leading to the gun deck. Both wore heavy half plate armor, its surfaces covered in dents and irregularities left by later sheet-metal repairs, scars that recorded countless battles and voyages.
The first mate spun his sabre in an elegant flourish, then held it across his body with its tip angled down, blocking the entrance to the passage.
The second mate gripped a two-handed chopping sword with both hands, resting the back of its blade against his shoulder as he coldly surveyed the faces of the six armed sailors before him.
Neither man yielded an inch. With their backs against the door leading to the lower compartments, they stood firm, refusing to let the sailors onto the gun deck.
Despite their superior numbers and the matchlocks in their hands, the armed sailors kept retreating before the silent menace radiating from the first and second mates.
Though they gripped their weapons tightly and kept shouting threats, their voices rising and falling amid coarse curses and blustering roars, not one of them truly dared attack