The Adventures of the HMS Harlot

Part 3: Roy Nightingale, Pilot

My hands shake even as I write. I forgot the anger that could well up, molten fury spilling over as I saw the ship that changed our world. That changed my world.

Connor told me I did well. Maybe he's right, I don't remember really. Everything went white, and I suppose instinct took over.

We shouldn't try her from a distance, if at all possible. Otto and Victoria may want to, but we're hilariously outgunned. We would have to get close and personal. It is personal.

We might even find a blind spot, if luck is kinder than she ever has been. We could also get blown to pieces. I'm told that ship retreated today, perhaps only to toy with us. A bird of prey getting the measure of a meal before it strikes.

The shaking in my hands won't stop, even as the bottle of crude brown liquor I brought from the colony lays mostly empty on the desk. Instead, I think of what that ship took so long ago, chasing memories farther than I would care to go. The half-remembered song playing in my mind.

Sing to me, oh soft and sweet.
A melody to oft repeat.
Of summer nights and cool sweet rain,
No more of loss, no more of pain.

Take away this harsh day's light,
And bring with you our fragile night.
Lay it down and I'll draw it near.
A quilt to hide from grief and fear.

The stars may watch if rain subsides,
Long burning flames, with time to bide.
And strange to them our time must seem,
How quickly gone, while still they gleam.

But think not, love, of leaving yet.
Sing soft to me, and let's forget.

I never found that guitar I was looking for, maybe for the best tonight. Music, like memory, can cut as much as it heals.

Roy Nightingale