The Defense of Glory

A Lone Sailor's Song

He had fifty-six ships if you counted the merchant's ships, but two of those fifty-six were so old he could only count them as one-- so fifty-five ships.

But twenty of those were patrol boats, built to search out the enemy, not engage them. They were not useless in battle, but he could only count them as the equal of three real ships-- so thirty-eight ships.

Against fifty.

He had figured this out quickly but still he had to repeat it over and over in his mind.

Thirty-eight to fifty.

There had to be some way to tip the odds.

That was how the admiral fought battles. He was not one to count on the bravery of his men or simply on the luck of the stars. He never entered a battle without the upper hand. But now he had no choice.

The flurry of activity in the camp had ceased abruptly. All the patrol boats had been docked, and the Wave Runners pulled with ropes into a protected cave where the storm could not smash their slender masts and narrow sides. Some sailors were down in the out-of-sight main harbour, preparing the war ships for the coming battle. Ridge was the only one on the cliffs.

A lone sailor down on the beach was coiling a length of rope, his leather-tough hands moving ceaselessly on the rough fibers. His voice, singing out into the gray night, was hoarse and muffled, as though by the rain clouds condensing overhead. The first drops of the storm were falling.

It was an old song, a dancing tune, not quite rhyming. In the midst of the hearty festivals in was usually sung at it was barely noticeable, but in the lone sailor's voice it was eerily off-kilter.

"Oh, his heart was stol'n upon the waves,

and split upon a sword edge,

and though men and girls did offer theirs

he never would accept it."

Ridge stared down at the sailor, who hadn't seemed to have noticed yet the tall admiral at the top of the cliffs.

"A lady, they say, a lady fair,

a captive on a boat

did take his heart and with her hands

did pitch it water-downwards."

His eyes narrowed, the words of the old song eddying about the misted storm air, their meaning slipping and catching in the folds of his consciousness.

"Feared pirate, lord of the seas,

a king of battles scarred,

did sail his seas without a heart--

lost to his lady fair."

Feared, yes, and lost to the waves, but what was lost? Ridge shook his head sharply. The song was distracting him, and he could not afford to be distracted. He leaned down, meaning to call to the sailor to quit his singing, but again the words caught his mind and held it, like a sun reflection on the waves captivating a small child.

"Oh, his heart was stol'n upon the waves,

the crests of his domain,

and though pirate lads search far and near,

it never was reclaimed."

Slowly, Ridge rocked back on his heels and turned his eyes to the horizon. He could see nothing. Darkness had truly claimed the ocean. But no matter. He didn't have to see them to know where to find them. He turned and walked slowly back to his tent, hands clasped behind his back.

Feared pirate, lord of the seas,

a kind of battles scarred,

did sail the seas without a heart...

A way to tip the odds.