The ship’s bell had not rung all night. Snow swirled about on deck, stirred by the breeze and the purposeful steps of countless sailors. Bethany had not slept - she was not alone in this: the entire ship had been a hive of silent but intense work, some necessary, some in the name of distraction, since nightfall. Her cabin was dark and freezing, no fires had been permitted in the stoves and no lamps could be lit, lest they be seen from shore. The ship’s boilers, though afire, were being burned as cold as they could be without suffocating, producing only a streaky wisp of smoke that, it was hoped, would vanish quickly into the low clouds.

A very gentle knock came at her door. She looked about, then rolled, hiding in her bunk’s icy sheets. The steward let himself in.

“Miss, I’ve been instructed to tell you we’ve one hour until it commences. You’re to prepare yourself...” he whispered, setting a small try on her desk, “there’s coffee here, I had to heat it on a stoker’s shovel down below, Farley won’t even permit me my cook-fire. I meant to bring food as well, but I’m told it’s better not to eat before a thing like this.”

Bethany glanced at him and gave a faint, “thank you” on which he dismissed himself. She was intent on ignoring the coffee but eventually rose. She only managed to take in half a cup before returning to her bunk to cower for a while. Some time later she forced herself to grope under it for the case from Walkinshaw. The carbine and pistols lay in it along with their leather appointments. All had been damaged by blood and saltwater on Dux, but, by Farley’s instruction the actions had been cleaned, the now-pitted metal oiled, and the holsters, belt, and scabbard rubbed with boot grease.

She lifted the carbine and ran the lever, it was still beautifully quick and smooth, the wage of Walkinshaw’s obsessive polishing. That had not been enough the last time she had fired it. She could feel the point in its throw were she had fouled it and so ended up taking a Bexarian’s boot and rifle butt to her chest and back. The bruises were mostly gone but when it was cold she was certain she could still feel them, or at least the pain they attested to. She laid the carbine on her bunk and fell into her chair, drinking the now cold coffee.

The steward had neglected to entirely close her door and snow was gathering just inside her cabin. When she rose to shut it she found Boyle about to knock.

“What is it?” she asked, shortly, swinging the door wide.

“It’s time, Miss Bethany. Why aren’t you dressed?”

“I decline to go,” Bethany intoned.

“Nonsense, the lads won’t take a step ashore without you, I know it’s likely plenty foolish of them, but that’s the truth of the matter, miss.”

“I can’t help them.”

“You helped us all plenty, you’re the only reason this ship isn’t at the sea bottom this very moment.”

“I didn’t choose to do that, I didn’t will it, I don’t deny it happened, but it happened to me or through me, I wasn’t the author of it. If that weren’t enough, I’m a coward, if I weren’t a coward I wouldn’t be saying this now, moreover, I wouldn’t have seized up with every other rifle shot every time we take fire, even when I might have saved lives by being, well, not even bold, just as brave as the fellow beside me.”

Boyle took a long stride into the cabin and firmly closed the door behind him.

“Deary, what in particular are you afraid of?”

“That I will get good men killed.”

“Every officer fears that, the decent ones, anyhow, I ‘spose.”

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“Perhaps by their actions, their orders, but I mean through my cowardice.”

“And, what is bringing on the cowardice? That was what I truly meant to ask.”

“I don’t want to die, at least not badly, not bleeding in a shell-hole or run through by an orc.”

Boyle looked at her, then looked about the darkness of the cabin before settling on her again. “When they were going to string you up, for that hurlyburly with the girl at your school...” he opened, falteringly.

“The murder,” Bethany put in, staring at the deck.

“I wouldn’t call that a murder, but, that’s beside my point - you must excuse me, bosuns are not taught rhetoric, miss - what I am driving at is this, when you were certain you were going to hang, did you make like those fellows what scream all the way until they drop the trap, or were you, at some point, resolved, given over to the end and the other side?”

“Resolved, though there was no nobility in it, after awhile one runs out of tears.”

“Nevertheless, it is in you. Do you know how many men have no greater fear than going to the gallows? And you bore up to it as a child. It may be an ugly thing to find but you must find it, and find it quickly enough.”

Boyle gripped her shoulder for a moment then stepped backward, to the door, “you must go, for the lads, they’ll go even if you don’t, but unled and fearful, which is more certain to get them killed than any failing of yours” he insisted as he left her in the black room.

Bethany heard the clatter of rifles and the groan of ropes as the boats were loaded.

She quickly dressed, donning her makeshift uniform, her pistols, carbine, and rapier. Over all this she put her boat cloak, deep naval blue with a crimson lining. Finally she took up her dark, broad hat, pinning the right side of the brim to the crown so it would be out of the way when she shouldered her carbine.

Farley met her almost as soon as she left the cabin, “follow me quickly, we haven’t much time.”

He led her to Granger’s cabin. Boyle and Badrine waited there. The ship’s chronometers sat on the table.

“Are there any questions regarding the orders discussed this afternoon?”Farley asked in a hush.

Bethany and others remained silent, Farley nodded, “very good.”

He struck a match, lighting a short candle near the chronometers, “synchronize your watches, gentlemen.”

Badrine and Farley set their watches with ease, Boyle fumbled with his tarnished, small piece until Badrine intervened, causing him to say, “thank you sir, I usually just go by the bells.”

Farley drew another watch from a drawer and set it, then handed it to Bethany.

“I cannot take this, it was Mr. Granger’s.”

“You have no choice, you must have a watch and there are none to spare.”

Bethany regarded the neat, silver chronograph. Its caseback bore the lines, “Presented to F. Granger by the men of Morningstar on the occasion of his leaving the ship after five years superb captaincy.”

“If he has living family we must see this returned when this is done,” Bethany insisted.

“With respect, that’s no concern of ours just now,” Farley rebuffed, “shall we go?”

Boyle began to speak but halted and glanced at Bethany, she answered “yes.”

Farley made for the door, “to the boats.”

Both of Fletch’s boats were in the water now, one riding low with the weight of 17 men, the other occupied by only four marines. Badrine accompanied them to the gunnel, Farley inspected the boats, then turned to him, saying “the ship is yours, sir.” Badrine saluted crisply, Farley returned the salute, then addressed Bethany and Boyle. He handed them each slender officer’s whistles. Boyle turned his about in his palm with distaste, “I know you’d prefer your pipe but the call must be the same,” Farley acknowledged.

Boyle mounted the gunnel, lowered himself onto the netting tied to Fletch’s side and into his boat. Farley did the same, leaving Bethany on the deck.

Boyle stared up at her, beckoning with his hand, “come now.” As she climbed over the gunnel, Badrine saluted her as well.

When Bethany was settled in the boat the lines were slipped, “pull for the island now, men, but gentle,” Farley commanded.

The boats’ oars, muffled with sailcloth, beat gently against the sea until they were nearer the island than ever before. Every man not rowing was hunched, holding their rifles and carbines low to keep any hint of moonlight from glinting on them. Farley rose slightly, leaning into Bethany’s boat, “all of you, ensure your magazine cutoffs are open, you don’t want to be caught out there with a single-shot.”

A gentle rustle rippled through the boat as the men checked, followed by the click of a few cutoffs. Snow gathered in the bottom of the boats, on officer’s cloaks, and the terribly thin coats and shirts of the sailors. About 500 arshins from the pier, Farley leaned on the tiller of his boat, aiming it to the right of the battery.

“Right, this is it, godspeed all of you,” he whispered.

Bethany felt physically pinned to the gunnel near the fore of the boat as the beach grew very close. She wanted to look at the buildings, look for the enemy, but stared instead at the water just before her. The oars scraped against the seabed, soon the keel of the boat began to furrow the sand and the tiller had to be raised. After an instant, they could no further, aground just before the rib cage of a whale. Boyle was the first over the side, his boots splashing in freezing, knee high water.

“My lads up and to port, just as Farley said,” he ordered in a murmur.

Eight men splashed onto the beach, forming an unsteady ‘V’ headed by the bosun, they picked their way to the first structure on the left, a coal shed. Bethany and her detachment remained in the boat - they were not meant to. A sailor murmured something and began to get out. Bethany whispered, “stop” and he did, but did not sit.

“What’s the matter?” another wondered.

Bethany rose, looking about the beach, “nothing.” She carefully left the boat, and, in a crouch, led her men to a low breakwater at the inland end of the pier. Few lights burned in the buildings, footsteps were heard from one - the poor fellow assigned to watch the barrack’s stove. The men looked about their vicinity until they were confident that no man was looking back, then gazed at the battery, shrouded in snow on its hill.

A small fire, burning pitch, rose from the base of one of the guns. Another was lit, and another, until the battery glowed. Bethany opened Granger’s watch, angling it until its face caught the moonlight: they had two minutes.