The Immortalia

Scotland

In reality, the journey took them 67 days.

January 1701 was in mid-swing, when, at last, the lookout called "land ho!"

Léon couldn't remember the last time those words had sounded so beautiful to him. The Wide West had endured a thrashing on the Atlantic, as winter had crowded in. One storm in particular had hit on Christmas Eve, and the crew had spent all night and through all of Christmas day battling it. There were moments when the Elliot's feared they would all die long before any more of their questions would be answered, but in the end they had pulled through, though they had lost two yard arms and flooded the brig. The pumps had cleared the hull out, and with a good bit of patching, they had calked the seams, but the Wide West was quite a bit worse for the wear.

If the crew had had much fight left in them, they might have given their captain more trouble upon reaching shore, but Léon still had the command, and they had all willingly signed on, so there was little they could vote against. All Léon knew was that after finding the clockmaker, he would need to be very careful with his next decision as captain. His hold on the crew was tenuous at best, even with the respect of all the men, his recklessness was reaching its limit for a simple pirate crew.

The land they had spotted was Ireland. They landed at the seaport town of Sligo where they spent a week on repairs and rest. From there they would sail around the northern tip of Ireland and sail straight to Ayrshire in Scotland.

Léon was sitting in a tavern on the docks. The port was not large or bustling and there was very little authoritative presence there. Clearly Sligo was not a very popular port for merchants or pirates. It was both comforting and disconcerting at the same time. Not only did the Wide West stick out like a sore thumb in the little port town of mostly fishing vessels, but she needed repairs that required purchasing lumber and supplies which drew more attention. Léon had given strict orders that any pirate-like business would be met with the severest of punishments. He was not willing to risk the mission for a few baubles that his men might fancy.

Normally, Léon would see a town like this as easy pickings and do a little raiding along the shore, but piracy was the last thing on his mind for the time being. They were ordinary sailors, though the looks that he and his crew received from the folk along the docks told him that they didn't for once believe them, which was all the more reason to behave well until they were ready to depart. The ship had practically limped into port, and Léon didn't fancy being hanged in Ireland, of all the most loathsome places. Whenever he thought about his potential execution (assuming he didn't die on his ship in an open-sea fight) he always thought it would be on one of the British-occupied islands in the West Indies. No, dying on the cold rocks of Ireland in winter would not suit him.

Léon scooted his chair closer to the fire. He had adopted a heavy wool coat and scarf instead of his normal leather jacket. He was unaccustomed to the cold, having lived his entire life in the warmth of the Caribbean, and he found he did not much care for the biting winds and constant chill dampness.

"More port, sir?" said the round, red-nosed woman who ran the inn. Her accent was strange to Léon but he rather liked the sing-song quality of it. He gifted the middle-aged woman with a charming smile and held his empty cup to her. He had had three glasses already, but after a hearty meal of lamb, potatoes, and thick brown bread, he was just beginning to warm up and feel comfortable. It was nearing eleven in the evening, and his next move was to his bed, but one more glass wouldn't hurt. He would go back to the ship that night as the crew was to depart in the morning and all hands were required to be there first thing. It was easier to keep track of everyone that way.

Five or so minutes later, Bash and Connor came through the door (and with them an arctic blast of cold air). Léon looked over irritatedly.

"This rock never warms up does it?" he asked (a little drunkenly).