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Picard and Alexander kept their mouths shut and listened as the crew muttered about whether or not the captain would decide to pursue the colonial ship or to go on with their mission, whatever that mission was. Where had they been heading when the attack came under the clear afternoon sun?

Why had the colonist attacked in broad daylight, when the larger ship had a decided advantage? What had they been trying to protect?

Picard took a moment to look at the land. Was something there worth protecting—with a valuable ship, costly guns and ammunition, and the lives of men, at great risk under a noon sun, with the wind on the enemy’s other side?

“Mr. Picard!”

Pennington. This was a bulky man, but quick at picking his way through the dead and wounded and all the splinters and chunks of smashed wood. He came through the maze of clutter as if he’d spent his life doing it. Probably had.

“What are you going to do?” Alexander asked.

Picard glanced down. “Answer him.” He looked up at the officer and called, “Yes?”

Instantly he realized he should’ve said “sir.” Fact was, he wasn’t used to saying that to anyone on board his own ship. He was used to having it said to him.

“Mr. Picard, are you injured?”

“Oh … no, sir, I’m not injured.”

“Perhaps you should see to your duties then.”

“Yes, of course. I will.”

Pennington immediately about-faced and headed aft again, barking at the crew and surveying the damage.

“Well, there’s something,” Picard said. “Apparently I’m in charge of the foredeck.”

“What’s your rank?”

“Lieutenant, I’d say. A second or third officer. Or fourth. Let’s see if they’ll do what I say, shall we?”

He moved toward the nearest clutch of men, a gun crew and sail handlers, who were standing at the starboard rail, watching the retreat of the colonial ship, its sides still boiling smoke. That was a busy crew over there.

His crew should be busy, too. Picard glanced about, assessed what he saw, and simply said, “Gentlemen, let’s clear away this wreckage and secure the guns. And coil those … those …”

“Aye, sir!” two of the men chimed, and others muttered the same. They were all sweat-drenched, blackened with cannon soot and shot grease, and their horny hands were bloody, but they seemed to know exactly what he meant.

Good thing, because he didn’t. He wouldn’t have known himself how to secure the guns, or which part of this wreckage had to be salvaged and which cast overboard.

“Salvage what you can,” he said pointlessly, just as a test.

“Yes, sir,” one of the Englishmen said.

“Take the wounded below,” Picard threw in after glancing again at the litter of wounded men, and particularly the man who had been slaughtered by splinters. “And see to the dead”

One of the sailors stood up and stepped to him. “Sir, the wounded on the orlop deck?”

“Uh, yes,” Picard agreed, “the orlop deck.”

“And the dead?”

Alexander was looking at him.

Picard hesitated. “The hold.”

“Very good, sir.” The sailor turned to his mates and told them what to do.

“Well,” Picard sighed to Alexander, “that seems to be some of my job.”

“Can we help them?” Alexander said.

Clapping the boy on the shoulder, Picard smiled. ” Exactly what I had in mind. You help those men shove off the wreckage. I’ll triage the wounded.”

“But you’re not a doctor!” the boy protested.

“I’ll just do my best. Promise me you’ll do yours.”

“I will.”

“And don’t throw anything overboard without asking.”

“I won’t.”

Picard drew a breath to steel himself, and was instantly assaulted by the overpowering odor of blood and sweat, but mostly blood. It had a hot, salty, cloying presence as he moved into the litter of wreckage and wounded. He knelt immediately beside a groaning sailor whose leg had been shattered at the thigh by hurling wood. A blown-apart piece of line served well enough as a tourniquet, but the leg was clearly destroyed. This man would probably die, given this technology, and it would be a long, tortuous passing. Giving the delirious man a sorry pat on the shoulder, Picard moved on.

He knew, of course, that this was a vision of something