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He waited until the two oarsmen jumped out and dragged the boat farther up onto the gravelly shoreline. Then he, Alexander, and the other Alexander climbed out and together they all dragged the rowboat to a stable position, then came around to its stern to haul up the four-inch-diameter braided hawser that had come along with them, strung all the way from the ship. In fact, it was a modified dockline—really three docklines fixed to each other with two carrick bends, making it long enough to reach the shore.

Picard assisted in hauling the line ashore and directed his men to walk it several yards north of the ship’s bow; then he himself selected a tree. With a certain small vestige of pride, he threw the bitter end of the meaty line into a clove hitch around the trunk. As he surveyed his handiwork with some satisfaction, he regretted being one of several upperclassmen at Starfleet Academy who had petitioned to have the marlinspike seamanship course dropped from the requisites. After all, what good was knot-tying and simple line repair to a Starfleet serviceman?

What good, indeed?

Luckily, the petition had been denied and he had grimly taken the course.

“Not bad,” he muttered. “Thank you, Commander Graves. And I do apologize.” Then he turned to the rocky shoreline and looked out at a second rowboat that was holding position midway between the shore and Justina. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Haul away!”

From the small boat, the order was relayed to the ship: “Haul away, all!”

A moment or two passed as the efforts of the crew were coordinated on the ship’s capstan bars. The capstan was essentially a large winch, pushed around by men holding baseball-bat-sized spokes. Ordinarily such a contraption was used to raise the anchor, but as today witnessed, there were other uses.

Hovering just under the surface of the water, the hawser danced tenderly with the tides, disappeared below, then came up again and into the carved cathead at the ship’s bow. As movement on deck became steadier, the line began bouncing on the surface, then lapping the top as it grew shorter and tighter, drawn inboard by the turning capstan.

This was slow business. Picard couldn’t quell a twitch of impatience.

He took a moment to glance at Alexander, and true enough to Picard’s suspicions, the “swab” was staring unremittingly at his human ancestor. Alexander Leonfeld was oblivious to the attention, but stood, looking rather majestic, on the shoreline, his youth and stature adding to that scarlet uniform jacket with its white facings and gold buttons, still somehow bright in spite of weeks at sea, and his white leggings, and his long musket … yes, quite a figure, compared with a midshipman, a couple of deckhands, and a rather dour uncle-type whom the boy perceived only vaguely as a real ship’s captain. Sergeant Leonfeld cut a statuesque form against the shimmering evening sea as he stood guard, his rifle ready, his eyes scanning the curving shoreline.

“It’s up!” Nightingale rejoiced. Picard looked, and saw that the line had finally cleared the water and was now wagging like a giant jump rope, barely over the surface. Glittering droplets of water poured from its soaked braids. Gradually, the line lost its drape and became straighter and straighter.

Finally, at the tree, the line began to strain and groan. The tree spat bark and squawked as the tourniquet tightened. Picard and his landing party watched the ship. The line grew straighter, and stiffer

Mired on the shoal, Justina’s great bulk began to heel over, her keel biting into the shoal as her weight shifted. If she didn’t come off, she’d either be stranded, or she’d turn on her side altogether. The captain was letting her go over very far, until Picard could see the deck almost as a wall, tilted at forty or more degrees. Each degree attested to the captain’s determination to deny the enemy this prize if he could. What was the code of honor here? Would the captain destroy