It was the morning of the third day since we’d escaped the sack of St. Augustine, and everyone, from Captain Voorhees down to the youngest deckhand, was beginning to relax. We’d reached one of the Bahamian isles the evening before, Mr. Bierson keeping the Dutch Flyte, the ‘Queen Anne’s Regret’, well away from the lush vegetation passing off our port side. We’d also caught a good breeze and the captain had decided to have me pull back my air-golems, still in the shape of mermaids holding nets in their hands, from filling the sails in order to save my strength. Smoke had taken more of my strength so she’d be ready if anything happened, as had the other six little ones, but that night nothing had. So I’d eaten well then stretched out in a hammock down in the crew’s quarters and fallen asleep. It was the hour before dawn when I awoke. The crew hold stunk of men crammed together in the same space for too long, which included the lower class passengers as well as the dozen or so sailors themselves.
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