Sole Survivor

by Rottweiler

Copyright© 2023 by Rottweiler

Description: Marcus Tanner a young journeyman blacksmith who joined a colonial expedition for the new world, finds himself shipwrecked and half dead on an unknown shore-he is the sole survivor. Severely injured and ill from exposure, he has only his intellect and wit to fall back on as he salvages what he can from the stricken vessel before the harsh winter sets in. Early in his adventure he befriends and injured wolf pup and meets a small indigenous tribe of peaceful natives. He soon learns that enemies are

Tags: Much Sex, Ma/Fa, mt/ft, ft, NonConsensual, Rape, Gay, Fiction, Historical, Alternate History, Anal Sex, Violence

Published: 2023-10-07

Size: 59,262 Words

Chapter 1: Shipwrecked

It was the shrill cries of seagulls and crows that awakened him. His first awareness was the fluttering shadows against the bright sky, from their fleet forms as they winged about him. He felt the cold hard gravel beneath him as it sloped towards the sea where waves crashed into the rocky shore nearby. He attempted to shift himself to look over the enormous log that lay beside him, and quickly became aware of a new sensation—pain, “Aaahh!” he groaned, the sound harsh and strained from the dryness of his parched and swollen throat. The coughing fit that followed startled the nearest birds causing them to scatter. He must have swallowed gallons of seawater during the night as he...

Gods the ship! The terrifying tempest that drove them into the pitch-black night! How could he have survived? Recalling the horror, he was suddenly gripped by crippling panic as he recalled the tragedy. He survived? He was alive! Who else? He rolled to his side and pushed himself up so he could peer over the seaward log. What he saw caused his heart to lurch and he struggled to find his breath. He blinked painfully against the sharp glare of the mid-morning sun as it assaulted his swollen eyes. The ocean reflected its brightness making it difficult for his vision to adjust. Then he began to make out the aftermath of the storm’s fury.

Wreckage.

As far as the eye could see. From his left to his right, the shore was littered with debris and flotsam, much of it recognizable as remnants of the Starling, the three-masted vessel that bore him with its crew across the ocean to the New World. A body rested half buried in the rocky shore nearby, causing him to cry out and lurch to his feet. A crushing pain assaulted his senses and his vision darkened unexpectedly. He felt himself falling forward, then nothing. His awareness left him as he toppled over the giant driftwood and landed face-first among the rocks and gravel.

Judging from the subtle change in the sun’s position, along the Eastern horizon—he doubted he was out for very long. He groaned again as he became aware of additional pain from the cuts and bruises recently added to his face. “Best not attempt that again mate,” he muttered to himself as he struggled to his hands and knees, shaking his head wearily. Gods, what didn’t hurt? He tried to assess the damage as wave after wave of agony wracked his conscience. Dizziness and nausea gripped him as he tried once again to rise. Defeated, he let his body collapse once more, attempting to control his fall by rolling to his back so that he lay angled head down towards the nearby surf.

“Oh, bugger me!” He groaned. By subconsciously positioning his head below his trunk and legs, he maintained sufficient blood flow to his brain, allowing him to stay alert and absorb the enormity of his situation. Waves of pain pounded through his skull like a smith’s hammer. Every gasping breath caused sheer agony to rip through his ribs and chest. A throbbing heat in his left knee competed with the sharp painful spasms that stabbed his backside from his hip to his shoulder. When he tried to blink the irritating scratchy grit from his eyes, he realized his left orb was swollen shut. In the span of a few heartbeats, he determined that his left side was worse off than his right. “Well, ain’t this just fuckin grand!” he cursed with a painful croak. “Marky lad, you really landed in the shit this time.”

Closing his other eye, he took a moment to try and expand his understanding by listening to his surroundings. He ignored the constant hissing of the surf and cries of the ever-present gulls. Straining to glean any clues to his situation—voices, moans, any sign of activity other than surf or scavenger. He could hear nothing. Another wave of panic swept over him, and he heaved over toward his right side until prone. Looking up he found himself less than a dozen feet from the body he saw earlier. He shouted at the man weakly and made to lift his torso. He was barely able to pull his left arm forward, so he started with his right, slowly crawling his battered body through the sharp rocks and broken shells. The slope of the beach aided his progress and after an eternity of agonizing progress, he was able to reach the crewman and grab his shoulder. Shaking the body and shouting again he tried to get a response. It was futile. The man was well and truly dead. What was left of his head was so badly damaged that recognition was impossible. Gripped once again by nausea, Marcus shoved himself away from the corpse as the smell of putrefaction assaulted him. As he rolled painfully onto his left side, he began heaving violently. His throat burned as he spewed the contents of his stomach upon the rocks next to him. Burning bile mixed with the harsh seawater left him breathless and shivering. He was overwhelmed by despair as the reality of his situation overcame him. He began shaking as he wept. He trembled emotionally and tried to come to terms with it all. Just moments earlier he woke up in agony, lying on an unknown shore—wedged between two enormous pieces of driftwood. The last recollection before that was ... the storm.

The noise was incredible—the darkness complete, save when stripped away by the blinding spears of lightning that blotted out the inky blackness and blinded one’s vision. Between the ripping and howling wind and the crashing thunder, the ears were deaf to the cries of the crew. The ship floundered helplessly in the grip of the tempest, a storm so violent that no soul aboard the Starling considered survival—rather prayed for a quick and painless death.

Marcus Alexander Tanner stood on trembling legs, clinging precariously to the port stays supporting the aft mast. Known as a bright and courageous man of keen intellect, he found himself seized by the terror of his impending doom, unable to even consider his plight as he clung desperately to the dying vessel. In the darkness, he could only perceive the violent motion as the ship was wrenched about, lifted suddenly, and spun to and fro like a child’s toy in the grip of a mad god. As she heeled sharply, he felt himself being pulled down until he hung beneath the mast with the dark sea beneath him—only to be wrenched suddenly back up and higher as the vessel righted and submitted itself to the next crashing breaker. As he felt himself supported momentarily by the deck beneath his feet, he looked about him peering into the utter blackness.

Another blinding flash as a persistent blast of lightning crashed across the sky. It provoked a continuous chain effect that illuminated his surroundings as if it were suddenly day. Glancing aft he spotted the helm with no soul in control. Pol the first mate held that position just seconds before. He found no one on the deck as far as he could see. Aloft a man hung from the rigging by his feet, swinging violently about. The foremast was gone. Amidships awash with seawater that flowed and swirled about his feet. They were taking on water fast. It took him only seconds to glance about and as the light began to fade, he closed his eyes and lifted his face to the torrential rain. Another flash, further away prompted him to glance further out to sea. His heart froze when he saw the size of the waves marching towards them. Each was as high as a castle wall, each determined to crush and destroy them utterly. But with the distant flash of lightning, he saw something so terrible he felt all warmth leave his body. An enormous wave, far greater, so much taller that he had to strain his neck to see its combing peak. It was a mountain. A monster created by the gods themselves, consuming the very ocean itself as it sped towards them. It was terror. It was death.

The sun had risen higher, and the tide had encroached further up the shore as Marcus stopped to rest his haggard body. With the aid of a stout branch, its surface stripped bare and scoured clean by sand and sea, he was able to gingerly make his way along the shore—searching ... praying. With resignation and despair, he found no survivors. The few bodies he did discover were but a small tithe of the crew and colonists aboard. 38 souls total, and he alone to live and bear the agony of his loss. As he stood wearily glancing back at the hulk of the ship’s carcass, he became aware of more immediate concerns. His thirst was terrible, and he felt feverish. Nightfall would be upon him soon and his ultimate survival depended on his next course of action. He had to find water, food, and shelter. He had to clean and bind his wounds and search for anything that could help him.

Odd pieces of flotsam collected along the shore that he had passed. Amongst the debris he saw an occasional item of interest, that he moved further up the shore, out of the tide’s reach. Lengths of wood, piles of rope (so much rope and cordage from the ship’s rigging), a few small casks, and several barrels and boxes. He also scavenged a large piece of sailcloth. He knew he would have to reach the doomed vessel’s hull if he had any hope of finding any valuable tools and equipment. Part of a hatch with a bent hinge was set aside as he considered making a fire later. Now he only needed a piece of hard basalt or flint to strike a spark with. He sat upon a nearby log for a moment and studied the shore again. There was a layer of seaweed and detritus that lined the shore along its full length. Certain that this delineated the high tide mark, he set all his findings several feet beyond it. Studying the sun’s position and the advancing sea edge, he guessed that the tide would peak in a few more hours. It would ebb for many more before darkness fell, so he anticipated being able to venture further out to search for more items later.

Until then he clambered back to his feet and continued his way north along the coast slowly until he reached the last few items from the ship. Placing them a safe distance from the tide, he climbed slowly up the steeper part of the beach and then navigated his way awkwardly through the giant pieces of driftwood. A cliff rose before him, rising 100 feet at its highest point just before the hulk of the dead ship. It gradually tapered off towards him and disappeared around a bend as the northern shore turned inward towards the west. It was too far to explore in his current state, so he slowly ventured back down to his starting position. He had wandered several hundred yards from where he awoke. He studied the giant trees that rose from atop the sheer precipice to stand hundreds of feet even higher. He had never seen evergreens so big. He marveled at dozens of smaller trees that grew straight out from the rocky surface and then curved upwards along the cliff face.

He caught his breath when he spied a nearby patch of shore that glistened with moisture. He limped, skipped, and clambered his way as fast as possible until he discovered the flow of water along the rocks toward the ocean. It had to be fresh water! He glanced to where it flowed down the face of the cliff in small rivulets. It was not much but he was heartened as he scrubbed his hands and rinsed them free of the mud and grime from his scavenging. He stood beneath a small outcropping of rock that directed a small stream to fall a span away from the moist cliff face and let the water drip into his wide-open mouth. “Oh! Blessings of the Gods!” he croaked as the delicious moisture soothed his cracked tongue and parched throat. He felt immediate relief and strength from the replenishing liquid. He closed his eyes and let the tiny stream fall onto his head. He delicately rubbed his eyes and face and continued scrubbing his hair and beard. The relief was immediate, and he felt energized and renewed as he stepped back and shook out his mane.

Opting to continue his steady trip back to his point of origin, he discovered three more tiny springs, one of which collected into a wide, shallow pool. He quickly decided that this would be his temporary base. But before setting up camp he had a lot more scavenging to do. So, he trudged wearily back to where he discovered the first body and continued south repeating his efforts to collect, sort, and salvage anything of value—setting it beyond the high-water mark. His spirits lifted considerably when he rescued several small barrels and a square crate that he found floating within feet of the shore. The crate was sealed tightly to prevent exposure of its contents. Upon shaking he was certain it contained dried beans or some other edible legume. The barrels were heavier but rolled gradually up the shore with the aid of his sturdy staff. Their central bungs and sloshing contents suggested wine, beer, or some other spirit.

Another body floated face down further out and he waded in up to his waist to inspect it. It was one of the male colonists he discovered. The giveaway was the leather boots. The crew went about the ship barefoot, except for the officers. The man’s white muslin shirt and breeches were in good condition as well and he wore a broad leather belt. Uneasily Marcus liberated the poor soul of his boots and garments. His lucky break came two-fold as he first discovered the small, but sturdy dagger tucked securely into the right boot. Once again acknowledging the gods’ luck, he removed the poor sot’s belt and discovered a modest pouch still clasped to it. Gathering the garments and treasures, he waded back to shore and made his way to another giant log where he sat and examined his find. The knife alone was a huge stroke of luck. But when he examined the pouch, he was delighted to find an elegant flint and striker, a large wad of waxed cotton, tobacco pipe with a leather roll of prime cavendish tobacco, and a modest roll of waxed twine with an awl and spindle. Could this have been the cobbler? What was his name? Upon further inspection, the boots were very well made, and he was certain they would fit him once they dried. He spread the shirt, pants, and undergarments across the log to dry. Eventually, he would rinse them in his pool and dry them again.

Once he reached the southern boundary of the wreck, he once again plodded back to the cliff and started back towards his base. As he came abreast of the shattered hulk floundering offshore, he recognized the stern of the ship sticking out, high above the ocean’s surface. If he could reach that section, he would find the cabins of the officers and perhaps even the armory where they stored barrels of gunpowder, cutlasses, helmets, flintlocks, round cast balls, and several crossbows. He even stored his broadsword, axe, and ash longbow there for the voyage. The rest of his smithing tools and equipment were in the hold amidship. He prayed he could find his tools. Immediately forward of the armory was the galley, where he may find valuable pots, utensils, and food items if they were packed away securely (knowing Hans the ship’s cook, they would be) and of course the iron stove used for preparing meals—that would be a keen find indeed.

As he walked about with his staff, he felt himself becoming more mobile and while his aches and pains were still present, they had subsided to a manageable level. Reaching his base camp, he set down the clothing, boots, and other sundry items he was able to carry back—and began collecting stones for a fire ring. Firewood was abundant and he quickly collected more than enough to sustain him for his first night. A medium-sized tree sprouted from the cliff face about 20 feet from his pool. It reached out about 7 feet over the shore before gracefully arching up toward the sky. Standing beneath it he was able to reach across the trunk and touch his fingers. With a couple of lengths of rope and some sail cloth, he could rig a suitable shelter from the rain when needed. Behind the pool, the cliff face appeared broken and cratered, creating a jagged crevasse filled with broken branches rocks, and gravel. Perhaps it could be dug out creating another natural shelter.

He sat upon a log staring out to sea, considering his next course(s) of action. Despite the chill in the Fall air, he cast off his threadbare vest and unwrapped his sore feet, wiggling his toes in the pool. Grabbing the new boots, he struggled to put them on. Being saturated with seawater made it difficult, but eventually he was able to don them and stand up to get a feel for them. With a grunt of appreciation, he wrapped the heavy leather belt around his bare abdomen and tucked the dagger against his hip in its sheath. He decided to retrieve several pieces of sail cloth first as well as several coils of rope. Grabbing his staff, he set forth following his footsteps as he plodded back down the beach. The tide had fully risen, and he was relieved to find all his treasures were safely away from the water.

He made several trips and retrieved everything he intended as well as several of the smaller barrels and crates. Difficult as it was, he tied each item to either end of his staff and carried them two at a time over his right shoulder. After each trip he refreshed himself in the pool, slaking his thirst and ignoring his hunger. He sat and watched the tide slowly ebb away. It was later afternoon and the sun had passed over the cliff, making the shore and ocean beyond less blinding to look upon. When the water level fell below where he remembered when he first awoke, he noticed a dark object peeking above the water’s surface. It was closer to shore than the aft section and about 30 yards north. Eventually, he made out a rail, then perhaps a deck surface. As he waited, he fashioned himself a drinking vessel from a large clam shell he discovered and bided his time sipping fresh water sparingly. His stomach grumbled and cramped with hunger, but he had survived hunger before.

After another hour he opted to build a fire and was satisfied when his tinder took with the first strike of his flint and steel. He coaxed the smoldering embers into a gradual flame and fed it larger and larger twigs until he had a respectable flame. He added a pile of larger driftwood lengths and marveled at the different colored flames that licked about them hungrily. Once he had it built up enough to guide him back in the failing light, he took his staff and trekked back down to the water’s edge. He felt his excitement grow as he recognized the structure rising out of the water before him. It was the midship portion he was certain. It was logical that it was held firmly to the bottom of the ocean as it was loaded with much of the heavier stores and ballast. He could see the remains of the mizzen mast lying broken across the deck and reaching out the seaward. A spar lay nearby with a bulk of white sail still bound and furled about it. The tide continued ebbing away allowing him to approach it. The shore fell away sharply at this point and after only a couple steps in he found himself waist deep.

Trudging back to shore he doffed his boots and placed them next to his staff. Decided, he turned back to the water and stepped back in. He swam the last few yards and was able to lift himself onto the deck and look about. Wading over to the spar he quickly cut away the sail and bundled it with a few lengths of rope, setting it next to the deck’s edge. He located the port ladder and descended to the lower deck; the water rose to his knees as he waded about searching. The large cargo hatch was easily located. The cover rested halfway across the entrance to the hold. He felt about the edge and lowered his body in until he trod water. Taking the first deep breaths to prepare himself, he cursed from the sharp pain in his chest. With the failing light, he knew his time was limited so he ignored the discomfort, grabbed the edge of the hold opening, and pulled himself quickly below the surface, entering the bowels of the ship.

It was well past midnight when Marcus found himself sitting before his crackling fire, shiveringly violently as he struggled to warm himself. He fashioned a suitable pallet by piling layers of sailcloth atop each other. He wrapped a single piece about his shaking frame and huddled near the flames trying to absorb as much heat as he could. His boots steamed nearby as the heat forced the moisture from the dense leather. His garments rinsed of the seawater, lay draped over several ropes that he rigged about his camp.

Despite his abject misery in his current condition, Marcus felt a sense of satisfaction and renewed hope for his predicament. It had been a good afternoon. During his brief reconnoiter of the midship hold, he was able to locate and remove several items of value, including several webbed storage hammocks each containing different items. He collected over a dozen webbed fenders for protecting the ship’s hull in port. There was a heavy canvas sack laden with fresh torches already dipped in the pitchy resin that allowed them to burn for hours. He found a locker full of cloth bales and finished garments of various sizes and types. A heavier chest revealed sealed packets of dried perishable foodstuffs. Already partially buoyant he was able to lift it to the deck and tie it off with a loose piece of rigging, allowing him to pull it to shore. In another webbed hammock, he found 6 large double blocks which were rigged to the mid spar to help raise and lower cargo into the hold. Sadly, his light failed quickly, and he found himself rummaging in the dark, so he returned to shore.

Once he had moved most of his stores up to the camp, he lit a torch, tucked a second in his belt, and re-explored the exposed shoreline for additional or missed items. He collected even more planks, rigging, and sail material as well as an occasional smaller item like a hairbrush, an empty skin bladder, glass and crystal bottles, and an assorted collection of vegetables including a dozen shriveled carrots, 2 cabbages, 30 potatoes, bushels of turnips and half a dozen dried up apples. As tempting as it was to eat everything, he had the foresight to plan for a garden in the future. He found three metal eating utensils and several wooden scoops, forks, and tongs. Retreating to his camp he busied himself collecting a dozen large oysters and prying their shells open with his sturdy knife. He quickly learned that placing them atop the circle of rocks, near the fire, caused the creatures to open voluntarily. The empty shells littered the area about the fire, and he felt full for the first time since he could remember.

His fatigue caught up with him, so he settled down upon his pallet and rolled into his makeshift sail blanket. The crackling fire lulled him quickly to sleep.

Chapter 2: Salvage

He awoke only a few hours later greeted by the excruciating agony of his injuries. His fire had died down to only a few glowing embers and he could perceive a lighter eastern horizon, suggesting daybreak. He groaned as his body protested even the slightest movement. The left side of his chest spasmed sharply with each breath, while his hip and thigh throbbed a steady constant misery. He was still unable to open his left eye and his fevered chills had returned with a vengeance. He knew he was deathly ill and needed to rest, but his basic needs prompted him to shed his makeshift covering and rise unsteadily to his feet.

As he relieved himself nearby, he reflected on his situation. It was still too dark to tell where the tide was, but he suspected that it had completed its flood while he slept and was receding once more. Groping for his staff, he limped painfully to the pool to drink his fill. He knelt at the water’s edge and delicately doused his head, scrubbing lightly to remove or soften the many thick scabs that covered his tender face. He relished the soothing coolness as he soaked his damaged eye.

He froze suddenly. A noise came to him from very close by. A soft rustling perhaps from a light disturbance in the gravel across the pool from him. A sense of imminent danger seeped into his wary conscience as he reached slowly for his staff. He peered intently at the source but could not discern any detail in the darkness. A breath. A snuffling was followed by another disturbance in the sandy gravel. It was definitely an animal, but its size and type he could not tell. Perhaps it was only interested in refreshing its thirst.

With painful slowness he backed away from the pool, returning to his camp at a painful crawl. His aches and pains were forgotten as he reached for several sticks and added them to his fire. He selected a heavier solid branch and placed it nearby to defend himself if needed. Raking the remaining coals together he piled more fuel on top and urged it to flame with several slow painful breaths. Once the fire took, he crept back to his pallet, club in hand, and sat heavily. His exhaustion overwhelmed him, but he resisted the urge to sleep. Instead, he peered into the darkness, trying to identify the source of his anxiety. But his night vision was further corrupted by the brightness of the flames, and he could see nothing. A silence fell about him, softened by the crackling and popping from the fire. Despite his concern, his fatigue once again claimed his tired brain and he lay back against his pallet, falling asleep once more.

His concerns were answered a short while later as he awakened to the sound of whining and growling. He looked across the pool in the dawning light and saw a small, dilapidated form rolling awkwardly on the ground. It appeared to be a wolf pup and his initial impression was that it was injured, but there was not enough light yet to ascertain how. With a painful groan, he sat upright and placed his bare feet on the cool ground. The pup immediately sprang up with a yip and started slinking away with a severe limp. He saw that it favored its left front leg and he thought he could see an object sticking from its shoulder. Then it was too far away and receding slowly.

His fire had again died down, so he added more fuel and let it rekindle at its own pace. Checking about he was pleased that all the hanging garments were dry, so he dressed himself with agonizing slowness. Finishing with his new boots, he stood and made his way to the shoreline, assisted by his staff. The going seemed a little easier this time but he still felt weak and fevered from the trauma to his body and lack of rest.

The aft end of the Starling remained perched above the water as before, and he could make out the rails and subtle shape of the closer midship portion. He could not tell if the second tide was still ebbing or not, so he sat on a log to watch and observe. Just to his left, north of the midships, he spotted another enormous log floating very close to the water’s edge. It stood high out of the water and seemed to be drifting towards the dead vessel. An idea began forming in his head and he quickly pulled off his boots and disrobed. He only had to wade out a few paces before he was able to touch the log and climb onto it. It was large enough that he was able to stand up with little movement. He delicately walked the length of it and back, noting how little his weight displaced it. It barely sank. Satisfied, he used his staff to pole it over the closer hull until it bumped against the rail. He climbed aboard and quickly cut away two lengthy pieces of rope to secure the driftwood to the ship’s rail.

There were over a dozen crates of various sizes and weights located in the undamaged part of the hold. Each was lowered into place with a heavy net, which was left in place for the items’ eventual removal. Even at full strength, he would be unable to lift even the smallest crate, but with the tide’s help, it would be a simple, if timely process.

The sun had risen an arm’s length above the horizon, but its angle was not ideal for peering down into the watery confines of the hull’s interior. Sighing, he decided to explore by feel and he dropped back into the frigid water. The salt burned his wounds and one good eye, but the discomfort faded as he began taking the painful saturation breaths. This too seemed a bit easier than the evening before. He would need solid nourishment and rest before his body could heal completely.

Pulling himself down. he descended to the largest crate directly below the hatchway and inspected its integrity by feel. It measured about five by five feet. He deemed it sound and found the heavy net beneath it. Resurfacing for air he peered around the gloomy hold, locating the next crate of interest. Two of the next smaller crates would contain the majority of his smithing tools and equipment, including his coveted anvil. But he could not tell which was which in the gloom. It didn’t matter as each of them would eventually be removed. Selecting the crate closest to its bigger brother, he swam down and tugged its net until he had located the 4 lifting eyes and placed them atop the box. Now he needed to find the heavy rope used for picking them up.

It took him nearly 30 minutes to locate the stowing locker and the ropes he needed. He also discovered a long pike hook, several fishing spears, and several small heavy crates that he was able to lift to the deck. His last action was to tie off the end of a heavy rope to the four lifting eyes of his selected net, then place the remainder upon the deck until he was ready. By now the tide had started to flood and he estimated it to be another hour before the deck would be submerged once again. He studied the horizon and memorized the time. Inspecting the smaller boxes, he determined that one likely contained nails. The others he had no idea of.

To facilitate his idea, he used the pike to bust away the handrail and pushed the pieces closer to shore for retrieval later. As the log rose closer to the edge of the deck, he untied one end and pushed it away so that the wooden bulk gradually lined itself adjacent to the hull. Pausing, he looked to the shore with the sun on his back. The smoke from his fire identified his camp that was otherwise obscured by the rocky shore and scattered logs. To his right, he spotted the pup again. It had wandered closer to the shore and sat watching him curiously. In the light, he could see that its coat was a deep red and it looked scrawny in its awkward growth stage. Its ears were much too large for its head, and it appeared to lean towards its right side. As he looked at the injured animal, another idea began to form.

A short time later he was able to float the bulky log across the deck and position it so that it was centered across the hatch. He quickly wrapped the heavy lifting rope twice about the log and tied it off. He only needed to wait for the tide at this point, so he debated his next move. His body shivered violently in the cold as he stood knee-deep in the water. He stared over at the nearby aft portion and considered swimming over to inspect it. His teeth chattered uncontrollably so he opted for his campfire first.

Rather than dress again he simply carried his clothing and boots with him to the fire, grabbed a length of thick cloth he had cut from a bolt the day before, and hung to dry. He wrapped himself in the makeshift robe and sat before the fire until he stopped shaking. He ate one of his shriveled potatoes and a handful of beans that he had soaked in several available oyster shells. He went to his pool and washed the salt from his face, scrubbing gently about his lacerations and swollen eye. He glanced about but could not see the pup anywhere. Deciding to lure it closer he grabbed several more oysters and took them back to his camp where he opened them and cut them from their shells. He returned to the pool and placed them next to its large footprints. He placed the food offering between a pair of large rocks and carried a couple of planks to place across them to hide it from the scavenging birds.

The urge to nap was great but he forced himself to remain alert by fashioning himself a sling from some cordage and a scrap piece of leather. He searched about for a handful of round stones to use and bided his time practicing. His accuracy was terrible at first but as he practiced, he found himself getting closer and closer to the gulls as they attempted to raid the food offering nearby. Eventually, they flew away seeking easier fare. He decided to attempt the aft hull to see if he could gain access to the armory. If successful, he would be able to hunt for meat.

He made his way back to the shore, left his robe and staff sitting on a log, and braved his way back into the frigid water. The tide had risen about a foot and still had another five to go before it reached the second flood. Favoring his right arm, he side-stroked as smoothly as possible and reached the stricken hull within minutes. He grabbed the rail and pulled himself aboard. He would have to swim down to the portal that led to the aft cabins and stern hold. By the way, the ship was tilted, he suspected the rear compartments to be mostly unflooded. After several saturation breaths, he dove below the surface and felt his way down the stairs next to the helm. He quickly found the portal and was able to pull it open with three jerks. He slipped in and rose about six feet before his head broke the surface.

It was pitch black in the confines of the hull. But he figured he could navigate his way easily enough from memory. The captain’s cabin was starboard side to his left, facing aft while the first mate shared the port side cabin with the castellan appointed over the colonists—Sir Sebastian Percival Marsten. Immediately forward of the captain’s quarters was the aft entrance to the galley and to the port side one could access the steps down to the armory. He dove back under and made his way to the captain’s cabin which he found locked. The galley door was open, so he felt his way inside and promptly struck his head on a floating crate. He pulled it back towards the doorway and pushed it through. Depleted for air he returned to the murky black surface and gasped.

He found the first mate’s quarters unlocked and was able to enter the cabin and rise above the surface once more. He was pleased to find the cabin well-lit from two broken portals, one aft, and the other portside. He swam over, glanced out the portside portal, and saw the nearby shore. The tide was still far below the seaweed layer. He looked about and found several items floating about. Books, bone tubes, a wine skin, and a fine wooden case, caught his eye. A bunk was set across the stern and another along the port side. Each had several small hammock nets secured above them for sundry items. He grabbed one and freed it from its hooks so that he could collect the items he found. Still submerged were two-foot lockers and three strong boxes. A desk was built into the bulkhead next to the door. Hanging near the aft bunk he spied a sheathed cutlass and flintlock pistol holstered to the same belt. He grabbed them eagerly and slipped the harness over his shoulder. Examining the footlockers he found many articles of clothing, several more books, two powder horns, several stuffed pouches, and a heavy curved knife as long as his forearm in a decorative lacquered wooden sheath. He also discovered two smaller palm-sized flintlocks in matching holsters and a dozen wax-sealed boxes. The strong boxes were locked and secured to the deck. He ended up using all of the hammocks and still could not collect everything.

He struggled to return to shore with his burden but managed to bring all four hammocks and the floating box in one trip. Once it was all safely above the tidal line, he wrapped himself again in the robe and shivered violently for several minutes. The sun was brighter, and it slowly warmed his body. Using the cutlass to pry open the box, he was delighted to find several wax-sealed packets containing dried herbs, vegetables, and seasonings. He opened one of the waxed boxes from the cabin and found dried and preserved prunes, apples, figs, and dates, all delicately arranged for posh presentation. He hungrily devoured several pieces and found himself moaning with pleasure. Sated, he gathered up what he could carry and brought it to his camp. He put on his boots, drank some water, and returned for the remainder of the hammocks, which he emptied and set aside for the return trip.

On a whim he checked out the food offering and found it all gone, the shells scattered about and licked clean. He smiled as he arranged another offering with several more oysters. Resting at his camp, he fashioned a makeshift harness that he tied about his torso to secure the nets and his new knife. He could see the log floating on the surface, but the rest of the ship was submerged.

He opted to swim to the closer hull and check his progress. The sun was nearly overhead and allowed him to peer into the hold with greater detail. The crate he had lashed to the log had risen several feet and was now floating against the biggest one. He slipped into the hold and found it had about 2 additional feet to go before it would rise above the base crate. He swam deeper into the forward section and startled a school of large fish that were feeding upon something further down. He discovered the first female passenger, evidenced only by the long gown she wore. The body was nearly stripped of flesh. She appeared trapped beneath the outer broken hull and a jagged piece of reef. Saddened he looked about, grabbing a large canvas sack before returning to the surface. Setting the bag onto the submerged deck he rested for a couple of minutes before pulling himself back under.

One thing for the freezing water, it eased his sore muscles and allowed him to forget his aches and pains for a while. By the time the crate had risen enough to swing over the base, he had retrieved many items of value, including a large metal pot, several sail repairing kits, fishing nets, netting needles, and a complete kit of carpentry tools. It took several trips to get the items safely to shore and by then the lashed crate was floating freely above the base by over a foot. Fatigue plagued his body as he struggled to set several pieces of dunnage beneath the crate to keep it from sinking back down. Despite his exhaustion, he was in high spirits when he finally returned to his camp and rekindled his smoldering fire. He ate more of the preserved fruit and rinsed the pot out before filling it with fresh water and setting it over his fire on several rocks.

A whimper brought his head up to find the scrawny pup sitting once more at the edge of the pool across from him. He smiled warmly at the injured beast and hummed softly to himself. Its ears picked up and it tilted its head, staring at him curiously. Appearing calm, it was alert and cautious and looked prepared to flee at any threat.

“Hello mate.” he greeted it with a smile. His voice sounded foreign to him. His throat still ached from the rancid bile and seawater he had vomited the evening before. He cleared his throat several times and the pup rose cautiously holding its left front paw before it. From his vantage point, it was clear what had caused the beast harm. Stuck in its left shoulder was a broken-off arrow. The shaft had been gnawed upon and had caused the arrowhead to cut even deeper into the poor creature’s flesh.

“Easy there, lad,” he purred softly without moving, “I mean ya no harm.” He sat perfectly still and remained quiet until the young wolf sat back on its haunches. It panted deeply and occasionally emitted a pitiful whine.

To help the pup, he had to capture it first. Looking about the area he spied a nearby side rooting tree on the dog’s side of the pool. Its sideways trunk was about twelve feet above the ground. He could rig a net across the ground and secure it to a rope looped over the tree. Once he lured the pup into the trap with another food offering, he could hoist the net quickly and contain the animal long enough to remove the arrow and dress its wound. But first, he had to build the trap.

He would have a ready net as soon as he retrieved the first crate, but he did not want to wait that long. He elected to use one of the fishing nets instead. He rigged it with three corners and fashioned a medium cord to each, joining them to the rope he slung over the tree. The pup made its escape as soon as he ventured across the pool and lay the net flat. He had smoothed out the surface, removing the bigger rocks, and did his best to conceal it in the sand. He let the supporting cords raise to the rope and hoped the wolf would ignore them in its hunger and pain. Lastly, he set out another food offering and walked away, knowing the beast was observing from close by.

It was early afternoon and he returned to his salvage operation. The tide had peaked, and he wanted to gather more things from the aft section. He was near the point of exhaustion but driven to see it through. So, he put the wolf pup out of his mind and returned to the shore. He had grabbed a prybar from the tool kit and tucked it into his harness. Doffing his boots, he wearily swam back to the distant hulk and made his way back into the aft space. He knew his reserves were spent so he went for the captain’s quarters. The locked door was easily defeated with the prybar, and he once again found himself in a dimly lit cabin only half submerged.

15 minutes later he swam back for shore burdened with the four stuffed hammocks plus two more. He had liberated everything he could quickly find and grab. A pair of excellent boots, map cases, silver goblets, a brass spittoon, a tall stein, bottles of various spirits, fine cloths, a richly decorated rapier, and a finely engraved flintlock in a thick leather harness. He purloined over a dozen wax-sealed boxes like the ones he found earlier along with another powder horn and two pouches of cast lead balls. Dragging himself up the shore he stumbled back to his camp, making two exhaustive trips to retrieve the 6 hammock sacks.

He stoked up his fire and burrowed within his robe to rewarm himself. Rinsing the stein in the hot water from the pot—he drew a cup to sip slowly for its added heat. He saw the trap remained intact, but the food was gone. He would bait it one more time this evening and again in the morning in hopes of capturing the pup. He collected his newfound garments and rinsed them thoroughly in the pool before hanging them to dry. He sat back and watched the tide slowly roll out while he cleaned the captain’s flintlock. He was pleased that the powder was still dry, and the balls were waxed to keep the charge from spilling out the barrel. He inspected the flint and tested the trigger. Satisfied, he prepared a measure of powder and loaded the gun. He tamped the ball in place and returned the weapon to its holster.

He returned to the midship section near dusk once the deck had risen above the waterline. He verified that his captured crate was resting solidly upon the base crate, then loosened the heavy rope around his log. Pulling the rope taut, he resecured it around the log and then returned to his camp to dry off and warm up. In the failing light, he spotted the scrawny pup lying on the ground across from him but closer to the trap. It slowly rose and retreated when Marcus placed more oysters in the middle of the net before returning to his pallet.

He sipped more hot water and ate several pieces of dried fruit before bundling himself up and lying on his welcome bed. Sleep came swiftly.

Chapter 3: Rescue

He was awakened several times during the evening to the soft pitiful whimpers of the injured cub. He kept the fire burning brightly and tried to sleep lightly until the tide had fully returned. He almost slept through it, but the pup startled him with another yip, and he struggled from his pallet. He didn’t bother to dress, simply wrapping the robe around his body as he limped down to the shore. The moon was bright, and he could tell that the closer hull was once again submerged. He swam out and clambered onto the deck to inspect his progress. He was pleased to see the crate had mere inches remaining to clear the hatch. Using his sturdy staff, he levered the bottom of the crate over the lip of the hatch and began pulling it gradually across the deck. It was clear that the tide had begun ebbing when he was suddenly unable to budge the crate any further.

Unconcerned, he waited patiently until he could loosen the heavy rope and free the log. A disturbance atop the crate startled him and he saw a slick shape thrashing about inside the net. It was a very nice-sized fish and it had trapped itself within the net. He tried to grab it, but his efforts were fruitless. Instead, he forced it into a corner and stabbed it through the head with his knife. Once it ceased to struggle, he captured it with one of his hammock bags and tied it to his harness. He pulled the heavy driftwood back over the hold entrance and tied it securely to begin the process anew.

He wrapped the fish tightly in a small piece of sailcloth and placed it in the pool next to his fire, weighed down by several rocks. He could feel the pup’s eyes upon him as he worked. He knew it was hungry again, but he intentionally withheld any more food offerings until morning.

As he dressed himself in the early dawn light, Marcus could just make out the rope as it rose straight above the net, to the overhead branch. The other end lay beside the pool near his feet. Working quickly with his knife, he removed the fish from its wrapper and gutted it next to his fire. He removed the head and tail and carried all of the entrails across the pool, setting them in the center of the trap. The pup rose to its haunches alert but remained still as it watched him intently. Returning to his seat, he rewrapped the fish and then washed his hands off in the pool. The previous evening, he gathered what he thought he would need to treat the injured pup. He made up several dressings, bandages, and splints; and stripped a piece of cord to its smaller threads, which he boiled in his pot with a sail repair needle. He similarly sterilized several rags to clean the wound. Anticipating an angry animal, he fashioned a basic muzzle from a piece of rope. He made a collar from his old belt and fashioned a soft bed from several of his unwashed garments piled near the fire beside his pallet.

He left his fire smoldering to preserve his night vision and was immediately alert when the pup rose to its feet and made its way gingerly to the strong-smelling fish entrails. In its weakened, famished state, it abandoned all caution and made straight for the food that it consumed ravenously. Marcus slowly reached over to the rope and grabbed it, rising softly to his feet. The wolf pup paid him no mind, focused solely on its meal. Drawing in a slow breath, he pulled in the slack until he noticed the corners of the net begin to rise from the dirt. With a sudden heave, he yanked the rope down, drawing the net up and pulling the startled creature from its feet. It was instantly snared in the web and howled pathetically. Marcus lifted the net until it was level with his chest, then tied off the lanyard to a nearby tree. He grabbed the muzzle and several dressings and cautiously approached the injured animal. Its yelps and cries were filled with pain and terror, and it snarled viciously at him as he drew near. It was fortunate that the injured limb was protruding through the webbing, and he could see the arrow pressed against the wolf’s side.

Talking softly, he tried to calm it for a few minutes before attempting to touch it. He reached for the net a safe distance from the sharp teeth and held it steady to keep it from spinning. He rotated the net until he was facing the enraged pup and tried to pet its furry head. A vicious snarl and snapping jaws pulled him up short. He bent down to grab a foot-sized chunk of wood and presented it to the snarling teeth. Predictably the wolf bit it and held on long enough for Marcus to grab it by the muzzle and force its mouth closed. Struggling to free itself, Marcus held strong and let the creature wear itself out, before tugging the makeshift muzzle into place and securing it about the head and neck.

With a sigh of relief, he cut several strands of the net away, until he freed the arrow and exposed the injured shoulder. He wasted no time, removing the arrow with a quick jerk that sent the poor dog wailing in agony. “I’m sorry lad.” He offered softly. “That was the worst part.” He quickly packed the wound with a dressing and held it firmly while he felt around, probing the shoulder joint. The wailing was deafening and wrenched his heart, but he continued his treatment. After assessing the size of the wound, he proceeded to clean it as best he could, removing pus, dirt, and hair until it rinsed clean.

“I’m sorry about this lad,” he lifted the tail and corrected himself, “lass rather.” He threaded one of the long sutures and grabbed the wound, pressing the edges together. “If you didn’t like me before you’re sure to hate me after this.” Quickly and steadily, he sewed up the cut, stitching it from the inside first and then closing the edges until only a small gap remained. Once the swelling subsided it should heal nicely. The poor pup wailed until exhaustion overtook her and then she surrendered with loud gasping pants. Washing the wound again, he packed it and wrapped several bandages about her chest to hold them tightly in place. Lowering the net, he lifted her gently from its confines and carried her over to her new bed. She was too spent to offer more than token resistance as he lay her with her injured side up and placed the collar about her neck. He bundled her up in the garments and tied the bundle off to prevent her from licking the dressing. As a final measure, he tied a length of rope to her collar and secured it to the nearby tree. He grabbed the arrow tip and studied the crude flint tip. He wondered about the hands that fashioned it and if he had neighbors nearby. It was unlikely that the injured pup could have traveled far from wherever it encountered the human that attacked her. He decided to proceed with caution, anticipating visitors eventually.

The sun had fully risen by the time he finished his grisly task. He turned to his fire and stirred the coals about before adding fresh tinder. He stacked more wood atop the smoldering coals and refilled his large pot with fresh water. Retrieving his catch from last night he went about skinning and filleting it, tossing the bony remains to the circling gulls. He cut the fish into long strips and wrapped them carefully around several sticks that he lay across the rocks near the coal bed, to cook.

He could see the nearest hull section protruding from the water. He patiently waited for his breakfast to cook and settled next to his furry ward. She growled at him weakly as he caressed her head softly. “It will be all right girl,” he reassured her with a gentle pat. “You rest for a bit and then we will get you up and about.” Chancing a painful nip, he loosened and removed the muzzle to make her more comfortable. He was encouraged that she chose to lick his outstretched hand rather than attack him. “Good girl.” He removed a piece of the fish from the coals and set it aside to cool for her. The smell made both their bellies rumble. After he consumed a hearty portion, he turned back to the wolf pup and fed her by hand. She greedily accepted each piece and swallowed them whole. He allowed her a drink of water from his stein and then rose to begin the day’s scavenging.

A short while later he stood naked once again, on the deck of the midsection working his prybar around the crate, removing the lid. The Crown spared no expense to expand its territory, and the colonists were well prepared to establish their new settlement. The first crate contained the bundled bulky canvas for a large pavilion shelter, including the ropes, stakes, and furnishings. He also discovered the cast iron parts of a settlement stove with interlinking pipes for diverting smoke outside. It would be a chore to get all of this relocated to his camp, but he had time on his side.

Before he considered that endeavor, he lowered himself back into the hold of the ship and secured his heavy lifting rope to another middle-sized crate. He secured it to the overhead log, taking up as much slack as he could before tying it off. Typically, the transport and setup of one of the enormous tents required many hands. That was a luxury he could not afford so he needed to come up with a means to do it alone. Ferrying the heavier and bulky items to shore would require a raft of some sort. As he considered the problem, he removed the metal stove pieces and set them aside. He found a bundle of dark wool blankets and tossed them as close to the shore as he could. The majority of the tent was one piece and it weighed far more than he could lift. He decided to leave it and concentrated on the crate itself. It was time to check on the pup, so he returned to shore with one of the heavier stove pieces and carried it to the camp along with the bundle of blankets.

The shaggy young creature stared forlornly at him as he dried himself and donned his clothes. Her head peeked out from her bundled-up papoose and her enormous ears twitched as he cluttered and clanged about the fire. He picked up her bundled form and she struggled anxiously for a minute before surrendering to him. He quickly untied her bindings and freed her, still holding her delicately so that her injured shoulder did not touch him. Whining softly, he carried her to the pool until he had reached the limits of her leash, before setting her into the water. Releasing her, she gazed back at him uncertainly, as he withdrew and made to wash his own injuries. He was relieved to find that he could open his left eye finally. The swelling in his face had lessened, and his cuts were scabbed over and healing nicely. He sat beside the pool and watched the wolf pup, and she drank thirstily before turning to her bandages to work them with her teeth. This prompted a painful yip, so she squatted and relieved herself instead.

He shook his head with a grin. “Try to do that further downstream if you would lass,” he chided her with a chuckle. She gazed at him unapologetically and began stepping gingerly about the pool, testing the limits of her rope. She jerked against it and thrashed about several times but was soon accustomed to her limitations.

Marcus retrieved the wool blankets and carefully rinsed each one in the pool before hanging them to dry. He considered the raft in his mind and inspected several nearby logs of similar size and shape. He could fasten two or three of them together with cross braces and fashion a serviceable deck from the side panels of the crate. He had the tools and nails to make it quite sturdy. After a short break, he coaxed the little wolf to his side with several pieces of cooked fish that she snatched from him greedily. He stepped on her leash to prevent her escape and carefully placed the bundle over her once more. She shivered fearfully as he wrapped her gently and secured the bundle again. He left her right leg free this time before securing the papoose with the cords. He lay her gently across his lap and patted her affectionately, crooning softly to her. Her eyes closed quickly as she surrendered to the fatigue as well as her injuries. He laid her back on her pallet and began his new project.

It took him several hours to move the 3 selected logs down to the water’s edge. He lined them up adjacent to the water and spaced them evenly five feet apart. He brought the lid of the crate over and set it atop the right pair, ensuring his dimensions were accurate. He measured and cut eight sturdy beams of equal diameter and secured them to each log with nails from his stores. After disassembling the crate, he nailed each of the six panels into place on the frame—two across and three in length. The tide was peaking, and the water slowly surrounded his craft as he worked.

Satisfied with his work, he stripped down and levered his new vessel into the water with his staff. He poled his way over the nearby hull and tied the raft alongside. The water was knee-deep as he stood on the deck, simplifying the chore of pushing the bulky canvas bundle over to his waiting platform. He quickly stacked the remaining stove parts and ropes atop his load, clearing the way for the next crate. He lowered himself into the hold and repeated the process from the previous day, wedging the second crate firmly atop the base with dunnage. He returned to the shore with his cargo and struggled to get it securely placed above the seaweed boundary. Securing a tether to a large rock, he anchored the raft further out and began carrying the stove parts back to the camp.

He stretched the canvas shelter out across the logs, to dry in the sun. Once he determined the floor dimensions, he scouted the immediate area for a suitable location to raise it. He cleared an area next to his current camp, and closer to the cliff, leveling the ground and removing all the rocks and sticks.

He had not required the use of his staff since the previous evening. Soon he would be able to ambulate well enough to better explore his surroundings. Occasionally he thought he heard the sound of a flowing creek or river to his north. With his immediate survival concerns appeased, he was curious to see the lay of the land.

Thrice daily he freed the pup to clean her wound and change the dressing. She resisted his ministrations less and less and seemed to accept her lot for the time being. Her razor-like teeth could quickly chew through the rope leash, but she seemed unconcerned about her confinement. After a few days, he removed the dressing and let the wound heal.

Once the tide had receded for the day he returned to the nearest hull, re-cinched the heavy rope to his log, then proceeded to pole his raft to the further aft section. Garbed only in his harness and nets, he dove below deck and resurfaced in the aft gangway. After several saturation breaths, he entered the galley and began salvaging everything he could find. He collected all the pots and pans around the stove as well as a large kettle. He located the pantry and began removing the meager stores within. He discovered several sealed casks containing more dry goods. And bags of ruined flour, grains, and herbs. It took him over an hour to remove and stack everything onto his raft and by then he was too chilled to continue, so he returned to shore. He was thrilled to find several unopened and sealed barrels containing wheat and barley and another large, sealed crate containing tea. He found containers full of lard, molasses, honey, salt, and peppercorns. His spirits were riding high as he sorted his items and re-evaluated his circumstances. With luck, the colonists would have brought a grain mill with them along with more dry goods. Time would tell. He glanced at the shore and estimated two more hours before he would be able to secure the second crate.

With time to kill he dismantled and cleaned the remaining flintlock pistols and loaded each of them. He walked well south of the aft section until he stood half a mile from his camp, and test-fired each of the four weapons. They all fired smoothly, so he reloaded them and returned to his camp. He adjusted the leather harness from the captain’s cabin until it fit his torso, and then began attaching the holsters for each pistol until he was able to carry them all about his waist and across his chest. The heavy rapier swung freely from his left hip. Thus, armed he freed the pup and held her leash as he walked slowly towards the north point. She followed him excitedly and led the way sniffing every inch of ground they covered. Occasionally she stopped to snuffle something deeply which inevitably caused her to sneeze loudly.

“Got pepper up your snout, lass?” he laughed. She raised her head towards him and tilted her head to the side comically. “Pepper?” She tilted her head the opposite way. He decided that was her name. During their idle time, he had spent many hours teaching her to follow simple commands. He was impressed with how intelligent she was, and he soon had her trained to the point that he needed only to gesture, and she would obey. She was still a puppy though and loved to play. Her favorite game was to stalk nearby sea birds and wait until her new master gave the command, “Bolt!”, and then charge after them with wild abandon, chasing them all over the beach.

Rounding the point, he found the river that he heard before. The slope of the cliff gradually angled down to the beach, and he found a flat meadow spread before him, bisected by the watery tributary. He could see the slope rising towards the hill behind the cliff to his left. At the river’s edge, he could see the shallow bed gradually fall away from him. Across the river, he spotted a small herd of deer grazing in the meadow. This was perfect! Once he was fully healed, he would begin relocating his camp.

The second crate revealed even more supplies for the doomed settlement. He found farming and gardening implements like rakes, plows, spades, and pitchforks. There was a full galley kit with pots, pans, grates, and utensils. He was especially thrilled to find three full casks of lamp oil and several cases of paraffin. There were more fishing nets as well as hooks and tackle. Last, he found two large cases full of soap, cut into large rough bricks.

He transported the contents back to his camp as well as the empty crate, after selecting and securing the next crate in the hold. He rinsed out the kettle and filled it with fresh water to heat over his fire. He cleaned out a mug and added a pinch of tea leaves. Once his water boiled, he enjoyed his first cup of tea in days and savored it gratefully.

Over the next few days, his body recuperated quickly. He steadily retrieved the crates from the hold and removed their contents to the campsite with the containers. He knew that two of the smaller crates contained his smithing equipment, and he identified the one containing his prized anvil. It weighed a hefty 25 stone, but he was determined to retrieve it and eventually build a new forge.

From the larger hull, he managed to retrieve several weapons from the armory, including his precious longbow. Sadly, the arrows were all ruined as was the string. Fortunately, he had spares in his kit that were sealed with wax, and the steel arrowheads were easily recycled. He also retrieved a dozen fighting knives and his broad sword which he promptly attached to the harness instead of the rapier. Two flintlock rifles were located and retrieved but they were heavily damaged, and he was not certain they could be repaired. Three arbalests proved to be warped beyond use but he collected them anyway. Below the aft cabins, he found another hold that contained dozens of huge barrels that contained the ship’s freshwater supply. He retrieved the empty ones and floated them ashore.

Dragging the bulky canvas of the pavilion was a slow process that took him an entire day to get to the campsite. He opted to hold off assembling it until he reached the meadow. There were other smaller tents in the other crates, one of which he erected near his fire. He arranged the empty crates as a barrier, around the back and sides of his shelter, and re-stocked them with much of the gear and items that he had rescued.

Eight days after he awoke on the beach, he was using the Colonists’ cone-shaped grain mill to grind up some barley for a warm porridge. He noticed Pepper suddenly perk up and stare towards the North. He followed her gaze and saw two human figures in the distance. They had walked from around the point and stopped to observe him. Keen as his eyes were, their distance prevented him from discerning much detail. He thought they might be youths because of their small stature, but he couldn’t be certain. One thing he was sure of was Pepper did not like them at all. She stood beside him with her hackles raised, growling from deep in her chest.

“Easy girl. Stand fast now.” He dropped a hand to her neck to calm her. She barked fiercely.

The two figures promptly turned and ran off the way they had come.

“I suppose we can expect visitors soon,” he muttered, returning to his breakfast preparations.

Tonight, he hoped to retrieve his smithing equipment and kits. So equipped, he could re-fletch the clothyard (36-inch) shafts that he was able to salvage. If the extra strings were still sound, he would have a formidable distance weapon. In the meantime, he had his sling and the four pistols.

But that was putting the cart before the horse, he mused as he sipped his tea and waited for his cereal to cook. The tide was ebbing and flooding later now, allowing him to work later in the evening. The empty crates were simple enough, if not cumbersome, to roll slowly up the beach to the camp. The heavier items were trickier. For those, he fashioned a sled from a crate lid and skidded it over long poles that he lay parallel and in tandem. This was how he intended to transport his 350-pound anvil and the assorted iron ingots he had brought, stored in the bilge.

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