Haytham Kenway was a man of great skill, tactic, and qlogic, and Connor begrudgingly respected him for that. However the man was infuriatingly critical, meddling in things he shouldn't, and believing that he knew best, on all subjects (whether he'd been educated on them or not), due to his superior age over Connor. So far, this had been true - and he'd tried his best to deflect the sass thrown his way. Connor had a thick skin. Words didn't mean much to him (after all, if verbal agreements and promises weren't good enough for the men trying to take his people's land, claiming that they did not own the proper deeds, then Connor would not make the same mistake that they had and took all promises with liberal skepticism).
Somehow, the presence of his father turned all of that on his head. Nothing was good enough for this man. Nothing. Even if he'd grown up under Haytham's thumb and become a Templar, even then he wouldn't have been good enough. Everything about Connor - his posture, fighting, climbing, eavesdropping, disguises, philosophy on life - displeased Haytham in some minute, irrelevant detail or another. Already he'd been smacked across the chest to correct his posture, told off for his legwork, sneered at for his speed while scaling a church, and had an hour long lecture on why the city was a better place to live than his comfortable homestead on the frontier. Connor had knocked out guards, pickpocketed keys, fetched boxes, delivered messages, and generally run around in circles until he couldn't run any longer and it was all for his unappreciative father.
Despite all of this, Connor still wanted to impress the man with something. Haytham was his father after all. There was a stupid sense of eagerness in him to please Haytham - sense that he could neither ignore nor explain. When the opportunity arose to take the Aquila to sea, it thrilled him - finally he could prove that he was better than Haytham in one skill area. As far as Connor knew, Haytham couldn't sail.
The day started well enough. With Mr Faulkner on watch, all of their supplies had been securely stowed away in the hold, fresh biscuits, chickens, rum, and water being welcomed by the crew most readily. Lime juice had also been added to their inventory, to ward off scurvy. Her pretty white sails were sheeted home smoothly, the royals set, and they were coming along at a beautiful pace. The wind was constant, the men were content after a few weeks on land, and the Aquila's hull had been scraped of debris, cutting her line smoothly through the ocean. Connor gave the wheel a loving pat as he took it from Faulkner.
"Rocks ahead!" called one of his men and the stampeding of feet signalled that the crew were ready to adjust their speed accordingly.
"Shouldn't someone with more experience take the wheel?"
Connor did his best not to let his shoulders sloop. Of course this wouldn't be any different.
"I am the captain," he said, "and Mr Faulkner will not fail us in spotting foul weather."
"Yes, well, you are the Master and Commander, not Captain. You know they only call you 'captain' because it's easier?" asked Haytham.
Yes, undermine my authority in front of the men. Excellent way for their discipline to waver when Connor needed it the most. Faulkner shot Connor a look - should we put him below deck - but Connor shook his head. They needed Haytham to identify their targets.
"I am aware," replied Connor.
"After the taking of several Loyalist prizes last month, the captain has been recognised for his efforts," said Faulkner idly. "The Admiral has been watching our boy here for some time."
"Oh, so you are a real captain, then. You have your letter of appointment, I suppose."
"Not yet," mumbled Connor.
It was true. The Admiral hadn't made his decision yet, dallying over the details. The prats had taken their share of the prize, of course, but it still wasn't enough apparently. The refitting to the Aquila to make her seaworthy again had been expensive, putting Connor into a debt that he'd only finished paying off as they were leaving with Haytham. Besides, Connor knew what the Admiralty thought of his skin. If he'd been born a white man, then he would already have been made captain, possibly even post-captain. The Aquila would have been better attended to, the men could have the better wage he wanted them to have, for putting up with the ludicrous amount of impossible situations the Aquila seemed to attract.
All in all, as Haytham had noted, Connor was only a master and commander, and he didn't see that changing any time soon.
"Well, I sincerely hope you don't beach us on that sandbar or wreck us on those rocks," mused Haytham, leaning on the bridge's rail.
"Do you really have so little faith in my skills?"
Haytham seemed surprised that Connor would ask such a thing, eyebrow raised, "Why yes. Naturally. You've not been sailing for long."
"I didn't want an answer," snapped Connor.
"Then don't ask questions."
He pulled his temper back. Haytham made it so easy to lose focus. At this rate, they would beach, proving Haytham right. Git.
"Half-sail, get the foremast closed, she's pressing on her forepeak, men," Connor hollered down the deck. "Raise the mizzen sails if you have to."
The Aquila tossed her head, picking up speed as the problem was resolved. As they sailed together, the crew were discovering and taming the Aquila's quirks, increasing their ability to move as a single, efficient unit. Connor was proud of their progress, proud of their willingness to accept and correct his mistakes. They, at least, offered constructive remarks with their critique. Watching them nobody would have realised their captain hadn't even known which mast was which mere years ago. Now he was a point of adoration to the crew - they'd help him grow from lubber to skilled sailor, offering corrections when needed and praise for landmark achievements.
Connor didn't realise, but his men thought the world of him. A little mad, slightly eccentric, but courageous, eager to learn, and never made them do something he wouldn't. That included cleaning out the toilet seats, even if it weren't regular for a captain to do so.
Now, if he could focus on getting through these rocks, it would be open sea from there. Taking it slowly would be appropriate given the circumstances.
"Ship sighted, starboard!" called Midshipman Jones, a bright young man with eyes bluer than the Caribbean sea herself - eyes that were in perfect condition and could spot a scrap of sail against cloud from miles away.
Beside him, Haytham eagerly plucked the glass from Connor's hip and turned the lens towards the other ship. Connor sighed. There would be no slow navigations today.
"That's the Welcome," confirmed Haytham. "Sneak up on her. If it is in your arsenal, of course."
Suppressing a growl, Connor snatched his glass back, pressing it to his eye. The Welcome didn't have any movement aboard her but that didn't mean it was abandoned. As they rounded the head, Connor discovered the anchors were down and the sails furled. It was abandoned, unless Church wished to engage them in a gunfight in which he'd not be able to move. Birds had settled to roost on the rigging though, and birds were naturally skittish creatures and not prone to hanging around humans.
"He's changed ships," announced Connor. "
Slow sailing through the rocks it was.
"Ah, if you had've taken the route I suggested, Connor, then he wouldn't have had the chance to do that," said Haytham, pulling an unamused and tired face, as if Connor could control Church's doings.
"The route you suggested is full of British and Templar ships, not to mention the winds are erratic, only giving advantage on certain days - Mr Faulkner did not indicate we would have such luck and it was our misfortune that the Welcome did," said Connor, voice close to ice.
"I am pointing out an observation, child. Besides, I know the flag signals and codes of my allies, meaning with a lick of paint over it's name - in fact, it needs pairing all over if you ask me - we could have slipped past as a third-rate sloop or corvette or another boat that I don't know the name of," Haytham replied.
"The Aquila is a ship and no, we couldn't have slipped by, our figurehead is too distinctive and we already have a reputation. Changing her name would have done nothing," snapped Connor, his volume rising with his agitation.
"Remove the figurehead then," hissed Haytham. "Lower your voice."
Around them, the crew looked horrified by the suggestion.
"No, I will not lower my voice. Who are you, to suggest we ally ourselves, to play the bleeding heart over my mother's death, then to come onto my lady of the sea, complain about my crew, my steering, my ability as captain, and question every single thing I do? I thought that I could impress you, on some level, that your son had learned and achieved so much, but no, I will not ever live up to your standards, you slimy -"
"Second ship spotted, sir, making a run for the open," interrupted Jones. "Thought you ought to know."
Connor glared at Haytham - their conversation would be finished later. The midshipman looked sheepish and pointed out the fleeing ship.
Fast rocks it was. The Aquila spread her sail, trying to catch up with the smaller, faster ship, Church clearly involved. Church was firing at them but the shots were neither clean nor accurate, his disadvantage being in exposing his rudder to Connor.
"Take out their steering, men, and make hopes that they will be dashed to pieces upon the rocks," he called.
He narrowly avoided a rock himself, twirling the Aquila around it, the sails and rigging being constantly adjusted to push her past her limits and add extra manoeuvrability. They were keeping good pace with the other ship, firing upon it with their swivels, but until they could hit it with a broadside - a broadside that Connor couldn't line up in this environment - the ship would remain stubbornly speedy and ahead of them.
"But really, who let a boy with so little experience have his own ship?" murmured Haytham.
The Aquila scraped a rock, Connor's concentration lost. His grip on the wheel tightened.
"That's definitely Church, then?" he asked calmly.
"Yes, wh-"
Haytham's inquiry was never finished, his face suddenly having a fist planted in it. While he was still reeling from the broken nose he now sported, Connor grabbed him by his collar and dragged him over to the railing, pushing him against it until Haytham was close to toppling into the ocean.
"Insult me one more time and I will dump you in this ocean. It looks warm, and it is - "
Haytham moved his hands towards Connor's, but Connor shook him to recapture his attention.
" - it is beautifully warm. That is if it's summer."
"You wouldn't dare," said Haytham smugly. "You're too afraid of -"
There was a large splash as his father was flipped over the edge of the Aquila. Connor watched the bubbles burst on the surface for a few moments, waiting for his father to re-emerge. When the Templar did, sans hat (which had conveniently fallen off as Haytham had fallen and was currently clutched in Connor's hand), there was a foul look on his face and he quickly clung to the side of the ship, not wanting to be left behind. Connor threw a rope down to him and watched in amusement as his father hauled himself, heavy wool cloak, weapons, and all, onto the bridge. Haytham rolled onto his back with a wet splat, water dripping onto the deck, panting from the slight chill to the water and exertion from the swim and climb.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" asked Connor, leaning over him.
"You're a child," said Haytham. "But I am proud you inherited my strength. That was impressive, throwing me over. I could see the punch coming."
"Did you now?" said Connor sarcastically. "Who'd have thought."
"Of course. Anyone could read your emotions."
Blood had started to drip from Haytham's nose. Connor frowned.
"Go see the surgeon before we get into a bigger fight. He'll set your nose for you. And take off your cloak - it isn't impressing anyone."
"Yes, sir," replied Haytham a slight mocking to his tone.
He made his way below deck, back still ramrod straight even as he sneezed and continued to drip water, damned cloak still on. But at least he stopped making remarks about the Aquila and her crew. Taking the wheel again, Connor stared at his father's retreating form. Some people never changed, their pride too strong to swallow.
Fill: A Dose of Seawater 1/1
Somehow, the presence of his father turned all of that on his head. Nothing was good enough for this man. Nothing. Even if he'd grown up under Haytham's thumb and become a Templar, even then he wouldn't have been good enough. Everything about Connor - his posture, fighting, climbing, eavesdropping, disguises, philosophy on life - displeased Haytham in some minute, irrelevant detail or another. Already he'd been smacked across the chest to correct his posture, told off for his legwork, sneered at for his speed while scaling a church, and had an hour long lecture on why the city was a better place to live than his comfortable homestead on the frontier. Connor had knocked out guards, pickpocketed keys, fetched boxes, delivered messages, and generally run around in circles until he couldn't run any longer and it was all for his unappreciative father.
Despite all of this, Connor still wanted to impress the man with something. Haytham was his father after all. There was a stupid sense of eagerness in him to please Haytham - sense that he could neither ignore nor explain. When the opportunity arose to take the Aquila to sea, it thrilled him - finally he could prove that he was better than Haytham in one skill area. As far as Connor knew, Haytham couldn't sail.
The day started well enough. With Mr Faulkner on watch, all of their supplies had been securely stowed away in the hold, fresh biscuits, chickens, rum, and water being welcomed by the crew most readily. Lime juice had also been added to their inventory, to ward off scurvy. Her pretty white sails were sheeted home smoothly, the royals set, and they were coming along at a beautiful pace. The wind was constant, the men were content after a few weeks on land, and the Aquila's hull had been scraped of debris, cutting her line smoothly through the ocean. Connor gave the wheel a loving pat as he took it from Faulkner.
"Rocks ahead!" called one of his men and the stampeding of feet signalled that the crew were ready to adjust their speed accordingly.
"Shouldn't someone with more experience take the wheel?"
Connor did his best not to let his shoulders sloop. Of course this wouldn't be any different.
"I am the captain," he said, "and Mr Faulkner will not fail us in spotting foul weather."
"Yes, well, you are the Master and Commander, not Captain. You know they only call you 'captain' because it's easier?" asked Haytham.
Yes, undermine my authority in front of the men. Excellent way for their discipline to waver when Connor needed it the most. Faulkner shot Connor a look - should we put him below deck - but Connor shook his head. They needed Haytham to identify their targets.
"I am aware," replied Connor.
"After the taking of several Loyalist prizes last month, the captain has been recognised for his efforts," said Faulkner idly. "The Admiral has been watching our boy here for some time."
"Oh, so you are a real captain, then. You have your letter of appointment, I suppose."
"Not yet," mumbled Connor.
It was true. The Admiral hadn't made his decision yet, dallying over the details. The prats had taken their share of the prize, of course, but it still wasn't enough apparently. The refitting to the Aquila to make her seaworthy again had been expensive, putting Connor into a debt that he'd only finished paying off as they were leaving with Haytham. Besides, Connor knew what the Admiralty thought of his skin. If he'd been born a white man, then he would already have been made captain, possibly even post-captain. The Aquila would have been better attended to, the men could have the better wage he wanted them to have, for putting up with the ludicrous amount of impossible situations the Aquila seemed to attract.
All in all, as Haytham had noted, Connor was only a master and commander, and he didn't see that changing any time soon.
"Well, I sincerely hope you don't beach us on that sandbar or wreck us on those rocks," mused Haytham, leaning on the bridge's rail.
"Do you really have so little faith in my skills?"
Haytham seemed surprised that Connor would ask such a thing, eyebrow raised, "Why yes. Naturally. You've not been sailing for long."
"I didn't want an answer," snapped Connor.
"Then don't ask questions."
He pulled his temper back. Haytham made it so easy to lose focus. At this rate, they would beach, proving Haytham right. Git.
"Half-sail, get the foremast closed, she's pressing on her forepeak, men," Connor hollered down the deck. "Raise the mizzen sails if you have to."
The Aquila tossed her head, picking up speed as the problem was resolved. As they sailed together, the crew were discovering and taming the Aquila's quirks, increasing their ability to move as a single, efficient unit. Connor was proud of their progress, proud of their willingness to accept and correct his mistakes. They, at least, offered constructive remarks with their critique. Watching them nobody would have realised their captain hadn't even known which mast was which mere years ago. Now he was a point of adoration to the crew - they'd help him grow from lubber to skilled sailor, offering corrections when needed and praise for landmark achievements.
Connor didn't realise, but his men thought the world of him. A little mad, slightly eccentric, but courageous, eager to learn, and never made them do something he wouldn't. That included cleaning out the toilet seats, even if it weren't regular for a captain to do so.
Now, if he could focus on getting through these rocks, it would be open sea from there. Taking it slowly would be appropriate given the circumstances.
"Ship sighted, starboard!" called Midshipman Jones, a bright young man with eyes bluer than the Caribbean sea herself - eyes that were in perfect condition and could spot a scrap of sail against cloud from miles away.
Beside him, Haytham eagerly plucked the glass from Connor's hip and turned the lens towards the other ship. Connor sighed. There would be no slow navigations today.
"That's the Welcome," confirmed Haytham. "Sneak up on her. If it is in your arsenal, of course."
Suppressing a growl, Connor snatched his glass back, pressing it to his eye. The Welcome didn't have any movement aboard her but that didn't mean it was abandoned. As they rounded the head, Connor discovered the anchors were down and the sails furled. It was abandoned, unless Church wished to engage them in a gunfight in which he'd not be able to move. Birds had settled to roost on the rigging though, and birds were naturally skittish creatures and not prone to hanging around humans.
"He's changed ships," announced Connor. "
Slow sailing through the rocks it was.
"Ah, if you had've taken the route I suggested, Connor, then he wouldn't have had the chance to do that," said Haytham, pulling an unamused and tired face, as if Connor could control Church's doings.
"The route you suggested is full of British and Templar ships, not to mention the winds are erratic, only giving advantage on certain days - Mr Faulkner did not indicate we would have such luck and it was our misfortune that the Welcome did," said Connor, voice close to ice.
"I am pointing out an observation, child. Besides, I know the flag signals and codes of my allies, meaning with a lick of paint over it's name - in fact, it needs pairing all over if you ask me - we could have slipped past as a third-rate sloop or corvette or another boat that I don't know the name of," Haytham replied.
"The Aquila is a ship and no, we couldn't have slipped by, our figurehead is too distinctive and we already have a reputation. Changing her name would have done nothing," snapped Connor, his volume rising with his agitation.
"Remove the figurehead then," hissed Haytham. "Lower your voice."
Around them, the crew looked horrified by the suggestion.
"No, I will not lower my voice. Who are you, to suggest we ally ourselves, to play the bleeding heart over my mother's death, then to come onto my lady of the sea, complain about my crew, my steering, my ability as captain, and question every single thing I do? I thought that I could impress you, on some level, that your son had learned and achieved so much, but no, I will not ever live up to your standards, you slimy -"
"Second ship spotted, sir, making a run for the open," interrupted Jones. "Thought you ought to know."
Connor glared at Haytham - their conversation would be finished later. The midshipman looked sheepish and pointed out the fleeing ship.
Fast rocks it was. The Aquila spread her sail, trying to catch up with the smaller, faster ship, Church clearly involved. Church was firing at them but the shots were neither clean nor accurate, his disadvantage being in exposing his rudder to Connor.
"Take out their steering, men, and make hopes that they will be dashed to pieces upon the rocks," he called.
He narrowly avoided a rock himself, twirling the Aquila around it, the sails and rigging being constantly adjusted to push her past her limits and add extra manoeuvrability. They were keeping good pace with the other ship, firing upon it with their swivels, but until they could hit it with a broadside - a broadside that Connor couldn't line up in this environment - the ship would remain stubbornly speedy and ahead of them.
"But really, who let a boy with so little experience have his own ship?" murmured Haytham.
The Aquila scraped a rock, Connor's concentration lost. His grip on the wheel tightened.
"That's definitely Church, then?" he asked calmly.
"Yes, wh-"
Haytham's inquiry was never finished, his face suddenly having a fist planted in it. While he was still reeling from the broken nose he now sported, Connor grabbed him by his collar and dragged him over to the railing, pushing him against it until Haytham was close to toppling into the ocean.
"Insult me one more time and I will dump you in this ocean. It looks warm, and it is - "
Haytham moved his hands towards Connor's, but Connor shook him to recapture his attention.
" - it is beautifully warm. That is if it's summer."
"You wouldn't dare," said Haytham smugly. "You're too afraid of -"
There was a large splash as his father was flipped over the edge of the Aquila. Connor watched the bubbles burst on the surface for a few moments, waiting for his father to re-emerge. When the Templar did, sans hat (which had conveniently fallen off as Haytham had fallen and was currently clutched in Connor's hand), there was a foul look on his face and he quickly clung to the side of the ship, not wanting to be left behind. Connor threw a rope down to him and watched in amusement as his father hauled himself, heavy wool cloak, weapons, and all, onto the bridge. Haytham rolled onto his back with a wet splat, water dripping onto the deck, panting from the slight chill to the water and exertion from the swim and climb.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" asked Connor, leaning over him.
"You're a child," said Haytham. "But I am proud you inherited my strength. That was impressive, throwing me over. I could see the punch coming."
"Did you now?" said Connor sarcastically. "Who'd have thought."
"Of course. Anyone could read your emotions."
Blood had started to drip from Haytham's nose. Connor frowned.
"Go see the surgeon before we get into a bigger fight. He'll set your nose for you. And take off your cloak - it isn't impressing anyone."
"Yes, sir," replied Haytham a slight mocking to his tone.
He made his way below deck, back still ramrod straight even as he sneezed and continued to drip water, damned cloak still on. But at least he stopped making remarks about the Aquila and her crew. Taking the wheel again, Connor stared at his father's retreating form. Some people never changed, their pride too strong to swallow.
At least they'd had some time together.