"Right away." Smithen scurried off. Procul watched as the ship drew slowly closer. The balloon of the craft was green, and the belly was a dark oak. A carving of a sword was affixed to the hull, with the words "auctorita ex gladie." Procul pondered the motto for a bit until he was interrupted with the re-appearance of a rank smell.

"We're ready, sir." Smithen held a musket in one hand and a wool sack filled with iron pellets in the other. Procul nodded to him. Smithen, though dull, was accustomed to Procul's signals, and stood still. No one, however, could stand quite a still as Procul. He was a statue dressed in a wig and a coat: his hair and Captain's uniform flapped in the gentle winds.

"Wait for my count," spoke Procul to Smithen. The Spanish vessel was coming closer. He could see a dark green figure at a yolk. "Load." Smithen bashed his foot against the floor. Clicks, snaps, and the skidding of metal on metal came from all over the ship. Procul saw the green figure's glasses glinting bright white. "Aim." Smithen bashed his foot twice. A creak from below, then silence.

The glint in the figure's face disappeared. Procul saw two eyes now, brown and commanding. He saw them gaze into his own, and then he saw them leave: they moved downwards. These eyes soon registered the black and deep red of Procul's overcoat: these eyes raised their respective eyebrows. The figure's right side flinched no more than a hair. A tiny, incalculable movement existing more in nuance than in reality.

"Fire." Smithen gave a barbaric yalp. Blasts echoed across the empty sky as splinters flew from the oak vessel. Two men in propelled-gliders whooshed over Procul's head, whirring as they soared onto the hostile deck. They released their legs from the gliders, touched their feet to the deck, and released their arms, letting the wood and fabric frame skid to a halt. One drew a musket, one a knife, pointing them at the Spanish Capitan. He shot his hands up in the air, confused. The knife-wielding crewman yanked his arm and dragged him from the yolk, as the muskett-wielder came to the controls and gently accelerated the vessel.

"Good work," Procul muttered. "Extra land time for everyone."