[h3][color=8dc73f]Approaching Greenleaf...[/color][/h3]
[hr]
Collins sat, cross-legged, in his room on the upper deck. Sweat stood out on his brow, dripped slowly down his nose. The room was in darkness, but his eyes had grown accustomed. Surely, it hadn’t come to this. He hadn’t seen what he thought he had seen… or had he? He thought back over the past week. Captain Hammond had been welcoming enough, mostly letting him attend his own affairs but Lamb, the deck-hand… he had been openly hostile, ‘specially when he had said words over the evening meal, two days out of Beaumonde. He had thought nothing of it for a spell, but when he had happened upon Lamb and the galley attendant, Alva Holt – who he’d had a very pleasant conversation with earlier that same day, having a heated argument and had witnessed Lamb grab the girl’s wrist in his mitt, the disparity of her tiny, artfully decorated limb pressed under his grease-covered, white-with-strain fist the size of a canned ham, flashing momentarily in his mind’s eye. There had been an ugly, red vein standing out on Lamb’s forehead, and he had uttered unseemly words at her as concerns her character as he held her arm up above her head, pinned against the wall. He was over a foot taller than Holt, and easily a hundred pounds heavier than her lithe frame. The Preacher had stood there, cup of tea in-hand, silently blowing to cool the liquid, a silent unasked question etched into his features, until the moment passed. Lamb released the young girl, shouldered past uttering additional filth in his general direction and was gone. Barstow had made an attempt to ask after Alva, but she had brushed past him, tears in her eyes. 

That had been three days ago, and there had been tension in the air ever since. Collins had mostly kept hisself to hisself, but there had been an invite from the Cap’n for a communal meal that evening at 18:30, and it wouldn’t do to discourage such an offer. He cooked dumplings that afternoon to add to the meal, and while working alongside Alva, mostly silently save humming an old and familiar tune, he noticed a fresh bruise on her cheek. Asking after her health and well-being, she turned away from him, covering it with her fringe. But the response was clear enough. 

The meal was a bit of a celebration. The crew had done well this trip out, and approached Greenleaf with money and prospects. All enjoyed themselves and relished the first good meal any of them could remember in a dog’s age. Lamb was well into his cups, and made several callous and unnecessary remarks at Holt’s expense. It wasn’t lost on the crew, some of whom made side-long glances at the drunk deck-hand. For his part, Collins looked to the Captain, who shrugged it off as the crew ‘blowing off steam.’ 

And so now Collins sat, cross-legged, in his room on the upper deck. It wasn’t their way. (Wasn’t it the way of every body?) It wasn’t his place. He had no right. They didn’t know his ways. Didn’t live by it. Who was he to stand in judgement of them? He was the stranger here. There may have been history between them he didn’t know about. (But the Cap’n did say that Lamb was pretty new to the crew…) His fingertips traced over the cover of the Code absently, feeling the worn edges of the leather. 

When a few minutes later he stood outside Holt’s quarters, his resolve had cemented, his breathing even and shallow. The sounds coming from within were unmistakable, and so was his response. He rolled up his sleeves. Opened the door silently, and stepped across the threshold. He had her against the wall, canned-ham fist over her mouth, pants around his ankles. The gun was cold and smooth in his hand, and he pressed its barrel to the soft place behind Lamb’s ear. When the Preacher spoke, the voice was not his own, the emotion replaced by a steely monotone, ice-cold. 

[color=f7941d]"Lamb… the Romans said: Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord. The wrath of God comes upon the sons of disobedience.' This is the Code…"[/color] The hammer clicked into place with a note of finality, But then there was a hand on his shoulder. It belonged to the Captain. [color=6ecff6]"Not like this, Father Collins. Leave him to me."[/color] The Captain spoke to Alva. [color=6ecff6]"You alright, Holt? Go on now… out of here. Doc’ll see to that cut. I’ll find you after I deal with… this."[/color] There was at once, anguish and a deep sadness, disgust and sharpened steel in his voice. Lamb didn’t move. Not when the gun was lowered, and not when the Captain turned him face to face. 

Have you ever been witness to a re-entry keel-hauling? …it was not the way Barstow Collins would have chosen to arrive on Greenleaf. But when they made port he got a firm handshake from the Captain, and Holt kissed him on the cheek, tears in her eyes. She pressed something small, folded in an old piece of fabric, into his hand, and hugged him for what felt like a long time, but was likely only a few seconds. 

He turned, and walked off the boarding ramp into the heat of Greenleaf…