After the rage, the indignance, the fear died out, Charlie was left with barefaced melancholy. The crew had never seen her thus. Her heart had not only been broken apart- it had smashed asunder. Some of the more bitter men agreed that this too would pass, and the wench that had been stolen aboard would be gone within a day. Stevens knew better though, and he was almost as pale as she was.
There were a few normal tells, that were missing, you see, that would mark this as a large, but petty spat. For one, Charlie usually paced and muttered, or did something physical to burn off the fire in her heart like tow the sails or jump to the capstan. Instead she manned the helm with a death grip from the moment they left port, only taking a short break to deal with the girl below deck and to sleep, quite alone, in her cabin. Second, she had for the first time in perhaps eight years of captaincy, Charlie had barked an actual order. Crew members were told to mind their own business, to cease chatting whilst working, to put their backs into the ropes. There was no singing to help aid the work. Her usual protocol when upset was to turn to her crew for advice, for solace, for an ear to belly ache to. She was the whiniest, most amusingly exuberant sailor they had ever encountered. Yet there was only a cold, dark tone to her very words. Surname basis, formal language as far as she could manage, and absolute silence besides. Even the wench came up upon the deck to try and comfort her- even she looked surprised to find she was shrugged off and turned away. For Charlie, there was only the helm, and the sheets of rain that she manned it through.
Rumours were wild.
General blame rested upon Bones’ shoulders- for surely, she must have done or said something to break Charlie so. Surely only the Scarlet Coat could have done this- perhaps she had turned upon them. Perhaps Charlie had killed her. The closest to correct was an observation from Bert- that Charlie had nearly run them dead into a storm the last time a woman had wronged her, that being the sweet young Rosie that had bore her a son not seven years hence. But this was clearly forgotten. For Rosie was a woman, and Bones was a reputable beast. Something more grizzly, more sinister must have been afoot.
When they were told eventually later on by Charles Skinner Senior, what had transpired that fateful night, they couldn’t be more than shocked.
Charlie had brought it upon herself. She had put herself into such misery all by herself. All because Bones had needed a little more time before settling down. A few months would have done it, most thought. Days, thought some. But her impatience, her temper, her blunt headed ignorance, had cost her more dearly than any of them could have anticipated.