From the Private Journal of Capitán Ricardo Antonio Caballero
Off the coast of St. Albion — Two Leagues Beyond Port Dominion
By the grace of God, and by every saint in the heavens, I am once again at sea.
The land grows smaller by the hour — that narrow spit of English arrogance shrinking into a haze of heat and distance. I feel the deck steady beneath my feet as His Most Catholic Majesty’s ship Santa Magdalena finds her rhythm once more, her sails swelling like lungs freed from confinement. There is no sound in the world so pure as the rush of the wind against the canvas when a ship takes her first deep breath homeward.
And yet I cannot entirely shake the ghost of the woman we left behind.
The Contessa — María Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma — even her name moves like a procession. She stood upon the dock this morning like some vision conjured from mist and candlelight, her gown untouched by the grime of travel, her composure unbent by the crowd’s stares. The English officers tried their best to appear unaffected — Governor, General, and a host of fine red-coated mannequins — yet I could see the uncertainty in their faces.
They were soldiers, yes, but not the sort accustomed to beauty that seems to watch back.
I had warned them, in jest, though I spoke half in truth: “Good luck with this one.”
They laughed, but the laughter was thin — like glass waiting to crack.
I do not pretend to understand what force moves within the Contessa, but I know the signs of one who carries her own weather. Even the gulls flew wide of her as she disembarked. Her servants followed like shadows — silent, obedient, and pale from the long voyage. And that trunk of hers — the large black one with the brass fittings — I noticed how two men strained to lift it, though it did not appear heavy. She watched them the way a cat watches doves, faintly amused, faintly distant.
When she turned to bid me farewell, her eyes caught mine. For the briefest instant, I thought I saw sorrow there — a soft, human ache beneath the polished mask. But then it was gone, replaced by that unfathomable calm and unnerving force and determination.
“Adiós, Capitán,” she said. “The sea and I shall both remember you kindly.”
I bowed, of course, as a gentleman must. But truth be told, I was glad to see her go down the gangway and gladder still when the longboat returned empty. I have fought corsairs, storms, the English, and the French — yet nothing unsettles me quite like a woman whose silence hums like a held note.
Even now, as I write, the thought of her lingers like perfume in the air. The crew feels it too; they have not spoken her name since we weighed anchor. I caught my first mate crossing himself when he saw her figure fade from sight — and I did not chide him.
Whatever business brings her to that forsaken English colony, I am content not to know. Some burdens are best left ashore.
Still, I confess a small measure of pity for those red-coated fools who must now play host to her. They think her merely a lady of title, of wealth and beauty, but they do not see — as a sailor must — the signs of a storm before it breaks.
May God watch over them, poor souls.
For myself, I will take my chances with the sea.
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