The Virginius Incident [America + Spain + England]

[unitedstates]

(The Virginius Incident. Dusk, October 30th, 1873.

Historical notes: Though not officially condoned by the American government, certain American and British nationals were sympathetic to the cause of the Cubans who were revolting against Spain during the Ten Years’ War. General Manuel Quesada, the Commander-in-Chief of the rebellion, purchased the Confederate blockade runner, the Virgin, and used it to sail between Latin-American nations, picking up arms and other weapons for the Cuban cause. The newly renamed Virginius was on such a run during 1873, and along with the Cuban revolutionaries onboard were above-mentioned American and British nationals. On October 31st, the Spanish Tornado finally caught up with them and seized the ship and its men, taking it to Santiago to await execution.

Also, this thread is located for convenience's sake under Cuba because of how heavily involved Cuba is. The actual historical event bounced between the waters of several different nations.)

Leaning against the mast, America looked up and grinned happily at the American flag flying there. He had waited until they were out of sight of the American coast to hoist it (and he had raised it himself), knowing that he’d be in deep, deep trouble if any government official or rat caught him.

(”And remember, Alfred,” Mr. Grant had told him, “I know that if you really want to help these Cubans, there’s not much I can do about it. If I order you to stay here, you’ll just find a way around it, and it’s not like you’re ever actually a big help with Reconstruction (With a sheepish smile, America had had to accede this point- sometimes he grabbed his carpetbag and headed down to the South, sometimes he made the hangman’s knot himself) . Just,” and at this point he had stared him right in the eyes, “if you ever, ever make it known that the government knows about this, do not expect a welcoming return.”

America had jumped happily. “Thank you, prez!” and ran to throw a few changes of clothes in a sack bag he had and make his way down to the dock to meet up with Manuel Quesada, the Cuban who had ultimately persuaded him to make the journey.)

At the insistence of Captain Fry, he would take it down every time they neared a coastline- though flashing it always buttered up the American consults at the ports to their cause-, but right now they were sailing the open sea. They had just left Haiti, and was comforted by the feeling of the ship beneath his feet, made sturdier with the hundreds of rifles, machetes, and daggers he knew were there.

He had never been a sea-nation- though waves now lapped on either side of him, having a strong navy was never his prerogative. That had always been England’s deal (and speaking of England, why were there so many of his people on board, anyways? America was finding it harder and harder to escape that stupid British accent, it was always echoing down the halls from him or in the next room and he wanted to scream), not his. So the denseness of the ship comforted America, and he had to laugh. “¿Cómo? the man standing next to him, adjusting the sails to the wind, asked.

“Nada, nada,” America assured him, before wandering away to actually do some work himself. The ship’s mass was also nice, he thought, because it was so different than before. At the beginning of the journey, he had been made uncomfortable by the memory of battles and two little boys who died (Maybe that was why he insisted coming along? Because he couldn’t leave his Civil War behind him just yet, and he couldn’t move forward either?), but now the feel of the Virginius was so different from that of the Virgin, he slept well at night, rocked by the waves.

Approaching the captain, prepared to ask what he could do to help, he spotted something on the darkening horizon. Leaning over the side of the ship and holding his finger to his nose to keep his glasses from slipping off into the waves, America squinted. It wasn’t blue or round enough to be a whale, and those looked like sails… It didn’t resemble any of his own merchant ships, but they were way out there, so it could be another Nation’s. He vaguely made out a flag, and when he asked the man standing next to him if he could figure out what the colors were (his eyesight wasn't great as it is, and the sun was starting to go down to boot), the sailor screamed.

The ship exploded into activity as sailors ran to their stations. The complacent mood that had reigned just minutes before had not just broken, it had crumbled into pieces and fallen into the sea. After five months since their last close encounter at Aspinwall, the Virginius’s luck had run out yet again. America was the sole still figure, so far as he could see, pressed up against the side, his face free of worry but his eyes narrowing.

The Spanish were catching up to them.

[Spain]

30 October 1873, Evening.

Gazing at the rich hues of passionate reds and fiery oranges as the sun began its good-night kiss with the sky, Antonio Fernández Carriedo leaned against the side of the ship, lazily watching the captain shout commands to the men on deck. The Spaniard loved boat rides and spent a lot of time at sea, he was reluctant to agree to perform evening coastal patrol duty, especially when he could be unwinding with the locals after a long day of meetings. However, as consolation, the rhythmic sound of the ocean waves lapping against the side of the ship proved soothing to the Spaniard’s frayed nerves.

Aboard Tornado, the Spaniard watched the waves gently toss the corvette about as it cut through the waters of Guantánamo Bay. Several issues weighed heavily on the Spaniard’s mind lately, enough to keep him preoccupied during his trip to Cuba. His primary reason for coming to the colony was to meet with his troops and to ensure that they were holding up in spite of the fact that many of them had been plagued with disease and weary from the guerilla warfare. However as much as he wanted to send more men over to help them, Antonio had found his hands tied as he found himself caught up a Third Carlist War, an ugly eruption that broke out after the elections last year.

For a split second, the Spaniard entertained the thought of making an attempt to try to hold another peace meeting with Cuba. However, he killed the thought immediately, knowing that it would prove to be counterproductive. He had sworn to give up on meeting with Cuba when conflict broke out after their last very short (and very fiery) exchange, which ended with the Spaniard getting unceremoniously booted out of the building.

All things considered, he remained optimistic since his attitude had helped him survive rule under two empires, countless wars, unwanted invasions and brutal betrayals. But with the way things stood at the moment, the Spaniard could not help but feel the urge to go back to sleep again. Perhaps if he did, the problems would fix themselves. However, past experience told Antonio that the problems were most likely to pile up before any of them would begin to disappear.

His boss Emilio Castelar y Ripoll seemed to have sense the unrest in the youth, having sent him to Cuba where he would at least be away from the troubles of the domestic affairs.

Despite suggestion, Antonio knew better than to consider the trip as a vacation, considering the insurgence of rebels illegally smuggling goods to fuel the revolutions that had been taking place in his colonies. At one point, it had gotten so bad that they had to pass a series of laws to strong arm the locals and executed anyone found on ships that were shipping weapons to the colonies. Men and women caught outside of their plantation or residence were severely punished either summarily executed or moved to camps in the city. It was not something that Antonio had willingly decided because it appeared too brutal by the modern standards, however, those who disobeyed needed to be punished. Even now, he could remember when he watched the executions of the eight university students two years ago. Eight promising minds, extinguished because of a poor choice that they had decided to make. This was merely a measure to ensure that more of that kind of talent would not go to waste.

“Señor Fernández.” Castilla's voice distracted the Spaniard from his thoughts, causing the dark expression to retreat from his olive green eyes as he pushed them to a corner in his mind. “Si?” he replied as he looked back at the captain with a smile, “¿Qué pasa?” His voice was light as he turned to look at the man who approached him.

“A ship was spotted at starboard,” the captain announced, the expression on his face appearing a lot more grave than Antonio’s own. “It does not look like it is authorized.”

The comment raised concern in Antonio, whose lips formed a small frown as he wore the expression of surprise on his face. Running a hand through his chocolate brown hair, he stood up. “Oh, is it?” he said, tilting his head, when suddenly the ship jolted slightly. This caused the Spaniard to grab onto the edge of the ship as he braced himself. Judging from what had just transpired and the Castilla’s comment, it appeared that Tornado sped up in hot pursuit. “Were there any markings on the ship?” he asked, though he figured that any unauthorized ship would mean that it would be impossible to figure it out.

Leaning over the edge, Antonio squinted slightly, trying to make out the shape of the ship that they had spotted. “It was hard to tell,” the captain answered as he joined the youth’s side, “though it did look like it had a flag.”

A flag. The detail sparked Antonio’s interest as he looked at the man. “Oh really?” he inquired. If there was another nation associated with the ship, it would mean that there would be potential diplomatic issues, but the Spaniard was not about to take the risk of letting something potentially fuel the insurrection that he was trying to put down!

“Si, something with red and white stripes… and a large black square.”

Black. Though he had tried to stay off the world stage during this century, Antonio had seen the flag enough times in the past to know who the flag belonged to and that the black square that was spotted was navy blue in reality. Los Estados Unidos de América. It had been a while since he had seen the Alfred up close, but the glances that he caught of him during the gatherings had told him that the adorable child he had met centuries ago had long disappeared. Rather, the innocent cheerful youth he had helped declare independence from Ingleterra had turned into a meddlesome, arrogant adolescent. He should have known better than to assume that letting Ingleterra take him under his wing was a good decision, especially since the boy had apparently picked up his caretaker’s horrible habit of interfering with the Spaniard’s affairs.

Looking up at the sky, Antonio could tell that they would be straining to chase daylight and most likely have to engage in a nighttime chase. Though the Spaniard was never quite a fan of night patrols, he could almost see it setting a precedent for smugglers. Cursing under his breath, he ran his hand through his thick, slightly curly hair and let out a soft sigh. He had originally hoped that the patrol would be a short one so that he would be able to get more rest for the night. He had tried to take a siesta this afternoon, but it had problems resting well because of all the tasks he had to finish up before the end of the day.

The way things looked, it was going to be a very long night for the Spaniard.

“Increase the speed of the ship,” the Spaniard said, coolness clearly laced his command as his expression darkened. “It will be interesting to find out what Los Estados Unidos de América is doing in waters where he does not belong.”

---

Note:
- Apparently in 1869, Spain passed a series of laws as a declaration of a war of extermination. So all leaders and collaborators who were associated with the rebels would be executed on the spot. This included ships that carried weapons (which were immediately seized) and everyone who was onboard were immediately executed. Additionally, any male who were at least 15 and over were executed while women caught not on their farm or home were sent to concentration camps in the city. So it looks like the Virginius Affair was very much a matter of international law as well.
- The university students executed is a reference to the November 27, 1871 event in which eight medical students from the University of Havana were killed by the Spanish army for the profanation of the tomb of a virulent anti-Cuban Spanish journalist.

[unitedstates]

God, America just wished the sun would go down faster. It was obvious that the Spanish ship had spotted them- unless it was accelerating towards them to say ‘Hi!’, toss over a couple of oranges, and warn them against that scurvy. And while America always preferred to think the best of people, he’d learned in his years as a smuggler that when one comes across the reason they’re smuggling, it’s best to run the other way really quickly. (It had worked for the Italians, hadn’t it? They had their own country now and everything.)

Once the sky was dark, it would be easier for them to slip away. Though they were rather obvious on the open ocean, a dark mass on an otherwise open horizon, if they could just out-run them… And maybe a convenient whale would unseasonably pass by and confuse the Spanish once they were far away enough.

He couldn’t put all of his hopes on that, so he let his mind slip into stand-by mode as he rushed over to the nearest mast, to help adjust it to catch the wind. On the Virginius, he was just another sailor, who had to earn his keep, earn his food, earn his water… Which, admittedly, was made easier by his “charisma” with the American officers stationed at each port. When asked how he always managed to bend them to the ship’s will- providing them with a haven and supplies even when the local government wanted nothing more than to cast them out into the middle of the ocean-, America grinned and blamed his boyish charm. Which he had a lot of, to be honest. He looked like a sixteen year old, and a young sixteen year old at that. Who really hadn’t aged much in the year he’d been onboard, joining the expedition once they had already gotten underway.

(What he didn’t tell them was that he blackmailed the more resistant officers with intimate knowledge of their families, that people naturally take to their countries, or that he had more than a few decades of smuggling experience under his belt.)

To most of the other sailors, America was their junior, and everything he did had to be done with twice the effort. Such as his violent yank of the sail, and his race to the next station once it bloated with wind.

Hours passed, and America leaned against the side of the ship. Physically, he was starting to get exhausted, but the others around him were definitely worse off. From where he was standing, he could see a deck-boy curled up, asleep, while a Cuban kicked him and yelled angrily in Spanish, and a Brit told him to ”Lay off the poor lad, you soddin’ git!” No one else was much better off, but they were all adults and realized the danger of the situation. That is, America realized, they were still awake because they were panicked and brimming over with nervous energy.

He went to the back of the ship, staring at the rapidly approaching Spanish ship. “Don’t they ever get tired?” he wondered aloud. At this point, they were just trying to make it to the coast- if they could dock, they would be on Cuban soil, and things would go much more smoothly from there. They had realized that, short of dumping the cargo, there was only so far man-power could take them, and they had reached the extent of that.

“They don’t,” a heavily accented voice from behind him chimed in. America turned, surprised, and found himself face-to-face with the Cuban who had been taking out his frustrations on the deck boy. “That’s why we have to leave them.” America just nodded, turning back to stare at the boat. He thought that, in the moonlight, he could make the colors of the flag out more distinctly than he had earlier, in the light.

“Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered,” America muttered, leaning over the side.

“Yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph,” a new voice, that of the captain, finished from behind him. America and the Cuban snapped to attention. Fry just jerked his head towards the rest of the ship. “Break’s over, you two. Get to work.”

America nodded and closed his eyes for a second. He willed himself to remember why they were out in the middle of the ocean in the middle of the night- for God’s sake, they had to help these men! For God’s sake, for Liberty’s sake, they had to help the rebels, and when his lids slid open again, he was renewed with energy.

He ran to the mast, a grin splitting his face in half (he suppressed the memories of dead bodies in the moonlight at Franklin, of what happened to the last rebel cause he had a hand in, because it was different, it was- America was not just a sunshine patriot, it had just been different) and took a position at the masts again, pulling them and adjusting them to the wind.

They proceeded like this for an hour, America cracking jokes and yelling to keep the spirits of the men up, but the progress they had made was slowly being lost. Crew members made their way to the bottom of the ship and set up a pulley system. America tugged at the top of it, and grabbed the arms that reached the top, throwing them in the water. The ship, with the lost weight, sped up a couple of notches, but nothing significant. They were losing ammunition, fast, and the items stopped coming up to the deck- there was only so much they could afford to lose without making the entire mission a failure.

He sighed and looked up at the water, watching the strangely macabre floating weaponry. Beyond them, there was… something, in the darkness. Too still to be a ship, too big to be a whale.

It clicked.

“Full chisel, men!” he cheered, spinning around to face the working men. “Land’s directly ahead of us!”
--
Historical Notes
The Spanish, in the 1780s, were among the first to prove definitively that oranges and other citrus help prevent scurvey.
The Italian peninsula finally unified as the Kingdom of Italy in 1870.
During colonial times, there was a lot of smuggling between the colonies and the Caribbean, due to heavy restrictions on trade imposed by the British.
“Tyranny… the more glorious the triumph” and “sunshine patriot” are both quotes from Thomas Paine.
The Battle of Franklin was a Civil War battle fought from 4-9 PM and was extremely bloody, as well as one of the only night battles of the War.
When the Virginius was captured, it was within six miles of Guantánamo Bay.

[Spain]

31 October 1873, Evening.

Squinting to keep the water out of his eyes as Tornado charged forward, Antonio watched as the ship cut through the water like a sharp knife. He could taste the salt in the mist that sprayed onto his face, which brought back the feeling of nostalgia, albeit for a brief moment. Just like his voyages to what was then the New World, the feeling of a ship moving at full speed rejuvenated the Spaniard. Having stayed awake for most of the previous night, he had snuck off to rest in his cabin for a few hours after they had identified the ship, but he still felt like he would need a more full day of rest.

The ship that they had been following had desperately tried to avoid them, first heading off towards Jamaica and sticking to the coastline before heading south. The path of travel appeared strange to Antonio and awfully inefficient, but knew that would just mean that they would have another advantage over the escaping ship.

Considering how hard he had been fighting fatigue, they had better capture the ship.

Brushing his damp hair out of his face, Antonio took a deep breath and then turned around, observing the crew hurrying about on deck. He watched as a couple of the men scrambled, running to the masts, attempting to set the sails to help them gain speed. Judging from the way his hair had been swaying, the wind could prove to be helpful since the ship they were chasing had dropped their sails. The Spaniard ran over to the mast, climbing after the crew and took the rope from one of the less confident looking men. Though rusty, the feel of the rope in his hands quickly helped him recall the skills perfected during his sailing days. With the familiarity of a seasoned veteran, Antonio swiftly undid the ropes, shouting commands and safety words so that the rest of the men could hear him.

“Let fall!” he cried as he pushed the sail, watching each sail drop one by one, the white of the sails standing out in the slowly dimming light. From his perch, Antonio took the time to look off in the distance, the gentle wind drying out his hair as he held onto the mast. Looking out over the sea, he could see that it was surprisingly calm and empty, with the exception of the ship that they had been pursuing. If this had been a casual sailing trip, he would have found something romantic about sailing into the sunset and admired the passionate, vibrant colors. Disappointed, Antonio sighed before reluctantly turning and descending down to the deck. The thought was quickly forgotten as he rushed to help the crew set the remaining sails.

“Keep to all steam!” Castillo shouted in midst of the organized chaos happening, ducking the bags of coal as the crew rushed to the boiler room, “we are gaining on them, so keep going!” Antonio saw the man move authoritatively, fiercely shouting orders before approaching him.

When it looked like the ship had mostly finished adjusting its course, Antonio leaned back against the side of the ship, eyes tracing the lines of the rope that connected the sails. Humming softly, he closed his eyes for a moment, content to get a few seconds of peace in the midst of such a long night chase. At this point, it was highly likely that they would be able to capture the ship, but they would need to determine what to do with the people they found on board when they are hauled back to Cuba. He could think of a few things that could possibly happen, but none that were worth entertaining at the moment.

“Holding out?” Antonio said jokingly as he flashed a smile at the captain. Giving the man a quick glance over, the Spaniard could see that the captain was holding out surprisingly well, considering the fact that the man had not rested since the patrolling started. He could see the fatigue written in the man’s eyes, though his expression was stern and mostly stoic.

“Yes, I can rest after we capture the ship tonight, it looks like it has slowed down a bit,” Castillo spoke confidently, though his line of vision remained fixed on the ship ahead. “I think that I know what we are chasing.” The man then looked down and began to trace the lines of his hands.

“Oh, really?” Antonio replied, his voice was a mix of satisfaction and surprise. “Well, we know that it’s Los Estados Unidos de América’s ship…” His voice trailed off for a moment as he processed the captain’s words. “Wait, you mean to say you know exactly what ship we are going after?"

“Sí,” Castillo responded, “just judging from where the ship was when we found them and where it is headed, I have a feeling it might be Virginius. I don’t know if you could tell from where you were, but it looked like they have been dumping arms and other things overboard.”

Virginius. The sound of the name caused Antonio to straighten up, feeling energetic all of a sudden. He had heard the name a few times when his boss met with his staff. The ship had proved to be a problem with them recently, constantly creeping into their waters to smuggle goods to the rebels, only to slip into international waters when it realized that it had succeeded to draw Spanish ships. There had been much emphasis on its capture in the last meeting that the Spaniard attended, to finally be able to accomplish this was a Godsend.

“Looks like Pardo and Ortiz will be taking the boats out to the ship,” the captain said, watching as a few men ran towards the boat, “would you like to jump in?”

Barely able to conceal his enthusiasm, the Spaniard nodded his head vigorously, “Sí! I’d love to!” Antonio wanted to see the elusive ship up close and to witness the raid, to look at the criminals in the eyes as they file onto the deck. He could almost see the look on Alfred’s face when the youth was outed out, framed when it is revealed that his countrymen were fueling a rebellion with arms smuggling. It would feel like the revelation of an uprising star caught in a scandal with a common prostitute. Amused, Spaniard walked to starboard, where a group of men had gathered, bearing arms and getting ready to board the boats.

When he reached the group, someone shoved a gun into his hands, telling him that it was important to take it because the rebels were unpredictable. He gladly accepted the arms, throwing it over his shoulder as he grabbed a box of ammunition. Just then, five shots fired in succession rang in Antonio’s ears, nearly deafening him as it headed towards the general direction of Virginius. Warning shots, he determined as hopped over the edge of the ship into the quarter boat, taking a seat next to another young, tense-looking Spaniard. He smiled reassuringly at the youth to calm him down, though he had been trying to shake off a certain feeling he had been having since the start of the day.

The boat swayed with the movement of the waves when it was lowered into the waters, rocking gently as they pushed off of the corvette and headed for the filibuster. Antonio leaned over, fiddling with the gun as he watched Tornado become more distant. Though they had switched over to the use of guns, Antonio could never quite shake off how foreign the weapon felt in his hands, missing the familiar weight of a battle-axe. He could remember how much easier it was to just swing at the opponent as oppose to reloading a tool and aiming to fire. But the era of close-combat weapons had long disappeared and he found himself being forced to adapt to the times, as difficult as it had been to do so in the current century.

As they grew closer, the Spaniard could see the remnants of some of the cargo that they had thrown overboard, possibly attempts to make the boat lighter though probably also to get rid of some of the evidence. “It looks like there are quite a few men on board,” Antonio noted as he watched them gather on deck, some looking as if they were on the defense. However, Ortiz waved off his comment, looking at him quickly before he turned his attention back to the ship.

“Any aggression on your part will be energetically chastised by our forces!” Ortiz yelled at the crew as they approached. Antonio could see some of the men appear to back off, resigned to accepting the fact that they were finally caught. He scanned the line of men carefully, ignoring the difference in the stations of the people onboard, scanning the crowd for any familiar looking faces. He remained silent, expression grave as he gripped his gun tightly.

I wonder what your next move be, Alfred?

[unitedstates]

Perhaps he was just imagining it, but America swore he could smell roasting meat, drifting over the ocean from the land, pulling him invitingly closer, closer, as the ship picked up speed. He could hear the snap of the pig cooking, of the skin burning off. The delighted screams of the crew as they feasted upon the Cuban foods…

His eyes snapped open when he realized that the smell was that of gunpowder, the sound was that of a gunshot, and the screams were those of those being fired at. One of them had pierced the sail, and America swore. “We have to go faster!” he snapped at Captain Fry, who frowned at him. “The damned Spanish are going to catch us!”

“Boy, you have no right to be giving me orders. I’m the captain here, and I don’t what sort of connections you have, when you’re on my ship, you listen to me.” The man was tired, America could tell, and irritated. Everyone on the ship was, nerves bundled up tight and coiled deep in their chests. “Besides,” he continued, looking over the side of the ship and paling, “we’re already caught.” America followed his gaze to the water, and saw the boat slowly- achingly slowly, approach the ship. He felt like a coward, avoiding the confrontation everyone onboard accepted as inevitable, but it couldn’t end this way, could it? A simple surrender, a white flag? Fry walked away from him, sighing, looking at the hole ripped in the sail. It had been a warning shot, perhaps, but a warning they knew the Spanish would follow up on.

“Stand down, men,” Fry announced, and the men slowly ceased work, the ship coming to a slow drift in the waves. The tension rose, and the men looked at each other uneasily. Even the lackadaisical deck-boy stood at attention, rubbing his eyes and yawning when he thought no one was looking.

America glanced up at the red, white, and blue that flew above his head and felt a wave of strength come over him. Steeling his nerves, he ignored the urge to run for a gun, to face them head-on in a final skirmish that would, undoubtedly, be bloody and have mostly American, Cuban, and British casualties. Most of the other men had already flocked to the side of the ship, watching the boat’s approach.

” “Any aggression on your part will be energetically chastised by our forces!” He stood at the edge, watching the speaker carefully. The voice was cheerful enough, he thought, but this was one of Spain’s men. Spain, who took over half the New World with steel and disease and smiled as he packed away the death-stained gold. Speaking of Spain, the smug bastard sat in the boat as well, and America’s hackles rose. Once upon a time, they had been allies, friends even. It had been in Florida when America had a thought and realized I am sentient, I exist[/color].

So it felt like a parent coming to discipline an unruly child when America stared directly at Spain’s face, not moving from his spot, chin raised. He broke off his one-sided staring contest to talk to the revolutionary next to him who was now retreating to the cabins. “Where are you going?” America asked in Spanish.

“Underneath,” he replied. “We’re going to get captured, and I want to have a drawing of my Guadalupe and my Santiago when I die. Perhaps my angels will protect me.”

Another man chimed in, his Spanish broken and heavily colored by his English accent. “Si, and I want to be wearing my wedding ring.” The men swarmed down and around, picking up their smallest, most valuable items that they could sneak onto their body before capture. It had to be done quickly, efficiently. America stayed at the side of the ship, as did Fry and a few of the others. The captain was busy talking to the head of the revolutionaries, so America leaned over the rail.

“Antonio!” he cried out, trying to make the other Nation look at him. “You can capture us, you can even kill us, but you’ll never be able to crush the spirit of freedom!” It was an arbitrary statement, and he curled his fingers around the biting, cold, wet metal. But it had to be said, and he knew when the captain’s head snapped to face him, that it had been heard. Fry and the others had to know that they may be resigning to their fate, but they weren’t being controlled by it.

So, at least, was America’s intention. Instead, the captain asked, annoyed, “Why do you know him? You’re sixteen, what are you doing fraternizing with the Spanish?”

America bit his lip, pondering the question. “Unfortunately, he’s an old family friend.” He thought a second, and added, “Don’t worry, I loathe him.” And at that moment, nothing was truer. He pushed away from the rail and disappeared into the mass of testosterone, anxiety, and flesh. He went down to the cabin as he heard turmoil going on above him- Antonio and the men he was with must have finally boarded, or were nearing close enough that it was starting to panic the men, who realized that their days were honestly numbered. He scrambled in his bedding and pulled out a single-shot pistol, acting on the urge he had earlier suppressed.

His state of mind was calmer now, however. His intention of fetching the gun wasn’t to take out Antonio and his horrifyingly cheerful captain, but to blow his own brains out, if it came to that. He would recover, he knew that. It would be a slow process, a painful process, but depending on the Spanish method of execution (because America knew they were going to be tried and executed), it might be worth it. Better to shoot himself than deal with the fall-out of hanging by his neck for hours upon hours without dying, and being taken down and tortured to death. Hesitation, then he shoved the gun in a holster down his waistband. He checked the seam of the jacket he tugged on- assuring himself that yes, the emergency arsenic was still there.

Wiping his face clear of emotion, he stepped back up the stairs and onto the deck. As he moved through the crew, he put on a cocky smile, and waited.

--
Gah, sorry it's so short! xP

[Spain]

31 October 1873, Evening

The entire scene before him felt surreal.

Up close, Antonio expected the crew aboard the Virginius to appear frazzled, clear evidence of the stress of capture after successfully eluding capture for the last three years. However, most of the crew remained at attention on deck, surprisingly calm considering the fact that they had to be fully aware of the consequences of entering into Spanish waters. Though he was thankful for how peaceful the encounter was, Antonio could not help but remain suspicious of them, convinced that they had some type of ulterior plan.

As Antonio helped maneuver the boat towards the idle ship, he stopped humming as he caught sight of the red, white and blue of the American flag swaying gently in the breeze. So long as it flew proudly, it served as a glaring reminder of the fact that Los Estados Unidos de América was somehow involved with this ship. He could not help but feel a peak in the amount of annoyance he felt after the fact. To think that he would use to go over and play with Alfred when he was a child! Brooding inside, the Spaniard could feel the urge to shake the younger man violently when they met next time, though his expression was that of curiosity with a touch of eerie calmness.

Anxiety. Anger. He could feel the sentiments burning inside of him as he squeezed his fingers white against the gun.

When they approached the filibuster, he could see that most of the men were solemn, not that he had expected them to be leaping for joy at seeing their producers, though the least they could do was at least look more cheerful than they would at a funeral.

“Alfred,” the name escaped the Spaniard’s lips softly, sounding as if he was calling an old friend, though bitterness licked the edge of his voice. His gaze lingered a moment longer on the flag before turning his attention on the Virginius’ captain. Dressed in his naval uniform, the American appeared formidable, especially with his bushy facial hair flaring out across the front of his bust. Antonio had never been quite the person to grow a beard, it tended to ruin his youthful image and well, it was sure hard to maintain.

Besides, it wasn’t like he would want to look like him anyway.


When they reached the Virginius, they boarded the ship without any struggle much to Antonio’s surprise (he expected at least some type of brawl and chaos to follow). He took a hard look around his immediate vicinity, olive green eyes sweeping over a handful of men. He presumed some of the men to be from los Estados Unidos de América, but it was not difficult to pick out the ones that he would identify as his own.

Deep inside, the Spaniard could not help but feel pity towards the men. He was certain that the news of the revolution in France and the stories of los Estados Unidos de América’s struggle for independence, poisoning their minds into thinking that just because they need to become their own nation. To him, they were his precious people, seeing every single rebel felt like a needle driven into his heart.

His eyes continued to wander as they fell upon the carnage upon the ship. It was easy to see that it had been very active prior to their arrival. The empty crates remained strewn around on-board while some remnants of its contents remained scattered around it. It was not hard for even a young child to figure out what the ship had been carrying, especially when the crew looked as gloomy as they did.

“Dios Mio,” Antonio muttered as he looked away, meeting the eyes of Fabrégas, who sat next to him on the boat, and whistled, “looks like they are loaded.” The comment earned a snicker from the first engineer as they stood together. The evening breeze caused his hair to toss about as he laughed, his dark brown hair sweeping over his chestnut brown eyes.

“Yes, seems to be the case,” Antonio replied, “they’re gonna have a hella hard time explaining what they were carrying. Definitely not ponies.” Catching the widening grin on Febrégas’s face, Antonio smirked, the gleam dancing across his olive eyes as he looked on.

And then a familiar face caught his attention. At first, he rubbed his eyes in disbelief, convinced that the late night chase had caused his eyes to malfunction, but when he looked up again. He could never forget the familiar boyish features and sparkling blues eyes even if he was lost in a crowd. Lips pursed together, he could feel himself tense up. Though he had his suspicions, he never really thought that his suspicions would actually be correct. In fact, he hoped that he was wrong, he had been hoping deep inside that the little innocent boy he met during his exploration day had remained.

It clearly was not the case. In fact, he was replaced by something worse.

Los Estados Unidos de América, what the hell is he doing here? The Spaniard could not help but stare at the younger man, who was gathered amongst the crew. Shock ran through him as he continued to gawk, his mind going in a few million directions before he managed to smile a little, an attempt to ease the awkwardness of the situation before turning away. Resisting the urge to call out to the younger man, Antonio repeatedly reminded himself that there could be dire consequences if anyone around them found out that they knew each other.

Betrayal. Another sentiment grew took root in Antonio as he tried not to look too uncomfortable even though he was never very good at keeping such expressions from creeping on his face.

“Looks like those guys are looking at us,” Fabrégas said, jabbing a thumb in their direction. A sense of uneasiness sunk in as Antonio laughed uncomfortably and waved off the first engineer’s comment. “Ah, they might just be scared,” he offered casually, smiling tensely. “Say, you know what Ortiz is doing?”

The Spaniard turned quickly, eyes scanning the entire ship before his eyes fell on Ortiz, who had finally located the captain and began talking to him. Though picking up physical cues was not Antonio’s forte, he could tell that the conversation was very different from his light-hearted banter with Frabrégas. Standing at a distance, curiosity caused him to listen in on the conversation, straining his hearing as he eavesdropped.

---

Note:
- First of all, I don't see in anyway how that post was short. xD
- Ah, I was not sure how you wanna do the dialog between Fry and Ortiz, so I guess we'll need to talk about it.
- Yes, I am slowly and steadily working members of the Spain's national fútbol team into all my posts.

[unitedstates]

America avoided the Spanish carefully- after his outburst earlier, he knew that the people who had been around him were watching his every movement. Many of his crewmates, especially the older ones, hate him for his charm already, and they would jump on any chance to make him out as a traitor. Even the thought made him snort (as if he could betray himself and the ideals he was founded on, and he carefully distorted the memories of the past ten years), he tried to be careful. Oh God- he could see Spain. They used to be close- one of his earliest memories was opening his eyes to meet green ones and a bright smile tinged with something darker, surrounded by his swamps and the ocean.

He doubts Spain remembers that- for him, it was fuzzy, and for the other man it was probably inconsequential. It didn’t matter now, anyways. He was the enemy, as made apparent by his glare. The deck-boy stood next to him, glaring just as fiercely, though his eyes were clouded with sleep. The other men watched in various states of defiance, resignation, and annoyance. A movement at the corner of his eye caused his gaze to be torn away- the man who must have been the Spanish midshipman approached Fry, and America slipped back into the upright bodies, before finding a now-empty bullet box to sit on, closer to the men.

Fry lifted his chin, his beard matted with sea spray and sweat, but still defying gravity, it seemed. The sheer force of the man’s pride kept it shapely, and he narrowed his eyes as the Spanish captain demanded Fry’s name. He tersely answered, “Captain Joseph Fry, and the Virginius is my ship.”

Ortiz inclined his head in acknowledgment, “I am aware, you’ve been causing trouble for us for quite a while.”

America shushed the man next to him, who was starting to grow raucous with the abuse he kept shouting. The man spit at him before quieting, and he sighed. Cubans. “I don’t know why we would, sir,” the captain answered with false innocence. “This is an American ship. She has American colors and American papers, an American captain and an American crew. We have neither arms nor ammunition on board; we have only passengers, and are going to Port Limon, Costa Rica.”

Ortiz gazed at him evenly, obviously not buying it. There was really no reason for him to. The ammunition floating in the ocean, the empty crates, the mixed accents and colors. God, even Alfred wouldn’t believe it, and his ego was often stroked to the point of blindness when men started to talk about him. The man next to America was starting to grow loud again, so all he caught of the answer was “American goods” and “need to see your papers”. America glared at him, but he didn’t catch the expression and continued to babble stupidly. Fry turned to the group of which America was a part and gestured at the deck-boy, who had followed him, who disappeared into the underbelly of the ship, before reappearing mere seconds later, clutching a stack of papers. He gave them to Fry and returned to wear he was sitting.

America turned to him with a raised brow. “He asked to see our papers,” the boy answered, hushed.

“And?” The boy was stupid, despite how young he was, and America was confident he knew what he was really asking.

“They back up what the Captain’s saying, but…”

“They’re falsified, aren’t they.” The boy nodded, obviously relieved that he didn’t have to go into detail, not when someone could be eavesdropping. The government had never approved of this little excursion, at least not officially. They had looked the other way when America used his connections to gain a full set of the papers, so they were complete, but refused to sign off on the ship’s neutrality. As far as America knew (though he really wasn’t in the business of faking official papers, despite what England may think) from what he had seen, they looked official enough.

But from the look on Ortiz’s face as he examined them closely, he wasn’t buying it. America resisted the urge to touch his gun, hidden in the hem of his pants, hyperaware of the enemies surrounding him. The man grew louder still- either unaware of the otherwise tense silence or trying, in a somewhat macabre way, to break it, America didn’t know. But it was starting to fray his nerves. He punched the man in the arm, and sighed in relief when he didn’t hear the always-distressingly telling crack. However, the man did yelp and rub at the spot, the bruise already beginning to bloom, glaring at America.

He cursed at America in Spanish, and America just narrowed his eyes. “Are you too stupid to realize we’re about to die?” The whisper seemed loud in the forced silence, yet it was almost lost among the waves. Another Cuban translated the sentence for him, and the man fell silent, suddenly contemplative. America turned back to Ortiz and Fry, scrutinizing their expressions. What he found there wasn’t pleasant. Ortiz finally looked up and dropped the papers to the ground in disgust. America felt his heart plunge with them, and he gripped the crate, keeping torn between jumping up and starting a mutiny, or waiting.

He waited, waited for the damning declaration.

--
I’ll leave that declaration up to you, Spain!

[Spain]

Trying to eavesdrop on a conversation that was twenty feet away was difficult, especially when the parties involved are speaking relatively softly. Few of the crew members wandered on deck, sizing up the mixed crew of the Virginius, as they explored the deck of the infamous ship that they had been chasing for months. Antonio could not blame the men for wanting to explore the ship, if he did not have to stay near Ortiz and act as an observer, he would have done the very same thing.

“Captain Joseph Fry, and the Virginius is my ship.” The statement caused Antonio’s eyes to widen with interest; he had expected the man to be more defiant, perhaps even looking to put up a physical fight. However, he suspected that it did not happen because it would be in the crew’s best interest to remain respectful and calm. Ortiz had explained to the Spaniard in the past that if they determined that the men were causing too much trouble, they had orders to just execute them on the spot.

Recalling that, Antonio felt a shiver run down his spine in spite of the fact that they had enforced this law for years now. A few centuries ago, he would have not thought of much of the law, after all, it was the those that did not abide by the law would get such a treatment. However, after seeing so many executions take place over the last two decades in Cuba caused him to wring his hands together as if to wipe the memories of the bloodshed away.

“I am aware, you’ve been causing trouble for us for a while now,” the voice of the midshipman was stern, thickly accented and sharp, “we understand that you are an American ship, ran by a primarily American crew, however, I will need to see your papers.”

Subconsciously taking a step closer, the Spaniard watched as a younger man ran up to his captain and ran off, coming back moment later with the documentation. He would have expected the ship to have the proper documentation, though even that could mean nothing in this part of the world. Papers could be just as easily forged as weapons could be smuggled. He could see that Ortiz appeared unfazed as he took the papers from the young man and skimmed through its contents. With that, Antonio’s gaze then turned to Fabrégas, who had also been straining to listen in on the conversation.

“What do you think they are talking about?” the first engineer inquired as he leaned against the railing. The man was clearly tired, his drooping brown eyes rimmed with fatigue while the sweat dampened his slightly wavy, chocolate brown hair. Antonio merely nodded at the question, turning his gaze back at the pair, his olive green eyes intently fixed on them as they continued their exchange. Antonio could heard everything that Virginius’s captain said, but tried his best to act like he was having problems picking up their conversation, though it was apparent to even the Spaniard that things were not looking so well for the American ship. “Probably checking the papers for legitimacy,” he finally answered, though he was half-distracted.

Folding the papers together, Ortiz’s face was that of concentration, with skepticism clearly etched across his face. The expression was interesting though expected, enough of a sign to tell any observant person that the papers were certainly a cover, if not falsified. Antonio’s assumptions were confirmed as the captain let the papers slip through his fingers and fall to the ground, the flimsy sheets of paper floating before a gust of wind swept it across the deck.

After watching the papers settle on the wooden deck, ironic symbolism of the fate of the ship, Antonio looked up and back at the crew. It had grown surprisingly silent suddenly, causing the Spaniard to feel a sense of unease. Yet when he looked back at the crew, the men were still, showing no signs of resisting or expressing any desire to do so. Every slight frown, furrowed brow down to the blank stare told him that the people were waiting with anticipation, partially resigned to their fate.

If fear had a smell, the entire deck would have reeked.

With that, Ortiz spoke, this time, his voice as clear as a bell, though heavily accented as he spoke in English, “…as it stands, we have seized control of your ship. You and your crew are now considered prisoners of el Reino de España by my command.” Then turning, the man faced the rest of the crew, his speaking in a louder tone so that everyone could hear.

“This boat is now in our possession and we will take control of the helm and the entire ship from this point on. If anyone attempt to disable the machines, the boiler or damage the ship in some other way, he will be immediately and energetically punished by my orders!”

The command was apparently obeyed as the rest of the men proceeded to gather the ship’s crew onto a group on the deck, holding their guns up, though without any intention to shoot unless they were provoked. Antonio had to admit that this was one of the more solemn raids that he had been on, the whole process was a little too easy. However, he found himself shrugging at the thought, telling himself that for once, God probably pitied them after all the tough raids and skirmishes that they had been going through lately. He could not help but chuckle at the thought, though the action caused those around him to look at him alarmed.

“Ah, Fernández. Fabrégas.”

At the call of his name, the Spaniard left his perch by the railing and walked over to Ortiz. “¿Sí, Señor Ortiz?” he replied, placing himself under the man even though he was technically of a higher station. Up close, Antonio caught an eyeful of the captain, giving a sweep over his physique, partially curious to what possessed the American to take on such a dangerous adventure. Up close, he could see that the man was less well kept than he thought, the sweat caused by the general tropical climate matting his hair and beard though he tried to maintain his dignified look. Antonio continued to study the man in fascination before Ortiz’s voice interrupted his observations.

“I want the two of you to go check the engine of the ship and see what condition it is in, then come back and report to me,” Ortiz commanded as he pointed in the general direction of the boiler room, “bring a couple of the ship’s crew members if you need to.”

Nodding in response, Antonio turned and exchanged glances with his companion before they both took off, headed for crew they had gathered on the deck. They walked up to a couple of the men who were standing on deck, gesturing to them. The group of men seemed reluctant, having already put off by the arrest and possible pending execution that would be soon to follow. However, Antonio remained determined as he walked up to the group, tilting his head in the direction of the engine. “Come,” he said to one of them, his voice firm, but still warm, “could you please show us where the boiler room and engines are?”

The Spaniard tried his best to remain stern, though the temptation to appear sympathetic crept through his mind. He pushed the thought out of his mind, telling himself that a show of pity could only make the situation worse.

---

- Sorry, I completely rewound and replayed a scene.. and totally slowed us down.

[unitedstates]

“…as it stands, we have seized control of your ship. You and your crew are now considered prisoners of el Reino de España by my command.”

One of the documents flitted by America, blown by the wind. Or maybe it was the power of Ortiz’s breath? The manifestation of America’s greatest fear, come to life- being under the control of anyone else? He knew that this was a threat from the start, from the moment he agreed to help the Cubans, but what else was he supposed to have done, sat around and permitted the injustice? The anxiety and fear from his crewmates (and himself, really) felt like a stab to the heart. Ortiz twisted the knife with his next statement.

“This boat is now in our possession and we will take control of the helm and the entire ship from this point on. If anyone attempt to disable the machines, the boiler or damage the ship in some other way, he will be immediately and energetically punished by my orders!”

It wasn’t a new pronouncement, of course it wasn’t. It was an iteration of what he said, but God, to America it felt like bragging. It also obliterated his plan B- shoot the engine, hijack the Tornado, and convince Fry’s men to sail away with him. They wouldn’t, of course. For a group of essentially pirates, then men had a huge sense of pride when it came to following the law. Completely ironic when one looked around at the ship, the operations, what was now floating in the ocean, but who was America to lecture on picking-and-choosing situations to apply one’s morals to? It still made his heart plummet, a slight panic overtaking him, and he forced himself to close his eyes and take a deep breath. He was the United States of America, he would survive this. He had to. It would create a huge logistical problem if he didn’t.

When his eyes slid back open, only moments later, the were being forced to stand by the Spanish, who were holding guns. As the two groups started to mingle, the differences between them became more and more obvious- the sailors of the Virginius were dirty, tired, mostly unarmed (though there was one man to his far right who he could see reaching for a gun, but he was pushed to the ground by a Spaniard, who was then punched in the face by the man’s brother. They were pulled apart rather quickly, and America was disappointed when more didn’t begin to follow their example. What he wanted was chaos, outright chaos and refusal to give in to the Spanish- but of course, he didn’t get it. It made sense, there really wasn’t any logical point to revolt when they were at this point…

That didn’t mean he wanted it any less.

But no. He did as was his nature and followed the majority, the reek of sweat, testosterone, and anxiety suddenly getting to him. He wanted out of that crowd, and made his way to the side of the ship, taking a deep breath. A couple of men spoke in low voices next to him, and when he turned to them, they looked at him suspiciously before inviting him into the conversation.

“That man’s approaching us,” the taller of the two said, nodding towards a brunette making his way through the crowd. Spain. America scowled, pushing down the panic that was threatening to suck him into the abyss. It rushed through his bones, through his marrow, before sweating up to the surface and disappearing into the salty air. He took a step away from the humans, and they glared at him. ‘Coward,’ their accusing eyes read, because Spain and the man who accompanied him were clearly high in position. America just shook his head and turned to watch their approach. He was being cautious, he told himself, even if it was vastly out of character for him to do so. If Spain was approaching him, then it was better if the humans weren’t entangled in the situation. If he was approaching them, it was better if he judged it before jumping in- after all, it was best to know if it was prudent to jump on him and shoot him or not before he did it.

In the end, he wasn’t even acknowledged. Which, honestly, worked for him. “Come,”, he began, “could you please show us where the boiler room and engines are?” The man hesitated, looking at his partner, who shrugged.

The first man admitted, hesitantly, “I don’t usually work under the deck.” America recognized it as a lie- that man was the one who usually repaired the engine when it started the malfunction. He had spent about half his time on the ship under the deck- actually, that was probably why Spain had known to approach him in the first place. His pallor was rather off, not congruent to someone constantly in the sun. The second man nodded in agreement, but looking back up at Spain’s face, faltered and gave in. Of course they wouldn’t want to go below with the two men- the worst situation to be in is to be alone with your enemy.

This was why America pushed out from his hiding place. “Hey!” he called out, putting on a smile that was completely inappropriate for the situation but so him. “I know the boiler room like the back of my hand. I’ll take you there.” He gave Spain a predatory smile, helpful, sickeningly sweet, and fake all at the same time. He raised an eyebrow at the men to follow him, and nodded at Spain and the engineer.

He turned, not looking back to see if they were following him, and headed straight for the door leading to the underbelly of the ship. It was a simple trap door, leading to an area completely separate from the cabins. It was easy to secure on days of stormy weather and out of the way. Only the people who needed to access it accessed it. America tugged on the ring that served as the “door handle,” revealing a gaping chasm. Beyond the stairs, there was the glow of the engine and a scant bit of moonlight filtering in from the small portholes. He lit a couple of lanterns that hung near the stairwell. They swung dangerously, and for a moment he hoped they would crash to the floor and set the ship aflame.

Finally turning back to his enemy (he wasn’t afraid they would shoot him, oh no, he knew Spain better than to worry about that), he nodded his head in a mockery of submission, the smile from earlier twisted to a frown.

[Spain]

“No… señor, I’m afraid that I rarely go to the room, there is no way I would know where it is,” the man’s voice shivered in response to Antonio’s demand. The answer caused a small frown to form on the Spaniard’s lips, slight confusion aroused by the fact that he had a feeling that the man was not telling him the complete truth. Though, he thought to himself, why would someone do something silly like that? As if to punctuate the thought, Antonio’s olive green eyes swept over the man’s paler complexion and well-calloused hands as he felt a twinge of annoyance creep through him. However, he refrained from saying anything; the last thing he wanted at this point was to antagonize anyone on the ship. Tensions were high enough as it was, which is never good when aboard a ship where the captives overwhelmingly outnumber its captors.

“Hey! I know the boiler room like the back of my hand. I’ll take you there.”

Just as the second man bashfully nodded in affirmation that he could take them to the boiler room, Antonio turned his head in alarm. The Virginius’ crew had been so quiet up to this point that he had not expected to hear a voice that was overly familiar and perhaps too casual. But then when he met the eyes of Alfred, he tried his hardest to force himself to maintain the smile. Los Estados Unidos de América decided to show his teeth, he thought as turned to the younger man, what was the boss of this country thinking when he sent him along?

“Oh you can?” the Spaniard asked, gratitude thinly veiling his surprise and suspicion. He felt Fabrégas nudge his back, causing him to turn in time to catch the look of warning on the first engineer’s face. Then smiling, Antonio nodded his head in response to indicate that he was certain that the young American was not a threat despite his unnaturally cheerful behavior, to which Fabrégas threw up his hands as a sign of surrender. Ignoring the fact that his sudden display of trust seemed suspicious, Antonio knew better than to try to explain why he could trust Alfred, especially if it would cause him to reveal both Los Estados Unidos de América’s and his own true identity.

It was risky enough that they had gone all these years revealing their identity to their masters and their close confident. He could think of a few occasions where he had one too many close calls than he would have liked.

Seeing that Fabrégas had grown silent, respecting the fact that Antonio had the most authority after Ortiz, the Spaniard proceeded to make his way after the American. Cocky bastard, he thought to himself as he lengthened his strides, his body gently rocking side to side with the movement of the ship as he slowly caught up to the youth, when did he start wearing such a cheeky expression? The Spaniard could not deny the fact that Alfred’s demeanor exuded youthful energy, but at the same time, he could not help but feel that there was something about the way he carried himself, the way his spoke, that rubbed him the wrong way.

Eyes watched intensely as Alfred approached a door, which looked nothing more than a metal panel with a metal ring attached to it, and opened it. The door opened with a slight metallic creak, leaving a large gap, which Antonio knelt down to look into the space carefully. Though he did not try too hard to strain his eyes in the dim light, he could hear the familiar sounds of metallic mechanisms, though mostly stilled when the Virginius was captured. Seeing that this was the right place, the Spaniard looked up at his companion and nodded. “See? I told you that he’d bring us to the right place,” he confirmed in Spanish, deciding that it was best to try to disguise their exchange in another language, “he’s smart enough to know that it would be for the crew’s own good if he tried anything.”

Sweeping his hair out of his eyes to clear his vision as he stood back up and turned to the American, Antonio looked him in the eye with the same expression he gave his colonies to show that he was very much the one in control. “Thanks for showing us the door,” he reverted back to English, emphasizing his words with a slight smile of appreciation though the sentiment failed to reach his eyes like they usually did. Failing to notice the frown on Alfred’s face, but Antonio concentrated on finishing the task at hand. He was focused on taking advantage of the fact that he could potentially push him around without too much resistance. Gesturing at the stairs, Antonio nodded his head at it and asked, “Could you help us navigate the lower deck of the ship? It would help if you were around to help explain if we find something about the ship.”

The request was more redundant, both Fabrégas and he knew that. The first engineer’s proficiency in understanding and handling different makes of ships was his main asset, but Antonio did not quite feel like divulging that fact. Rather the question was more of a precaution, a safety to ensure the fact that once they were in the boiler room, the American would not try to pull any funny stunts one they were out of the sight of the main deck. Granted, it would be a poor decision if Alfred would decide to pull anything suspicious since Fabrégas had his gun pointed at him the whole time (Antonio decided against pointing his gun at the American a this point).

After all, it would be gambling with the lives of all the crewmembers of the Virginius.

Looking at Fabrégas, Antonio pointed at the entrance, gesturing to indicate that he had all the intention to go down first. “After he goes down, then I’ll go and you follow,” he said as he held his gun, taking his finger off the trigger so that it would not accidentally set off as they descended down the steep stairs. He could see the look on Frabrégas’s face soften, signs of obvious relief that he would not be the only one who would be going with Alfred. Antonio could not say that he could blame him since they were receiving help from a member of the sketchy crew, one who had been a little too willing to help. Plus if Antonio’s own abilities were any indication, the Spaniard was certain that Alfred could easily overcome the first engineer if he had left them alone.

Waiting for Alfred to make his move, Antonio kept his eyes fixed on him, watching his every move with part caution and part curiosity before following after.

[unitedstates]

“ See? I told you that he’d bring us to the right place. He’s smart enough to know that it would be for the crew’s own good if he tried anything.” Nothing could express how tempted he was to turn around and tell them that he understood what they were saying- he was an idiot, but he was also an idiot who had been living around Spanish speakers for several months, and the language they were using was simple at best. He bit his cheek, hard. His bosses (and friends and enemies and that one neighbor who flew the good ole colors of the good ole Confederacy a few streets down from the White House a few days after good ole Booth went and did in Mr. Lincoln) always told him he had to keep his opinions to himself more. Normally, he’d crack a joke about how he can’t- it’s the first amendment, but semi-constant insisting made him able to hold his tongue occasionally.

‘Occasionally’ being mostly when someone was pointing a gun at him, and he could tell that they were aching to use it on him. It was a commoner experience than he’d thought it would be. Funny. He started his life with Arthur pointing a gun at him, and just a few short years ago, he was convinced that the same would happen again- only he would have been holding the gun.

Not that it mattered now! Because all that mattered was the moment, and at that moment, not only did that human have a gun and was pointing it at him, he was sure Spain concealed a weapon somewhere as well. And Spain was undoubtedly the bigger threat. All he had to do was separate the two, however, and he could regain the ship. Hostage situations were generally effective, and a bullet would inflict infinitely more damage on that engineer than it ever would on him. Insurrection. It was what the Americans did.

“Could you help us navigate the lower deck of the ship? It would help if you were around to help explain if we find something about the ship.” America snapped his head up from brooding and grinned brightly, his default expression.

“Sure, follow me.” He looked back at the two Spaniards, before directing his gaze over their shoulders, managing to catch the eye of the man he had been standing with earlier. He cocked an eyebrow and blinked. Surprisingly, because the guy wasn’t exactly the brightest in the world, he understood America’s intention and tapped the sailor standing next to him, muttering in the general vicinity of his ear. The Cubans hated what was going on more did America did, and if America could create a sufficient distraction below deck, perhaps, perhaps…

He knew the crew, he mused as he started the descent into the bellows of the ship (at his cue, “ After he goes down, then I’ll go and you follow”. America felt more and more like a trained dog as the evening trailed on). He knew there was a large percentage of them that would rather die than live as the bitches of the Spanish. He knew that there were a few of thm who had joined the Virginius with the firm belief that it was a suicide mission- crucifixes worn at all times, good-byes already spoken to mothers and sons and wives. But there were also those that planned on living- on living God they believe in life so much it hurt. And it was them America fear and worried about- the most fragile of the lot would be the first to cower from a fight.

He turned his thoughts from the abstract and concentrated on the footsteps behind him. The lighter, closer ones were clearly that of Spain, while his man clunked behind him- fitting for a man who worked with the mechanical. It was, however, undoubtedly frustrating that the former insisted on coming along- matters would have been so much simpler had be and Fabrégas been alone.

At the bottom of the stairs, America looked out into the dark, low-hanging hallway, almost immediately beginning to sweat from the heat of the boilers. There was a dull hum and clank as the machines, mostly shut down now, pumped away. He turned and nodded at the two Spaniards. [color=cornflowerblue “Gentlemen,”[/color] he said with the most irony he could manage, “As you can clearly see, we’ve arrived.” He reached up, deliberately antagonizing, and caressed the pipe nearest him, feeling the texture of dents and messages to loved ones scratched in by men over the short years the Virginius had sailed. He had one up there himself, To life, and freedom it read, something he had carved in a melancholic mood.

He stepped closer to the engraving to allow the engineer to pass by both Spain and himself and inspect everything. He watched the man at work, closely, looking for a weak spot or an opening. He caught several, and took none. Turning his head to Spain, he smiled convivially. “That man is the engineer, right? He’s checking on the ship for you guys?” He paused a moment for an answer before plowing ahead, “What does that make you? His babysitter?”

The point was to illicit a reaction- of course America knew Spain, of course Spain knew America. Fabrégas didn’t know that either was true (though he might infer it by the overly casual tone, if he could one, understand English fluently and two, didn’t just decide America was an irreverent bastard who deserved a lungful of fish piss), so he hid it behind his genuine feelings of antagonistic animosity.

[Spain]

As Alfred descended below the deck, Antonio waited for a few moments before following after, lightly resting his feet on the rungs lest the American decided to stop his descent. After all, captured or uncaptured, friend or foe, it would be rude to step onto the face of someone who had agreed to help them without a prompt. Granted, Alfred's compliant nature seemed strange, unnatural even, since the entire crew of the ship was uneasy and high tension lingering in the air. The Spaniard could not help but find himself thinking that the American was up to something, especially when he was wearing an expression of a three-year-old up to no good (he's had to watch enough kids in the past to know). The metal ladder clinked continued as they descended continued on, until Fabrégas's heavy feet touched the ground.

Though he could feel it the moment he was completely below the deck, the air in he room grew warmer, causing them to sweat as the stuffiness threatened to almost suffocate them. Almost immediately, Antonio loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top couple buttons on his shirt, and rolled his sleeves up. Whether it was appropriate or not, he did not really care either way, it was much better than fainting from overheat. He turned to look at the engineer and saw that he did the same as he walked past him and headed for the boilers for inspection. The low rumble of the boilers continued, though much more quietly than if they were working at full throttle. Antonio's first instinct was to find something to lean on, but from what it looked like, it was highly unlikely.

As he watched from where he stood, Antonio patiently waited for the man to finish the inspection. He was certain that Fabrégas was a hard working man, if he was not the case, he would not have been brought along with for the capture. However, with Alfred being surprisingly quiet (he had expected at least some type of jab taken at them at some point), there was nothing else in the room for him to exactly look at. That was, until the American spoke, causing the Spaniard to turn his head and fix his olive green eyes on Alfred's sky blue eyes.

“That man is the engineer, right? He’s checking on the ship for you guys? What does that make you? His babysitter?”

The question caused Antonio to look at the American with a look of mixed confusion and annoyance at the tone of familiarity. He was hoping that Alfred would at least wait until they were completely alone before he would act like they knew each other. After all, it was not as if they had met up with each other on friendly terms, so why bother to strike up a conversation at all? However, considering how much weary Fabrégas was of the American, how much he wanted to have nothing to do with the members of the Virginius, the Spaniard figured that it would be all right if he stepped in and deal with the American. “Well, of course he’s checking the engines for us, looks like he is, isn’t he?” he replied in English with a small frown, “As for babysitting him, why would I do that? I came down because I was more concerned about a much younger child.”

Though he knew that it was not quite the answer that Alfred was looking for, Antonio could not help but reply with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. In any other given situation, he would have treated the younger man with more respect, but fatigue, combined with the heat in the boiler room and the overall situation, the bitter Spaniard could only really treat him with animosity. It did not help that Alfred was very much associated with the criminals, providing them with aid. The realization only irked Antonio even more that it made his attempt to keep his household orderly even more difficult. After all, if anything, he saw Cuba like his own rebellious child and los Estados Unidos de América as his delinquent friend who was helping him act up. In his eyes, such crooked nations deserved just as much punishment as the criminals they helped.

“I finished.”

The sudden announcement caused Antonio to turn his attention to the first engineer,who looked at him with a small frown on his face before he walked past them, heading for the ladder to the deck. With that task completed, the Spaniard felt relief wash over him as he gave Alfred one last glance before following the engineer. They would be able to get out of the suffocating heat and tow the ship back to Cuba before the crew members decided that there was a chance that they would be able to successfully throw the Spaniards off the ship. At least, that was a what Antonio hoped would happen, but given that Alfred had not really acted up yet may be a good sign, hopefully.

When they reached the deck, Antonio turned to Alfred and smiled at him, giving him one of those lop-sided smiles that he decided to give as an afterthought. Though it was not like he exactly wanted to be pleasant with the American right now, but at some point, he was convinced that this would deny Alfred any reason to act up, if he happened to be looking for a chance to do so. He would have a talk with him one-on-one at some later point (possibly to deck him in the face). With that, he filed after Fabrégas, who had decided to not waste another minute and had went to report to Ortiz.

When he found the group, he was surprised to see that Padro had finally brought his ship around. Half of his crew had boarded the ship while the others remained, apparently watching as the prisoners got into the boat. Seeing that Fabrégas was busy conversing with Ortiz, possibly to tell him about the condition of the ship, he turned to another member of the newly arrived crew.

“Hey,” he said as he approached him, “what's going on deck now? We're loading everyone already?” He watched as the men made their way along the length of the ship, their eyes searching the deck. The man gestured towards them and replied, “The officer commanded us to search the ship for evidence and to report the condition of the ship. He said that we should make sure to bring up anyone that we would come upon during the sweep”

Antonio looked at the man in interest, though fatigue was clearly overcoming him as he nodded. “I guess I might as well come along and take a look at the ship too,” he said thoughtfully his eyes followed the crew, “I have been wondering what it looked like in the rest of the ship. Though I will need to talk to Ortiz first before I do that, I need to give him my report as well.” Antonio pounced on the chance to take a look at the rest of the ship, though it was blatantly obvious that los Estados Unidos de América was involved with this ship, he also wanted to avoid having to baby-sit the prisoners. He could feel his blood slowly boiling at the mere thought of it, but slowly smiled at the man. “Hopefully after this, we'll be able to pull this boat back to shore and then be able to call it a day!” he added cheerfully, having long discarded the restraint in hiding any discontent for this task.

The man merely nodded in response, clearly caring more about trying to get this over with so that the entire crew could go home. Antonio could not blame him for he felt the same way too.

When he realized that he was standing by himself, Antonio turned and made his way towards Ortiz and Fabrégas, clearly free of any worries as it seemed as if the situation was under control.

Well, mostly until something completely unexpected happens.