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The next morning found us all on the right side of the ship, five bodies wrapped tightly in sails waiting to go to rest. From the looks of it, everyone had a massive hangover, but they were all somber, sad even, as they readied themselves to bid farewell to their fallen mates.
Four men stepped forward, lifting one of the canvas draped bodies onto a plank and grunting slightly as they hefted it into the air above their shoulder. As they slid it down the plank and over the side of the ship, Tristan, in a voice loud and clear, spoke the name of the man. “Jonathan Keys!” The next body was picked up in the same manner, followed by the remaining three. The sea had claimed the last man—the body that was not present— during the battle. A sword was flung in the water in his honor, and his name was called just as loudly and proud as the men before him.
As the proceedings ended, the men slowly drift away one by one, the sadness I expected to see on the previous night coming about here. Eventually, even Captain Rodrigues retired to his cabin without another word, leaving me with Tristan and an order for more whiskey.