The two lifeboats are lowered quickly, and light begins to spill out over the gnashing waves in a baleful, orange glow-- a blessing, be assured, for those whose boats are lowered, and it isn't long before one is full-righted and four men have its oars in hand.  In that wicked light, a lance of black shadow extends out from the cursing and desperate men aboard one of the lifeboats-- a gaff, its steel hook tipped, as is custom, with a fist-sized hunk of cork-wood, toward the closest man in the water, then the next-- Jin, unburdened, is still fighting to stay afloat, the brine stinging his eyes and nose, the fecund taste of it in his mouth.<br/><br/>The gaff hooks under his arm, steadying him, guiding him toward the small boat.  Calathes, recognizing opportunity when he sees it, is able to reach his hand out to Jin, and the men are able to lock hands at the wrist, aiding with directed kicks to bring themselves to the small, stout craft, even as hands not busy at the oars furiously bail or fight with the oilcloth tarp that will, hopefully, keep them from being utterly swamped.  The men hauling are only shadows in the dark and the hellish glow, their cries angry and afraid, the fight of the living to remain so.<br/><br/>Galacia takes to the flames like a fish, edging her way to Brogan easily and, alongside him, the two have made passage to the lowering boat.  The last few survivors on the deck are furiously cramming inside, one scar-knotted workman in a long, black coat even offering Galacia his hand and ensuring she's secure mid-craft... courtesy among these rough men is undying, even in the face of horror.  Brogan manages to fix his eyes on captain Finz after all-- not among the passengers of the lifeboat, but standing the quarterdeck, her lanky arms folded behind her waist and her dark, tobacco-stained teeth gleaming in a broad smile.  "Get on that craft, lad--" she cries out, calm and fierce against the raging storm clear enough for him to hear.  "I'll get you that drink in the next world."<br/><br/>There is a burst of cinders as her deck collapses, and she tumbles into the forge of the ship's engulfed lower decks.<br/><br/>Hours will pass... men coughing, burned men moaning and griping softly, bodies pressed and stinking wet in the small crafts.  Both craft are enshrouded in their tarps, the stormwater leaking through every seam.  The hours will pass slowly, the darkness omnipresent, and the men-- those who can muster it-- will begin to sing--not some idyllic sea shanty, though the sound is perplexing enough as it is-- a mournful dirge, their a capella voices in rough harmony... a way to be heard, a hope to be rescued by the other ships.<br/><br/>The storm lessens, the singing continues.  A man vomits seawater, the singing continues.  Sleep may come, it may not.  But when the roaring, throaty cry of the storm lessens-- as quickly as it came upon them-- there is daylight.  Ropes are cast, and when they dare pull back the tarp, there is a welcoming, shrill cry-- gull, filling the air? circling black shapes that dive at the flotsam of the sea, feasting on the living things dredged up from the depths.  "Well, gods be titty-fucking my aunt Watila, I can see the bloody shore!" cries a youth, his gap-toothed grin sparkling with amazement.<br/><br/>And that is it.  Bearded kisses all around, oars are hauled with renewed vigor by split hands and aching backs.  The two lifeboats are tethered to the companion ships, and the sails are raised to haul them in with spirit.  Literally spirits as well-- a case of rum is broken open and bottles are lowered by ropes, along with a few wheels of cheese and hunks of hard bread-- they lack the manpower to haul the lifeboats in, so much of the morning is spent in tow until the main ship-- the Autumn Raggard-- first makes port.<br/><br/>There is hammering on the pier as hasty repairs are underway, and the crew can make out Fort Masakër's long, clean line on the peninsula, a fresh-raised imperial banner fluttering at the keep.  Soon after they see threads of gray smoke from cookfires, and bare-backed men of many shapes-- their skin tan, brown, olive in the midday sun.  The colony's worn boards and slanted roofs wait, dusty streets up into the jungled hills.  And by the port, waiting like a trophy in the deep, white sand, a broken piece of statuary as big as a barn juts up from the white beach... the remnants of a colossal leg of stone.