The ship sat still in the water, undisturbed by the ripples cast by the patrol floats that had come out to investigate. It seemed the world held its breath as they probed it, searching for signs of neutrality -- or otherwise. Finally, they gave their report to the town: the ship seemed to be uninhabited.
Mecheslav sat on the docks, though you wouldn’t notice if you were passing by on the way to the ship, as many did that day. You wouldn’t notice because he was huddled under layers of dirty canvas, serving as blankets, and he was keeping as still as possible. His reasoning was that by becoming invisible to the world, perhaps he would become invisible to his troubles as well. Now, he knew as well as you that his theory was an impossibility, but it gave him a goal to get through the day.
He watched the people, though they didn’t see him, and wondered where their lives went. What made a difference, at the end of the day? Was their hard-earned money making a dent in the suffering of the world? Did their families sleep at night, feeling safe and loved? He somehow doubted it.
After all, the world little loved him. Him and his kind. Oh, they had loved him once, to be sure. They had begged for his services, and he had complied, knowing his duty. It was not always pleasant, but he did it for love of his country and his people. Then they had discarded him, and he was no more than fish waste on the docks, something to ignore and hope the gulls would clean up.
Mecheslav shifted against the ocean wind. It didn’t used to bother him so, but his skin was stretching and thinning with old age, and he no longer remembered what it was to skim over the swells.
All those deemed unnecessary after the war were Rerouted, sent to learn a more profitable craft. Those who refused were taken away and never spoken of again. Everyone knew what happened to them, but it was just another fact of life to be left on the docks. The nation acquired a sense of mass paranoia, deeming those who misunderstood the definition of ‘patriotism’ to be terrorists and threats to society. Mecheslav had belonged to a group of rebels, defending their place in the world and refusing to conform. They had been dispersed and hunted down. He didn’t know if any others had survived.
Mecheslav looked up as families passed him, laughing and pointing at the ship, wondering with large eyes how such an artifact had come to them. They admired its masts and majesty, trying to imagine life aboard its decks. His heart ached for them. A doll fell from a girl’s grasp, left behind and forgotten as her mother continued to drag her toward the sight. He thought of picking it up and returning it to her, but knew that would do no good. She would get a new one soon, a better one, more beloved. He thought he saw something familiar in the doll’s frozen eyes.
Black boots interrupted Mecheslav’s studying gaze, which fell on a scuff that had not yet been shined out. His eyes traveled up the crisply uniformed body to a face barely covered by the brim of his cap. The figure squinted against the sun, no love of this place echoing in his eyes. He looked directly at the outcast, then down at a scrap of paper held in his hands.
“Captain Mecheslav?” he rasped against the wind, looking again at the bundle on the docks. It was more of a confirmation than a question. Other Defenders of Justice joined his side. “You have refused your duties and encouraged others to do the same. You have thereby committed treason against this country, and your soul shall be taken as punishment.”
Two Defenders grabbed Mecheslav on either side, lifting him roughly out of his canvas cocoon. He did not struggle, but desperately looked over his shoulder at the ship as they dragged him off.
“Goodbye, old friend,” he whispered, then turned to face his fate.
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Author's Note: The title is an allusion to Walt Whitman's poem "O Captain! My Captain!" on the subject of Abraham Lincoln's assassination. Just a bit of trivia for you. 
