The sea was rolling. The Master had always assumed that was a figure of speech, but there it was, rolling around under him. He tried to keep his balance, gave up, and sat down on the deck. One of the Terzi clicked at him, concerned.
"Just keep doing what you were doing," said the Master. "Masts and rigging and things. I'll just sit here and try to get my sea stomach."
The Terzi clicked, laughing. The Master scowled. Yes, a sea-faring species of alien, very good. It was why he'd gotten a ride from them after getting separated from the Doctor. But they needn't be so smug about it.
"Why did it have to be the sea," the Master mumbled to himself. "Why did it have to be nineteenth century Earth?" He'd never had this much trouble with submarines or speedboats. Those cut through the water, instead of letting themselves be buffeted around.
The Terzi were chattering amongst themselves, pointing at the ship cresting the horizon. Some of them were already running out cannons, pirates that they were. The Terzi were on Earth for the loot - of 'anthropological artifacts,' as they would have it. The Master stood up, shakily.
"Should I go below decks? When do you expect to start firing?"
A Terzi clicked as it passed him.
"Oh," said the Master. Three or four hours. "My kingdom for a motor."
He wished the Doctor was there to appreciate the butchery of Shakespeare. Metaphorical butchery was generally to the Doctor's taste, even if the other sort wasn't.
Three or four hours later, the Master was sitting behind the cabins, hoping they would shield him from the explosions and splinters.
"I was good at fighting Daleks," he said to himself. "If Daleks are on a boat, you just push them out. They're not dextrous enough to operate a cannon."
The Terzi started screaming, a low-pitched, grating sound. They were being boarded.
The Master put up his hands and prepared to hypnotize his way to not being shot.
"What are these damn lizards?" shouted a human voice. "They don't look like anything I've seen on Earth."
"Obviously," muttered the Master. Someone was rounding the side of the cabin.
"There's someone human here, Sir," said the man. He was holding his gun in shaking hands, looking between the Master and a group of the Terzi.
"Let me talk to him," said a new voice. "I won't get anywhere with these things."
"They understand English," called the Master. "Though I'll be happy to translate for-"
The new man was short, with an officer's uniform and curly dark hair, drawn back with a ribbon. He looked unbearably familiar, and the Master briefly allowed his hearts to rise.
"Doctor?" The military bearing didn't suit him at all.
"D'you need one?" said the officer. "You don't look injured."
"Oh, good," said the Master. His hearts sunk again. "Fobwatched, amnesiac, or mistaken identity. A lovely array of terrible options."
"You make less sense than these beasts," said the officer. He raised his voice, as if he could shout understanding into the Master's presumably insensible skull. "We're taking this as a prize ship. Go to the hold and take your lizards with you."
Some of the Terzi were already moving to the hold. Presumably they were already planning out their rebellion - the Master resolved to help that along as much as possible. He stood up, brushing splinters off of his vest.
"Are we to be prisoners?" the Master asked.
"Until we reach land," said the officer. "Then you'll speak to my superiors."
"How far away is land?" If this was the Doctor, the Master needed to know how long he had to break the amnesia or whatever-this-was. If this wasn't the Doctor, he needed to know how long he could wait for the Doctor to actually turn up.
The officer shrugged. "Two or three weeks?"
"I hate the nineteenth century," said the Master, with feeling. "And boats."
"It's a ship," said the officer, with all of the disdain for a civilian. "A sloop-of-war."
The Master did not appreciate the distinction, though Lieutenant Bush tried very hard to explain it, in the weeks to follow.
The Master was tempted to see if blow to the head would restore the Doctor's memory. Of course, if it wasn't the Doctor, it might just give Bush a concussion. It might even give the Doctor a concussion.
"A sloop refers to the purpose of the ship," said Bush, for approximately the fifteenth time. "A boat is for fishermen."
It was really a win no matter what, the Master decided.