Dorian Lasseter

Happiest o Natal Days Lad!!!

May your day be plentiful in Swag n' Booty!

Slainte!!!

Aye!

Happiest o' Natal Days, Stynky!!!

How many bottles o Meade will appear an' disappear from yer hand this day?

Slainte!!!

Or... not...

A surprising number of sailors don't know how to swim in period...

So, if ya wanna be accurate...

Go fer them lessons!!!

Currently drinking air (it IS a fluid... )

Hope to maybe be drinkin' a gin & tonic after work, or whatever I can get my hands on while watching Hockey...

He shut his eyes and mouthed a ‘thank you’ to the Surgeon, moved to the side so she might pass. Dorian let his full weight sag on the bulkhead as he waited, not caring that his marines present saw him in such a state. While in the service of the English, he had seen captains and officers try as they might to show themselves to be untouched by human emotions. Hard and bitter to the last in order to maintain discipline among their crew. He now saw what a farce it was. Mayhaps he was not the best captain, but he would not treat his men as if they were animals, would not be seen as a heartless bastard as he had once called an officer before slamming his drunken fist into the man’s face several times until he was pulled off. While in this state of being, his thoughts were disturbed by footfalls coming aft. They were of an even gait and solidly stomped onto the deck with each step. When the Captain felt them close, he opened his eyes to see Charlie Marsh come to a stop.

“Cap’n sah… Seein’ as we’re under weight, permission ta light to fire proper an start on th’ midday meal?”

Dorian’s mouth curled up on one side. He liked Charlie, though had only known him a short time. He was gruff but somehow quite likeable.

“Aye, Mister Marsh… And be so kind as to make… something to be brought to the wardroom for breakfast, if you please…”

Charlie bobbed his head in a rolling nod and barely put a hand to his forelock before turning back to the galley. He spoke to the air before him as he went.

“Aye Cap’n sah… I’ll see wot chickens survived an either fix some eggs er fix thems them chickens that didn’t fer a tray. Poached , boiled, roasted… Got a hog from the ship we sunk fer midday… should be bled out soon an ready ta butcher…”

Dorian could do no more than chuckle at the man under his breath.

At sea, 7 August 1704

It was the last straw, the innocent smile given to Captain Lasseter by his Ship’s Master. His jaw clenched so hard that the marines heard Dorian’s teeth creek and grind under the pressure. The Captain slammed his shillelagh into the bulkhead, and had it not been made of such stern wood, it would have shattered. Dorian took a quick step to Preston and grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back into his quarters muttering curses in gaelic through his clenched teeth. There he pushed the man onto his seachest and held him there. He worked his jaw once before finding his voice. When he spoke it was cold and even.

“I dun’t know wot yer on about… Wot’s in yer head… But until th’ Surgeon tells me yer fit enough, and only then, shall we have a meal in th’ wardroom fer ta discuss business… I cannot make it any clearer than that… Wot you did…

He stopped a moment and looked Preston square in the eyes.

“Jameson, Stadtmeyer… You know my orders… He is to remain here until I say… I will go and gather the Surgeon presently…”

Dorian let Preston go and stood at his full height, stepped out of his quarters and now looked at the two marines.

“Are we clear, gentlemen?”

He did not wait for an answer, for they had only one to give if they knew what was best for them. Turning away and into the darkness of belowdecks, the Captain moved quickly and with determination to find Miss O’Treasaigh, his injuries all but forgotten in his fury. He found her back at work, tending to his injured crew. Stopping an arms length from her as she tended to Jeffrey Elijah. Dorian took several long, even breaths before addressing her.

“Miss O’Treasaigh… Would you do me the honour of following me to Master Whittingferds’ quarters so that you might assess his… might see if he is fit for duty… And afterwards, join me for a bit of breakfast in the Wardroom… so we might discuss…”

Maeve gave him a curious look, due to his halting speech and stiff manner. Something was amiss. There was more to what the Captain was saying, or asking. She nodded gently.

“Yes Captain, as soon as I finish with this bandage we’ll have a look. Won’t be but a moment, sir.”

Dorian bowed his head.

“Aye, mum…”

He waited, eyes half closed, using his ears more than eyes to tell what was happening until her footfalls stopped before him. She stood before him as he opened his eyes and he motioned for her to follow. The short time standing had allowed his temper to cool and his wounds made their pain known again, causing him to rely on the walking stick for the short trip to the quarters of Master Whittingford. Just as they came to his door, Dorian turned and bent close to the Surgeon.

“I am in need of more than just a look at his wounds… I need ta know if he’s stable in his mind… something happened aboard th’ ship, he did… what no sane man I know might… I just… I need… If you can tell me…”

Words utterly failed him at the moment and all he could do was look at Maeve, hoping she understood what he was in need of knowing.

Here-here!

Raise a glass one and all! Give thanks for all your fortunes, whatever they may be...

Go n-éirí an bóthar leat

Go raibh an ghaoth go brách ag do chúl

Go lonraí an ghrian go te ar d'aghaidh

Go dtite an bháisteach go mín ar do pháirceanna

Agus go mbuailimid le chéile arís,

Go gcoinní Dia i mbos A láimhe thú.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends that are family here...

Slainte!

Mais oui!

Comment, Capitaine Sterling? Y a-t-il un problème ?

Interesting topic...

I was conversing with a fellow in France and he sent me an image out of a book - I wish I knew what book - of a sailor, circa 1700, wearing a short jacket over a long wesket...

And check out the moustache!!!

Edit;

Here's the site it's from; http://historic-marine-france.com/uniforme/uniformeimagerie.htm

Happiest o' Natal Days to ye Lad! (a day late, but eh, wot's a day?)

Have a grand ol' time celebratin' at PIP!!!

Aye Ripp...

She's in need of a bit of work indeed... I've also spoken to the gentleman who built her and it's a pity the board of directors who were put in place when she was built for R.I. had no sense of history. Her lines were altered and she was made of fiberglass because they had 'better ideas'... The bow was changed, giving her a wicked weather helm and to compensate a Dolphin Striker was added to the bow-sprit which is several years out of period for her. I could go on, but I don't wish to soil the lass too badly All issues aside, she's a lovely ship...

If I ever find more of them, and can't buy them myself I'll let you know...

Mission,

The 'candle in the sphere' is something I purchased some years ago at Pennsic... And I have two of them.

Excellent ships candle holders, fondly referred to as 'the Hamster-balls of Death'

Aye William...

I should send you a copy of all the image I have...

Let you 'fix' all of them in such a grand way...

Just a couple images to whet the appetite...

“Right as rain, my arse! You’ll do no such thing…”

Dorian stepped around to face Preston and regained some energy through his temper being trifled with.

“First thing yer gonna do is set yer arse back in yer quarters an’ have the surgeon examine you. Once I’m satisfied, you’ll be escorted ta th’ wardroom fer a meal and we can talk about wot it is you think we have ta do… Do I make myself clear, Master Whitingford?”

He tried not to sound too cross, but some fear that Preston had lost his senses took a mild grip on the Captain. Some doubt crept into his head, call it a sailor’s superstition, that the Lucy was a cursed ship. That maybe Neptune or some of his minions were at work to make it so. He griped the head of his shillelagh and thumped the tip onto the deck, trying to shake the thought.

It was is if Murphy himself were at his coattails, making sure he could not get a moment of peace. Captain Lasseter tilted his head back and could do no more than breath out a ghostly laugh. Righting himself, Dorian turned and headed back to the Ship’s Master’s quarters. Seeing the unsure looks on Johan and Robert’s faces, he shook his head and stepped to the door, opening it to see Preston wiggling about, still bound in his hammock.

“Good ta see you awake, lad… Calm yerself an’ I’ll have ye released…”

The man did as his captain bid and settled himself, to which the captain had Mister Jameson come and untie the line, releasing the Ships Master. Preston slowly righted himself and seemed to do an internal inventory, making sure he was all in one piece. He was relatively quiet for the time being, so Dorian leaned on his shillelagh and waited to see what Preston might do, or say.

Aboard the Lucy

“Temper yerself Mister Brocke… Was quite a battle on that deck, I found m’self on all points of the compass during the fight. If you mean ta say he might’ve been shot by our own men… purposely… That raises grave issues… I did not see him take th colours, and he would have had his back quite exposed at that time. Who’s to say he wasn’t shot by any number of the snow’s crew? I’ll have words wi’ th’ Surgeon when I can about this…”

Brocke made to interject, but Dorian held up his hand.

“You have made your point Nathaniel… I will take it into consideration. If… If we do find we have more trouble… It shall be dealt with swiftly… Keep an ear pen fer talk amongst th’ men… Once we get back ta some plain sailing, I’ll address th’ officers an’ see wot we can sort out. Carry on Master Brocke…”

They're here til the 15th of November, open 9-5 daily for tours...

$7 for adults... didn't say how much for Pirates...

Found out today that the replicas of the Nina and Pinta are in my home port o' Pittsburgh, PA for the next week!

I walked down from work and took a couple pictures...

Captain Lasseter narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow, trying to concentrate through his weariness. Brocke was rightly concerned, but what he reported did not seem so urgent or worth reporting in such a way.

“Aye… he were quite shot up indeed… front, back, all about his person… Did a fine job and was quite in harm’s way…”

Nathaniel stood with a confused look on his face, as if what he had told the captain was perfectly clear. Dorian sighed with exasperation.

“A’right… Out with it man… Don’t mince words, I’m too tired fer vagueness…”

He stood and looked at the man, dead in the eyes, waiting for him to speak.

As the captain of the Lucy found his way into the berth-space and hold that was serving as a sick bay. He walked around to all those wounded to see what might be done. Jeffrey Elijah was half laying against the bulkhead cradling his head, a bandage wrapped around his face where his right eye once was. Patrick Godfrey had taken several splinters to his right arm which was now bandaged, some blood soaked through. James Whiting and Loren Brant were laid up, leaving two less marines on duty. Next he came to those who were in worse shape, Master Flint lay on his back, breathing well but quite comatose, his body covered in bandages. Nicholas Trodd lay feverish, having taken splinters and shrapnel in his left side. Thomas Ried was also fevered, having lost his lower right leg to shot. As he approached Brenton Coles, Dorian knew… He’d seen death shipboard before and here it was fresh. The man had been stabbed in the throat and it had been his undoing. He lay, eyes glassy and mouth slack with a string of bloody spittle trailing out of the corner of his mouth and onto his shirt. Without a word, captain Lasseter headed topside and pulled Nigel aside to have some men quietly have Coles brought on deck to be prepared for burial with the others. Nigel nodded and headed to gather some men. With a weary sigh, Dorian headed aft, but not to his quarters. Instead he headed to the Masters cabin to find him asleep, still bound in his hammock. Turning to those he left to guard him, he spoke softly.

“I must ask you to keep guard over him until I say otherwise… When he wakes, untie him… he’ll be free ta move about, but not outta yer sight, understand? And no arms, period…”

Both men knuckled their brows resignedly.

“Extra spirits when I release ye from this duty, aye?”

They smiled some and Dorian nodded, clapping each on the shoulder before turning to leave. His knee ached now but he continued to work it with help from his walking stick until he arrived at the door to the wardroom where Mister Tucker caught up with him.

“Cap’n, sah… Enough repairs have been made fer us ta be under weigh, sah. Wot’er yer orders, sah?”

“Aye… You n’ Mister Brisbane get us under weigh, pass word to th’ Watch Dog, We’ll fall aft and let her take th’ lead if you please. I’ll be on deck in due course…”

“Aye-aye, sah!”

Once Tucker was gone, Lasseter leaned against the door and rubbed his face with one hand. He stood there for a good five minutes before pushing himself back on his feet and slowly heading back into the morning light.

That is why we know our crews and most of us don't accept walk ons. Nobody crews my pieces that I have not known for some time and trained them personally. I know the difference between when they are sober and when they have had a couple. And they all know that if I EVER catch them trying to crew when they've had a drink, they are off the crew. Not just for that event, but permanently. Whether it's crewing a piece, shooting in the line, or sparring with blunts, you need to be stone sober and in top shape. Anything less, whether from drink, hangover, or illness, and you stand down. Period. How long for depends on how stupid you tried to be.

Hawkyns

How very interesting you wrote this...

I was reading the thread(s) and commented to myself that I've taken myself off the line because of a headache and another time due to a headcold. No matter how much I enjoy crewing a gun, sparing, etc., I will not do so impaired. Not just for my own safety, but for the well-being of everyone else around me. I am responsible for my actions, and if they cause harm to others, that's on me. I wish this was a universal thought among the masses.

Yes I have done some damned stupid things in my youth - once - (I'll tell tales on myself later, not here). I learned from these experiences, luckily with little to no harm done but to my pride. So I can say 'been there, done that, thank gods no one got hurt'.