William Brand

With the threat of the prize lost looming over their heads, William ordered anyone not at work below or in the keeping of prisoners to haul over those goods aboard the snow to the frigate and cutter. As this was done, William was presented with the Master's Mate from the snow. "Sah, I present Randall Byington, Master's Mate aboard..." Jim began, but the man cut him off. "Lord Randall Arthur Byington." he corrected. "Of course," Jim returned. "Of the ship...What ship is this, Lord Byington?" Byington straightened. "The King's Fury." William almost smiled but didn't. Instead he looked about the shattered snow and repeated the name again, but with a foreboding meant for Byington. "Indeed. The King's Fury." If Byington caught the implication, his face did not show it. Instead the man was all business. He presented papers and ledgers of the snow and asked what would become of him and his men. He was altogether direct on this point, almost to the point of demanding answers. William assured the man that such questions would be answered in time, and the man was made to wait while William opened a ledger or two and read them by a light at the rail. He did not intentionally cause the man to wait, his questions all unanswered, but wait he did. After a time Byington began clucking his tongue impatiently. "Must you do that, sah?" William asked, not looking up, for the sound had begun to wear on him. Byington seemed unaware of the pretentious habit, and was first baffled, then embarrassed. "Come, sah. I will have an answer." William looked up at the man. Just that, but the look went on and on. It was the verbal equivalent of a senior officer's rebuke to a subordinate, though it utterly failed to touch Byington's well built sense of superiority. Byington was too well armed with self assurance as measured out by God and King to allow even one of Brand's looks to dismantle the island fortress of his dignity. William simply went back to reading.

...and so forth.

Did you meant to say that you are 'too hot for your coat' or that 'the weather is a bit on the hot side to be wearing a coat?' Either way, you're probably right.

Ahem. Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday dear Silkie, Murin, Mary, Anne, and so forth! Happy Birthday to you. And now, I'll wait for the owners of said song to sue the living daylights out of me.

Jim Warren came to the precipice between the frigate and snow and called for Captain Brand. His voice was not urgent, but it bore a little something which gave William a sense of urgency just the same. By the time William reached the rail, Jim was standing almost between both ships, his hand upon a grappling line not yet removed. "Sah, the snow is dashed in below. I must insist on a half watch of men at the buckets." William agreed of course, sending men of the 'Dog and Spaniards both to serve the carpenters above and below. "Use them as you will, Mister Warren." Jim turned with a nod and would have gone, but he turned about again, remembering another matter. "Sah. Mister Roberts reports that he cannot find Christophe Lefevre." "Cannot find him?" William looked about. "He's not lost over the side?" "I cannot say." Jim admitted, so William sent him away again, for the matter of the prize was paramount to them. Then he called for the marines of the watch to send word about for Mister LeFevre.

No, we'll haul you out to sea. Or at least throw you in from the beach and try and nudge you out a bit with sticks or something. Boogator is bringing bamboo poles. If we can't nudge you away we'll build a raft and set it ablaze.

More than a hammock? Send them all along and I'll see them posted.

I honestly think that you should bring as many as you can. We can build all sorts of temporary structures with them and the Bone Island Buccaneers will certainly find uses for them year to year. We'll cut them to size at PIP.

Those of you who ordered women's sizes, please check your messages. I tried sending one to McDrago, but it won't go through, so drop me a message and see if you box is full.

Done. Thank you for the update, and we could certainly use an extra tent.

We have close to 140 pirates in attendance on this list, not counting the Bone Island Buccaneers. Some of these are not camping, but we have nearly reached our limit if all of them attend. I have begun listing tent allotments next to names.

No, we'll haul you out to sea.

Jenny had only just gained the weatherdecks when she spotted Durand assisting the good Doctor to the deck of the snow. Each of them bore the boxes of necessary, albeit gruesome tools of the Chirurgeon. Durand had laid aside his usual heavy coat and was rolling up his sleeves, perhaps in preparation to assist, for only in stooping to surgery would the man fit below decks. Maeve looked pale and careworn. She had not troubled to change the bloodied apron of her trade, which had not effectively kept the blood from her skirts. Her sleeves looked dipped and dyed, but she went without word or greeting to Jenny, who had already turned on her heal to lead them both below, anxious to be ahead of Maeve, so as to keep her between herself and Durand. Once they gained the space that passed for a surgery aboard the Lucy, Maeve began to order everyone about. Unlike Brand or Lasseter, she was captain of any surgery in her charge and no one made any argument against it. Indeed, Marsh looked the more relieved for it, and Maeve was equally relieved to find him and the others already at work. Even Durand joined in, and it became apparent that he was there for the quick and tiring work of lifting or sawing.

William sent Jack again with a final nod and some unheard remarks. He reported that the ship's doctor would be made available as soon as possible. Meanwhile, he put his head in at the surgery door and was able to glean bandages and some medicines for use by the Lucy's wounded. these were pressed into the hands of Pierre St-Germain and James Standiford, with orders that the two lads should go with Miss Ashcombe and be aides to her until such a time as the doctor should arrive and say differently.

Mister Roberts and the Captain spoke at length, thought the conversation consisted of mostly pauses and nods on the Captain's part. Their conversation was not long to be certain, but Miss Ashcombe was made to wait while Durand watched her from where he stood. Durand was not so frightful in aspect as a man, apart from the disconcerting eye, but he implied a certain power and unknown that tended to give people pause. His face, while not unfriendly in any particular way, was not a face of many smiles. He didn't present the laugh lines of a joyful face, nor did he have the face of an angry man. His was the face of the deliberate and the calm, showing emotion when he wanted to or expressing nothing readable at all. At the moment, he was simply regarding her, completely unaware it seemed that such regard without expression implied too many unknown dangers to be friendly. Then, completely despite himself, he grinned a little. He simply couldn't help it. It was something about having a woman aboard ship, and more importantly, one that he had met before.

Durand noted the furrow which had spread across William's brow. It was something in the news of the man Flint and something else as well. Durand did not ask, and felt that it was not his place, though with Tudor about he smiled a little. She returned his regard with something cool that only made him like her the more. Aboard the snow, Jim Warren was calling the boarders to him and assembling them to go back to the frigate as they may. He kept a handful for himself, to do what duty they might. Jonah Greene happened then up from below. The man looked soaked clean through and bloodied besides, though Jim could see no mark on him. "She's stove in astern and taking on water, sah! Teeke's at the matter now, and Wenge is there, but she'll not be put right without more men and haste."

William, more sober than not already, sobered still. "You have them there." William pointed, for some were still aboard the snow, but he called the rest and marshaled them over sending word to Eric Franklin to see those prisoners well guarded. "John Clovely is my man lost. And Paul Mooney is twice shot or more." he called to Dorian, who was looking about still for Preston. "How is it with the Lucy?"

William was bound for the rail opposite when Captain Lasseter called him back. Durand and he went together standing very near to Miss Tribbiani and Argus. The dog gave Durand a single huff of a bark, but a steady look from L'Ours checked the pup again, and Argus was obliged to trade sides with the marine. "But one dead to speak of here, Captain." William called. "The Navarra is inbound, though her sails are set in a fashion unbecoming to a bosun."

With none of the 'Dog dead aboard the snow, William had crossed again to the frigate to access the loss of life and damage to the vessel. The deck was cleared of any significant debris, though there had been little to speak of. The pock marks of musket balls and canister shot could be seen hear and there, but she was no worse for wear. The most tell-tale sign of the engagement was the blood upon the deck, one of Maximillians fingers and some spent pistols yet to be carried back to the armory. William felt, more than heard Durand then. The bulk of the man bore a presence that was hard to miss, and the smell of something distilled was carried from the man on the night air. Durand was ever drinking, but almost never truly drunk. Tonight was no exception, for he stood near at hand with a cup in hand and a pistol tucked neatly in his belt. "I saw you not tonight, Monsieur." William remarked as he plucked up the seaman's discarded digit and tucked it into a handkerchief. "I was a witness, forward." Durand explained, and watched William roll the ruined finger up neatly and tuck it into his pocket. "A most macabre remembrance, Captain." "Aye." William returned, and chose not to explain his action, though Durand would probably guess at it eventually. If Durand was unaware of such superstitions, then at least a good story might come of it. Then Tudor was there. "Sah." she offered, passing him the dipper from the Main Mast. He looked her up and down as he accepted it, and found that he liked her best this way. Armed. Tussled. Indifferent to the protocols of the day. Removed from polite society and puritanical ideals in a way that spoke of distant shores. He brushed a single hair back from her face without even thinking, then put it back again. He did this with indifference to Durand or anyone else who may have watched. "Shall I have Mister Gage light the cookfires and prepare the Ward Room to receive guests, Captain?" she said with a smile that had become customary between them. "Put such things by awhile. I'll see the Navarra brought closer first." "Aye, Captain."

A very happy birthday, lass. Thank you for the bygone years and the ones to come.

Briar was never covered in so much blood as this, or so it seemed to her in that moment. It was not terrifying, being merely a medium of the body, nor did it turn her stomach to see it upon her hands in such volume. Rather, it was the sight of Maximillian's hand splintered and laid open that caused her calm to itch a little. She looked away from it, finding more relief in Christopher Newstubb's damaged, bleeding skull as she cradled his head gently between her hands. Blood had run down the front of her skirts and she could feel it pooling into one shoe. "We came away victorious, then?" She said absently, and if Maeve heard her say it, she did not answer. For her part, Doctor O'Treasaigh was in abject terror. She might have been impatient with Briar, given the quiet shock that lingered like a pause in the woman's face, but she understood the feeling all too well, having felt the very same way herself on many occasions. She was jealous then and almost wished for it, knowing it was an easier calm to be afraid in a kind of dreamy way, but she was using her fear to fuel her work. Her hands were moving so fast they were threatening to make poor work of the man's torn scalp. She was just conscious of Maxamillian as he lingered. "I'm sorry about your friend." she offered, nodding in Clovely's direction and trying to sound empathetic. "I...not know 'im well." Maximillian managed in poor English, then added, "I...sew him...right good." "Sew him up? With that hand...?" Maeve said, not really listening or caring for an answer. Her hands were too full. Maximillian lifted his untouched hand as if to say, 'I have another'. 'He's in shock.' She thought, then almost laughed and checked herself. She wasn't sure what sound might come out of her mouth then. Then it occurred to her, strange as the thought was, that Maximillian was possessed of a good hand, and more important, of a sailor's hand at that. "Come here!" she barked, waking him from himself just enough to exchange places with him. 'I'm mad. Quite mad.' she thought, as she passed him the needle needed to sew Newstubb's scalp together, but the man went to it at once. Not only was the shock enough so as to keep his hand still and the work slow and steady, he was distracted enough that Maeve went to work on his other hand while he labored. Even more than this, he spoke softly in his native tongue with such an agreeable tone as to wake Briar to herself. Maeve could not be certain how she would describe this scene with any accuracy of emotion later.

William scanned the sea around them, finding it impossible to see beyond the deck of the snow and the crowding bulk of the Watch Dog. He grabbed up James Standiford as he rushed by cradling several spent pistols that had been discarded in the fray. "Fetch word to the lookouts. I want the Navarra's position immediately." "Aye, sah." The lad jumped nimbly across the grinding gap between the frigate and snow, careful not to lose his cargo in the effort. William watched him as he went and his eyes fells upon a crumpled John Clovely. "See t' that man there, you braggart." "Aye, Sah!" Maxamillain DeRuyter returned and tipped his hat smartly, presenting the bloodied remainder of his diminished hand. William was soundly reminded of his quick impatience. "Good lad." "P'mission t' retire, sah." Paul Mooney said at his elbow. William looked the man up and down, surprised to find him covered as much in his own blood as others. "How is it with you, sah?" William asked of him, surprised that the man had his feet. "Spilled my blood, sah. I spilled theirs." Paul had only just engaged the enemy before the surrender and he looked no better for it. He wavered a little and William took him at the elbow and propelled him over the gap into those waiting hands that bore him to the surgery. "Navarra North, Northwest a point...!" Ciaran called, but the last was lost as a shot discharged somewhere below. "Not so surrendered." William said to himself, not surprised.

Aboard the snow. William Brand came aboard with his cutlass still firmly held in his hand. He moved deliberately slow, to hide his temporary limp. His ankle was still burning from his unceremonious fall on the quarterdeck, which thankfully few had witnessed. Still, he went with a practiced dignity aboard the snow. The decks of the ship were riddled with the wounded and the dismembered. William tried not to take in his losses, choosing to view the field with a more auspicious eye. It wasn't a callous effort on his part, but he wanted to present the air of strength in victory, indifferent to the cost. There would be time enough for reflection in grief later. "Captain." Dorian said from his place across the crowded deck. His voice carried well enough, despite those who still pressed the snow's crew with threats to keep them in their place, not to mention the many muted cries or unbridled calls of pain which came from everywhere. "Captain." William returned, grateful that Dorian had not chosen to call him Admiral, as he had sometimes done with mixed humor and respect in private. "How is it with you?" William asked, almost conversationally, but still removed. The man above the moment. "Well." was all that Dorian said in return, his cutlass still threatening an officer of their captured prize. This was the way of things with war. Captains were required to be many things. The bloodthirsty madness of before had been a necessary thing to engage the crew, filling them with purpose to overshadow doubts and misgivings. Now that this was accomplished and the deed was done, Dorian and William were the quiet opposites of their former selves, lending a calm to an aftermath that demanded order. Power in silence. Were they to act any other way, unnecessary blood could be shed and the fragile moment might dissolve into fighting again. William nodded at Dorian. Just that, but it was permission to do almost anything in the moment. An 'as you will' gesture that they understood as captains. Then Dorian was shouting orders, returning his bloodletting boarders to working men.

Wow...really good news about Matt and his gang followed up by horrible, deflating news from Mark. The Mercury is diminished, but PIP gains a good half dozen others. How would you like to be listed, Matt? I can place you with a crew already in attendance or under your own standard.

That's a beauty. Someday you'll need to season it with salt spray, pine needles and rum at PIP.