William Brand

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.

I wasn't beat up or bothered any more or less than anyone else. School is school. Still, I decided somewhere along the way not to be a bully or a victim, choosing instead to protect anyone bullied and choosing never to be a victim myself. That said, there was a bully in high school that chose me one day as his target of harassment. He would say the most distasteful things to me and my friends. He would go out of his way to threaten me in all manner of ways almost daily. I would simply ignore him, and was quite content to go on ignoring him, but my friends would beg me to let them beat the crap out of him. I told them that it was my place to accept or ignore the harassment and that they should stay safely out of it. This went on for months and it began to wear me until my patience had a water blister. Then one day he bumped into me in the lobby and said something foul about my girlfriend at the time. I simply stopped, turned to Kriss and passed her my books saying nothing more than, 'Would you mind holding these?'. I even smiled as I said it. Something had snapped. Then I followed the guy into the main stairwell where everyone was coming and going from various classes, grabbed him by the front of the shirt and all but hoisted him off the ground as I slammed him into the wall. I don't remember exactly what I said to him, but it went something like this. "You're a moron to think that I'm an easy target for your stupidity. I'm not. It's just that I can't fight you. I can hit you. I can hit you hard enough to drive in your skull, but that's the problem. If I ever start hitting you I'm not going to stop until I kill you or they drag me off you and you'll be half way to the grave or the hospital by then. Do you understand? I'm not going to ever fight you. I'm only going to kill you." He simply yelled, "Get your hands off me!" Then I started laughing. Holding him there against the wall with half the student body watching, I started laughing. Then I slapped him gently on the cheek and said, "You just don't get it. You're an idiot." Then I walked away. He never bothered me again, and no one else ever has either.

It's not uncommon to retire to one's tent and wake to find crew members in the encampment the next morning that weren't there before.

The Watch Dog Mere minutes had rolled by in the time it had taken the frigate to close the distance to their target. These minutes had been the worst of all, coming as they did with a pace so slow as to torture those who pressed the rail. Every man there was a man possessed, ready to be about a business born of greed and madness both. The Lucy loomed as did the shattered snow, and so loud was the engagement that William could not rightly discern which crew it was that held the other by the throat. Part of the battle was obscured by a tangle of canvas and line forward and a pallor of smoke hung in the air, mixing light and dark together. The distinct pop and whine of musket balls could be heard everywhere, and while the 'Dog was not heavily engaged, an occasional misspent shot from the fray carried to her. Eric Franklin was missed just under his right arm as a shot passed cleanly through his shirt and cut down John Clovely. Another mislaid ball deflected off the flagstaff with a dull 'chock' and only just upset a hat worn by Martin Gadd amidships. Paul Mooney was wounded not once, but twice, and luckily so, for neither shot had struck the man fatally. David Henry was grazed across his left temple, having turned just out of the way of a shot leveled soundly at his forehead. The hit caused the man to cry out, though he recovered himself. The worst of all came from a swivel fired aboard the snow. A sailor there had intended to strike one of Lasseter's rearguards aboard the snow itself, but William Flint had struck the man with such force from a belaying pin, that the swivel swung wide as it discharged. Shot was carried safely over the heads of the fighting men there to the crew and frigate beyond. Balls from this swivel struck the Main chainwale, bulwark rails and as many as four men aboard the frigate. Maxamillain DeRuyter lost two fingers of his left hand. One ball exacted the upper half of Simon Larke's right ear. Richard Legatt was hit in the shoulder by a shot that glanced off a block at the Main shrouds. Christopher Newstubb was hit soundly across the top of his skull, the force of which scalped him and kicked his head back so hard that his spine was heard to pop in several places as he crumpled to the deck, leaving an astonished Alain Roux to blink the man's blood from his eyes. For himself, William was injured in a way almost too embarrassing to recount, for a ball had struck the Main mast and bounced across the quarterdeck where it came to rest under his right heel. The ball had settled neatly under his shoe upsetting William's balance as he stepped backwards. William turned his ankle and went down in an unceremonious heap, striking Robert Hollis with the flat of his cutlass as he fell. Hollis, employed at the wheel of the frigate, could offer no aid to William, though he catalogued the event for some future retelling. William was left to raise himself alone in a stagger of limbs and profanity. Then they were there. The Watch Dog had come about almost to the very bow of the snow and grapples and men went over together.

Welcome aboard, Mate. One of my family lines stems back to that very region of France.

Welcome aboard, Mister Hawk.

You're welcome. Now I have to fill the space left by the departure of Mister Thatcher and Sons. Drat.

The interloper seemed to take great pleasure in posting as me, but in the most understated ways, such as posting me yawning over and over and over. Silly stuff really and I haven't seen him since.

The Lucy and the Snow were gammed so tightly upon one another that one could just hear the grinding of planking and timbers as they rolled against one another in the dark. The cacophony of noise which carried off of the close clapped ships was intoxicating. William found that he was repeating his orders over and over, anxious to be in the fray. "Move your carcasses!" he shouted, not angry, but ever so determined to join the fight before it was over. The 'Dog was recovering herself too slowly, turning about into the wind like a waking, drunken thing and still, William shouted. The only one louder than him was the Master Gunner. "Ladle an' Spunge, ya fool from a bastard!" Petee cried, grabbing up the tools and doing the job himself when the man appeared too slow for his liking. "I'll see th' man swimmin' tha' hurts my guns! Mind that ball!" Badger was also in rare form, mixing every order in equal portions with some of the finest crafted profanity anyone had ever heard strung together. It proved a kind of foul poetry that shocked the most ardent user of the art to shame, for the Bosun all but ladled it into their ears. Any man that dared to pause amidst his shouting was cuffed soundly in his dignity by orders and accusations both. Again and again he berated, corrected and propelled each and every sailor to their duties. As for Jack, so long in prison, he was slower in the use of words but no less effective, preferring instead to jump at every opportunity to see tasks done himself. He sometimes forgot his risen place on the frigate, and followed orders more often than he gave them. Below the quarterdeck, but no less chaotic in order, the surgery was rife with noise and activity as Luigi and Syren continued to load muskets for the next round of battle. Claude was already strewn upon the table face down, stripped naked to the knees. The two ladies proprietors of the place were engaged in mopping and stopping the blood from his wounded hip and buttock, exposing them to the violence and impropriety of the life at the same time. To say that Argus was excited would have understated his feverish temperament, for he was everywhere at once like child underfoot; his injuries of the day before forgotten. Then the frigate was turning. Truly turning. She began to spin about like an overbalanced dancer on one heel. It was just enough that everyone smiled upward to hear the canvas filling.

The ringing in everyone's ears was not dissipated with the silencing of guns, though the muffled pop of marine muskets could just be heard by most. Everyone's hearing recovered so slowly, that as the disorienting whine or muted silence gave over to the real sounds about them it took many of the frigate's crew members time to understand what had happened aboard the 'Dog. On the quarterdeck, William was shouting orders, only to realize that he was not heard by any but those nearest to him, and also realizing too late himself that not one, but both coxswains were wounded. A marine aloft on the snow had shot Claude Marchande through the outer part of his right hip, bring the man off his feet at once. This had caused the wheel to spin back upon Mathew Campion with such force, that his right hand had slipped through the spokes of the wheel and turned his shoulder out of joint. The man had almost sacrificed his leg as well, by pinning it soundly against the wheel in an effort to keep the frigate from falling off the wind. William had only noticed this by turning to look, for his hearing had not yet translated the murmur of profanity and pain that spilled from both men. William rushed over to take the wheel, even as Claude was using it to gain his feet. The Captain of the Watch Dog would have suffered a shot himself, but a ball aimed well at his head was sent wide of him owing to a well placed shot from one of his own marines. As it was, it rang across the top of the ship's bell aft and William had time to wonder if the sound complimented or distorted the ringing in his own head before a second shot passed him on the left nearly striking Claude a second time. In the few moments that it took for this unpleasant scene to play out, it was clear to William that they had crossed too far and wide of their target to engage the snow a second time before Captain Lasseter could drive his men aboard her. William called out as loudly as he could muster for them to bring the frigate about as they may, hoping to gain the snow on that side not so engaged by the Lucy.

The Ward Room is compromised. A visitor by the name of Pizza is now able to type and manipulate account names when they are and when they aren't logged in. Dorian and I have experienced real time alterations to the Ward Room while chatting, so be forewarned.

The noise and preparation of close action could be heard by all then, but the crew of the frigate were quiet still as they bridged the last of the diminishing gap. "Campion. Marchande. Bring us across her stern." William said with no more feeling than if he had called for a glass. It was a simple order by itself. Just the smallest alteration of course in fact, but this tack might carry the frigate out of the wind entirely, and she would most certainly stall upon her course if that happened, but this time it wouldn't matter. William was confident that the Master Gunner would make any need to come about or check their progress completely unnecessary. Jim looked at William then and the Captain gave him the merest of nods. The Ship's Master went down from the holy ground to lead the throng if leading were required. Then the Watch Dog was turning. She did this casually, carefree and effortless and everyone aboard the frigate could hear the warning cry that carried from the snow's maintop. It was a lonely, desperate sound drowned out by the snow's own guns as they illuminated the frigate's encroaching canvas. "Too late..." William said softly to himself and he would have sent a cry or call down to his own then, but he could think of nothing to say in the moment. Blood was pounding in his ears and he was grateful of the Master Gunner, for Petee was running along the lines shouting. "Rudder and Rigging! Rudder and Rigging! Rudder and Rigging!" At first it was only him, yelling and then screaming the call. Then it was picked up by the gunnery crews and the marines aloft. It spread to all until it blurred out every sound aboard ship and beyond. Even Luigi and Ajayi, the one drunk and the other with little English to speak of, carried the call. William could just hear Argus barking, too excited by the din not too. 'Bark on' William thought, though he was shouting along with everyone else. "Rudder and Rigging! RUDDER AND RIGGING!" Then the Watch Dog passed over the snow's wake. Just that. She bore across that upset line of sea in the dark like a portent over graves. and the world shattered as the gunnery crews fired in such close succession that the sound of each individual gun was all but lost as explosion carried over explosion. William could not remember the concussion of such noise ever coming so close together, but for the exchange of two ships firing upon one another at once. Ships were so seldom afforded such a narrow target, and the rudder was not so much struck, as it was altogether obliterated. With no presentable mast as a target, blocked as they were by the close stern, great cabin and rear decks, the gunery crews simply fired into the snow length ways. The rudder was reduced to kindling almost at once. One shot splintered the planking just feet above the waterline from the stem forward almost to the waist. Another passed through the snow with enough force to find the mainmast even from that difficult presentment, though the Lucy's guns had already done more damage there. The ball from the 'Dog had simply lost too much momentum passing through that much timber. All other shot from the frigate could not be accounted for. There was simply too many hits through the stern. Debris clouded the air so quickly, that no gunner could name or claim a target or hit, though many would after.

That is awesome. Congratulations.

1949 Mercury Coupe and a trunk of tommy guns. And if money is no option then I want the other Mercury. A brig sloop. Oh, and one of these... ...and one of these too.

Filing is period down through many ages, though a good sailor's knife favors simplicity in almost all cases. Many period weapons show 'after market' additions from the owners themselves, as embellishment or taste differ from user to user and alteration helps to identify personal ownership. Of the many alterations I've seen on knives of the period, most of these tend to be on the handle and not the blade. Most of the knives I'm speaking of are confined to the West of course, because as you go further East, especially from Africa Eastward, you get oodles of filing. Almost every knife is altered and unique in these parts of the world.

A very happy birthday, Mate. I'll save toasts for PIP.

The Mercury welcomes Mad Pete and with him and others not yet on the list who are considering the trip, we have well over 120 attendees. Safety will be a bigger concern than ever before, but I for one am excited to see the battles become large enough to represent true combat. Add to us the cannons and pirates not listed and we should have a great force of pirates. Thank you all for your efforts and keep recruiting.

We have some 39+ pirates in the Mercury camp this year, with some tentative members not yet listed, and I couldn't be happier to see such a throng. We constitute the largest single presence at the festival and I am glad to see us well positioned to compliment the Archangel and English in combat and force. With Captain Sterling recruiting a glorious number of pirate hunters to the festival, gone are the days when a few English fought a handful of pirates. We've gone from a bar fight to actual skirmishes. Here are the names of those connected to us this year. Take the time to get to know these names and send a shout out to people you haven't met. William Red Wake, Captain Jim, Michael Bagley, Kate Souris, Patti, Morgan, Tommy (pyrate name to be determined) X, Natalie (tentative, Red Jessi, Rev.Sam, Mission, Silas Thatcher, Andrew, Miles, Alex, Iron Jon, Paula, Boogater, Black Syren, Oderlesseye, Anne Coates-Sharpe, Maeve O'Treasaigh, Liam Strongheart, Aeva, Niko, Melissa, Dana Farnsworth, Kelli Farnsworth, Tudor Smith (Mercenary Wench, Mister Tignor, Trish Gallatin, Shannon Gallain, Nick Strojny, Ashley Strojny, Abigail Roughnight, William Blackheart, Tartan Jack, Red Cat Jenny, and the newest member, Mark Dilly (madPete) I'll be putting together materials prior to the event, so I'll need mailing addresses from everyone eventually if you want the 'packet'. This will contain maps, charts and the like for your use at PIP. You can send addresses to me by Private Message.

Aboard the frigate Watch Dog The Watch Dog had slowly gained speed by the ministrations of the Bosuns, and under the direction of these men, she flew before winds favorable and faltering both. She was continually corrected in her course, to bring her to a favorable destination along unseen lines drawn upon the sea. The snow was before them, but they had to pick their way so as to catch her least aware and as close as possible. Never had the 'Dog known so much activity in near silence. William had experienced the like only once before, when, deafened by a swivel fired too close, he had engaged in combat bereft of hearing. Not that the night was quiet. The thud and crack of cannons carried well over the ocean and a hundred heads turned together to see the flashes exchanged between the snow and the Lucy each and every time the ships fired upon one another. "A miss and a hit." Badger said in a tone more akin to accounting than warfare. He passed the glass to Mister Warren. "Lasseter's Irish is up." "We're coming up fast now." Jim said, his tone even. As long as William had known him, Jim had ever been the calmest of men prior to bloodshed. Tudor was his twin in this as she came up alongside William and passed him his cutlass. "Among my things you'll fi..." William began, but she was already tucking the Mahdi's knife into his belt. "Tudor." he said with an appreciative nod. It was not common for him to address her so personally, and perhaps it had something to do with the intimacy of an overshadowing death. Whatever the reasons, she dared it back. "William." No one else noticed this, for all eyes were trained on the ships before them, so well illuminated against a backdrop of black glass. The snow fired again. "Cannister shot, sah." Petee called up quietly from the stairs at the quarterdeck. "Swivels and cannons both." "Aye." William returned. "But too little to face us together. Her crews will be tiring..." He added, and whether he meant the gunners of the snow or the Lucy, he didn't say. "Aye." Petee returned, greedily. William smiled and looked down from the quarterdeck. "I like the color if your mood, Mister Youngblood." "Thank you, sah. Instructions, sah?" Petee fired back in quick succession, his voice almost trembling to be about his business. The man was fidgeting. "Th' men are all powder an' ball sah." "You have freedom to do with the enemy as you will." William replied almost removed, then added. "Let's have enough to lay claim after, Mister Youngblood." "Aye, sah." The snow was all but looming now. She was back lit by her own cannon blasts, and her sails lit up again and again as her gunnery crew fired at leisure upon their companion ship. The sound was filling their world now, no longer carrying at a distance, but crashing back over the water like closing thunder. There was something beautiful about the two engaged ships then. Something ethereal and otherworldly. The Lucy was all church bells as she fired. The snow was thundering. Both were alight with noise and hot flashes of amber and the snow was so engaged with her intended victim that she did not feel the frigate on approach. The Watch Dog closed. A shadow in shadows bearing a shadow. William could just hear a few of the Spaniards in rote prayer.