William Brand

That is ill news. I hope all goes well. I have modified the list again, though I hated to do it. Will Josh not be attending now?

While the wounded and the marines were ferried back and forth from the Heron, William finished his many examinations of the crew, damages and assets of the Maastricht. The strength along her gun deck was lessened by a third, for many of the gun carriages and cannon had been damaged by the ministrations of Mister Youngblood. William ordered every damaged cannon lashed in under the bulwark rails and he was forced to swap many of these with undamaged guns along her Starboard side, in an effort to balance the firepower of the fluyt. This occupied many of the prisoners who had escaped injury in battle, and for a time, it kept them at the ship's waist where the marines might watch them from the vantage point of the quarterdeck and fo'c'sle. Nigel Brisbane was given the watch of the 'Dog's gun deck, so that Petee could assist in the alterations aboard the Maastricht. Nigel performed this duty to the best of his ability, but his injured eye distracted him to such a degree that he was forced to beg the Captain for a 'second' to stand the watch with him, lest he miss something due to the irritation. William did him one better and dismissed him, but not before examining his eye. Nigel was immediately nervous, for he had never suffered an injury that might rob him of any sight, so he tried his best to make conversation while the Captain scrutinized the injured orb. "Have you studied...healing arts...sah?" William turned Nigel's face toward the sun and peered in close, plying back Nigel's eyelid as carefully as possible. "No..." William said slowly, then added. "But some understanding comes from hurt." "SAH?" Nigel pressed, as his unblinking eye watered in the prevailing light. William let go of his eye and Nigel blinked several times, covering it again with the heel of his hand as before. He looked at the Captain with his one good eye and waited, for the Captain looked thoughtful. "I was in Rome. 1688. It was Carnival...and I bought a mask from a street vendor. It was made of spun wire and paper. Once placed on the face..." Wiliam said as he pantomimed the gesture. "...one had but to press down on the wires to fit it to one's unique features. I did so, but a wire popped free of the lacquered paper and scratched my eye. Deeply in fact." Nigel winced and nodded empathetically, for his own eye felt 'scratched'. "A priest, trained in all arts of healing great and subtle, explained that my eye would heal, but that the scratch was almost deep enough to puncture that...membrane...which gives the eye its shape. One jot deeper and you would not have known me with my two eyes." "Is it a scratch?" Nigel asked, sounding concerned, but hopeful. "I think so. Have Doctor Fitzgerald confirm the injury." "What can...what should be done?" "Unless the Doctor prescribes otherwise, I recommend fresh water from the Monsignor's stores for the eye, and patience in the madness. The Doctor may have some agent of herbs or mercury to ease the pain. If this injury is like mine was, you will suffer for a time. I'm sorry, Mister Brisbane, but you will feel the specter of a mote for many days. It will feel as though an eyelash or a particle of sand is lodged within your eye. I can see no slivers or hair there, but I well remember my own need to pluck out the offending eye every minute of the day for almost two weeks." Nigel looked unhappy, but also grateful. "I'll bear it as I can, Sah. Thank you, Sah." "Ask Mister Johnson to take your place at the waist, and go to the cook for fresh water before interrupting the Doctor. She has others with greater need than you."

The report carried across the water and William turned to it and waited. Eric Franklin, part way through passing his orders down for resupply aloft, turned instead to the prisoners and cocked his musket in warning. The deck of both ships became a graveyard of silence for a few moments, apart from the dying who sent up a continuous chorus of mixed agonies. "Ciaran?" William called up without taking his eyes from the Heron. The marine looked over the side and sent down his report. "'ppears, Mister Lasseter has quelched a rebellion, Cap'n". "Take your men out again, Mister Pew." William said at once. "Aye, Cap'n." He returned, and the last of the wounded was barely even with the main deck before Patricia had disappeared from beneath him.

The small boat bumped up against the Maastricht and Mister Pew ascended with Mister Lasseter's note at once. William read it, then looked up from it and in the direction of the Heron. Mister Lasseter was never one to understate caution, though the absence of large numbers of arms might mean anything, least of all a threat. Still, while these many prisoners outnumbered their divided and occupied few, caution was on everyone's lips, and William let no hint of the note register on his face. William went forward casually, motioning for the Master Gunner. Mister Youngblood met him at the gangplank. They exchanged words there, and Mister Youngblood went forward in the frigate again to examine his remaining provisions of powder and shot. He did this as casually as a man walking in a park, going so far as placing his pipe in his teeth as an added touch and checking his waistcoat for match. Meanwhile, he took stock of his guns, powder and the Heron's position off to the South and West. She was turning slowly to Starboard and while she showed no signs of gunnery crews, all of them being under watch, she was presenting her guns on that side. Once he was well satisfied that no more powder was required if the Heron's crew should make any trouble, he turned again and offered the Captain a nod as he stood in profile. "Pride...?" William thought, looking out at the Heron. "Mistake...?" There were many conclusions to be drawn from a lack of arms, but William thought it might be best explained away by arrogance or miscalculation. Perhaps the balance of power was a mistake on den Oven's part. He might have assumed that the Heron would be best used as a chasing ship, never intending it to engage in close quarters, like a sheep dog hemming in the stock. Perhaps their pride had left them armed with more arrogance than pistols. William motioned for Eric Franklin, and the Sergeant-at-Arms met him in the waist. "Mister Lasseter is investigating an unusual absence of muskets and pistols aboard the Heron. Please see that your marines aloft are resupplied with sufficient powder to facilitate his escape if necessary." "Escape...?" Eric said, with not a little smile. William smiled a little too, for the idea of the Quartermaster giving up ground after it was won was improbable, almost laughable. "I pity the fool aboard that offers him ransom."

I was never happier to see my artwork mangled. Pyromaniacs.

William went to the rail and called back to the Heron. "Understood, Mister Lasseter. One moment, if you please." The Captain went to the officers and able seaman standing under guard forward. He found a concentrated rabble of wounded and weary men of every station. William ordered all of the regular sailors and gunnery crews to sit along the sides of the space there. The officers were asked to remain standing at the foremost part of the fo'c'sle. Then words were exchanged back and forth in two languages, until William was satisfied that he understood who passed for their surgeon and how many others had ever treated or tended to wounded men. He found that several officers and a few able seamen had a limited understanding of washing and dressing wounds stemming from experiences prior to the conflict. Their doctor, a less experienced, but able surgeon named Jurriaan Van Zandt was taken aside and William selected two additional seamen from among the Maastricht's crew, careful to pick men he had known from the Danzig. He chose Reind Halster and Simon Dunwalt, both of whom had demonstrated a passable English in times past. He also picked out the Maastricht's First Mate, Bartel Raymer, to join him at the waist of the ship with the two able seaman, the doctor and the Captain. Eric Franklin was careful to remain close to the small group with his musket as they followed. "I shall have all of the wounded and prisoners brought aboard the Maastricht, Kapitien den Oven." William explained. "These men Which I have chosen shall have the run of the ship, with the understanding that they are prisoners lending aid to their fellows. They will remain within sight of my marines at all times." William said this as much for Eric as for the Dutch, and the Sergeant-at-Arms nodded along with them. "My doctor will see to me and mine first, but I shall certainly make her available to you and your wounded afterwards, if there is still a need. No one else is to move about without instruction. Is that understood?" "Ja, Kapitien Brand." den Oven said with a polite resignation, and he looked as though the day's events were finally coming home to him. "Mijn dank, Kapitien. Arts Van Zandt, these men are at your disposal." "Most kind, Captain." Van Zandt returned in the clearest english William had heard since coming aboard. William returned to the rail and cupped his hands. "All wounded to be brought aboard the Maastricht, Mister Lasseter! You may send them over at your leisure. Then select laborers for the clearing of debris under guard, if you please." "Aye, Cap'n!" "Have they any officers among the dead or dying?"

Mutinous talk, Mister Warren... ...if I did not agree myself.

Welcome aboard. We've had a shortage of introductions of late, so it is nice to see new faces.

William paced the fluyt from stem to stern. He noted the damage to the fluyt in his mind, careful to site those items of value which he would use as leverage during the sale of the prize. The math of war had evolved to an accounting of prizes, and William counted the cannons as he moved along the deck. He was almost finished with this stock taking when the Watch Dog's Steward presented him with her plan to assemble tables and chairs on the gun deck of the frigate, instead of the Ward Room. "That will serve, Miss Smith." the Captain agreed, but even as she saluted and turned away, he called her back again. "Have same water pumped up to the gun deck and see it washed down well before we come aboard again. "Aye, Captain."

The list has been updated again. Mister Warren, may I assume that your wife is camping with you?

Will they have any particular glaze?

William gave the command of the Maastricht over to Mister Lasseter as they wandered back amidships. It was a somewhat crippled command, for the ship was badly abused. Mister Youngblood had done good service with his diminished gunnery crews, tipping the balance of power in the fire fight. The damage inflicted upon the fluyt was no more self evident then on the gun deck of the Maastricht, for the deck was a pile of broken carriages and overturned great guns. The deck and rails were as shattered as many of the departed gunnery crews of the Dutch. Bloodied sand was in no short supply. Bodies were being gathered along the Larboard rails, where the least of the ship's damage afforded them some space along the deck. The fore mast lay everywhere, utterly destroyed in the barrage, but for a few yards and the length of trunk still propped through the deck. Many of the Dutch dead were being rediscovered, crushed below the heavier timbers. Round shot was loose everywhere, and clusters of grapeshot were still sliding about gathering clotted sand. The Maastricht's best bower had sunk to depths unknown, taking the Starboard cathead with it. The beckets and bollards of the main mast were everywhere and the main's Starboard chainwale had split lengthwise so that the chain plates and turnbuckles of the main lower shroud were all separated. Still, despite all of the damage above, there was little if any damage below. The Maastricht remained intact below here waterline, and her rudder was thankfully unharmed, so she could be salvaged and sold without much time lost at sea in the repairs. She was an older vessel in design, but large enough to be valuable at a time when ships were not only required, but coveted. She was not much longer or larger than the 'Dog, but with modifications, she might bear considerably more guns. Rummy came up from below as the Captain and Quartermaster made their last round on the weatherdeck, and she reported that the bilge was taking on a little water, but a careful attention to the pumps would stave off any trouble until they could get the Maastricht to port. The few leaks she had sprung had come from the general and overall impact to the ship's frame. The Maastricht had buckled a little under the heavy assault of close quarter hits. The caulking and timbers were weakened lengthwise along the Starboard side of the fluyt, but Rummy still seemed well assured that the Maastricht would sail to Martinique without peril. "The stern post and rudder seem intact and the tiller is unhindered all the way to the helm." she finished explaining to the officers. "Thank you. Any sign of their carpenter?" "The Dutchie carpenter is dead, Cap'n. He has a more than a few splinters stuck through him." William and Dorian nodded, for the irony was not lost on them. "Perhaps the Carpenter's Mates can be found." "Or a carpenter aboard th' Heron." The Quartermaster added. "Aye." William agreed with a small smile, noting that Dorian was still anxious to go aboard the cutter. He was about to give the Quartermaster leave to take the small boats over, when his eyes fell on one of the prisoners forward. "You there!" he called suddenly, walking over to him as he called. Then he added his own simultaneous translation. "U daar!" William crossed to where the man stood, finding a familiar face among the Dutch. The man was bloodied, a fair sized cut running across his nose and one eye, but still familiar. "You were on the Danzig." he said in english, not bothering to translate what he knew might probably transcend the language barrier. When the man did not respond, he repeated it again. "Ja." the man said, having caught the gist of it. William glanced about until he had found at least three more Danzig faces, and at first he was glad to see them, but then a little anger and even confusion set in. They had rescued the Danzig Trader several weeks back and he had not thought to see them again so soon, if ever, especially among the opposing ranks of antagonists. William pointed at one of the others. "You're...Dunwalt." "Ja...yes." "What the devil brings you here?" The man paused, not from any hesitation born of caution, it simply took him a moment to frame his answer. "Ve are...de..de pers ganged?" William nodded, sympathetic at once, for that made sense. It was war time, and pressgangs were everywhere, in every port. The Danzig Trader would have been little more than a hulk when she arrived at Montserrat, so the English and Dutch had simply grabbed up these extra sailors and pressed them aboard the Maastricht. William looked out towards the Heron with an altered regard. "How many old faces will we find there, I wonder." he said to Dorian. "Take Mister Pew and the Starboard marines to the Heron and find me some answers, Mister Lasseter."

"Let them stew in wonder for a moment." William said looking towards the Heron, and he himself stewed in it for a moment, for there the Heron stood for the taking, almost undamaged . He drank from the dipper and then looked up at Dorian again. "Who fell before?" "Thomas Fitch. Struck by round shot." "Ahhh." William said, nodding, having not numbered all the younger men in the count. "An unexpected day. A prevailing day." "Aye. And more to do yet." William looked around the Fluyt. The ship was badly damaged and strewn with shattered wood, but a prize nonetheless. The ship was theirs and already a pile of arms had formed with Mister Pew and Mister Franklin. William turned to Dorian again. "I've utterly lost the reckoning of the hour."

William returned to the Captain of the Maastricht. "I am Captain William Brand." William said in his clearest english. "Have you an understanding of this tongue?" "Yes." he returned, removing his hat. He looked at William with an auspicious eye, for as a Dutchman, he new the name of William Brand, but not the man. "I am Kapitien Meeuwsen Abel den Oven." "Kapitien." William said with a nod, his tone polite, if not a little distracted. "May I introduce my friend and the Watch Dog's Quartermaster, Mister Dorian Lasseter." They exchanged acknowledgments and den Oven made a point to introduce his First Mate, Matthys Loerwairt. Then William continued. If you will gather your papers, I..." "My sword, Kapitien." den Oven interrupted, offering the handle of his weapon to William. "The Maastricht is yours." William nodded at the formality. "You may keep your weapon, Kapitien. I have as many as I may every need. I will meet with you and your officers aboard the Watch Dog once I have buried my dead. You may see to your own." "My gratitude, Kapitien Brand." den Oven said, and he seemed a little surprised by the polite formality which William visited upon him. Perhaps he had expected an altogether different man. The stories of the man known as "Red Wake" and "Hollande" were wild and varied, and few, if any, painted the man in a civilized light. Still, given the recent destruction to the fluyt, den Oven remained cautious and prepared, even as William dismissed them to their dead. William called Mister Pew over and the Master-at-Arms came forward from where he and Eric were already collecting weapons from the Dutch. He had a cut under his chin which had bled much, though the injury was small. He still wore the 'business before all else' expression that he had worn since the beginning of the engagement, and William was glad to see it there. "Once you have gathered all their weapons, see them stored here aboard the Maastricht in their own armory with two marines posted. You may rearm the marines with shot and powder. The prisoners are to be kept forward on the weather decks." "Aye, Sah." "It is good to see you unharmed." William added, extending his hand as if to shake Mister Pew's, but realizing there was much too much blood across his hand. Mister Pews plucked up the end of a fallen sailor's sash and used a working knife to cut off a swatch, which he handed to William. "Thank you, Mister Pew. See that nothing is disturbed for the present. The lads and lasses can have their spoils after we have seen to the dead." "Aye, Cap'n." William turned again to Mister Lasseter and invited the Quartermaster to join him at the quarterdeck of the Masstricht. There he took up a dipper, and fetched up water, though he plucked a splinter or two from it. "May you live to be a hundred, and may I live to sing at your wake."

Many of the remaining crew members, not already aboard, crossed to the Maastricht to secure the prisoners. William paused in the waist of the fluyt as did Paul Mooney, for the stricken form of Lawrence Dinwiddle lay in their path. The sound which came out of Paul Mooney then, when he discovered the death of Lawrence Dinwiddle, would be remembered by everyone who heard it that day. It came out of the man like rustling leaves in a hollow and it was as wounded a sound as can be made by one who has lost a brother. He came upon Lawrence with his weapon drawn and he made an attempt to put his cutlass away twice, but failing this, he simply let it fall to the deck, where it clattered. He looked grave and even his color managed to look worse than Dinwiddle's, who lay broken and pale. He knelt and cradled the lifeless body of his damaged friend and did not hide the tears that came at once, streaming down for several silent minutes. The tears made tracks in Mooney's face, which was blackened from smoke and spattered with its share of spent blood. Paul and Lawrence had been born just days and a few houses apart. There had never been a day where the two of them had not known one another. They were brothers to each other, for neither of them had known a real brother, having had only sisters. They were friends born of the same poverty and of the same fortunes. They had joined in every decision in their lives from their first memories until now. Every choice. Every ship. Every adventure. While this piteous scene played out, William crossed the Maastricht's and surveyed the deck to sort out his fallen own. He noted the injuries among the crew, but soon counted himself lucky to see only one from the 'Dog among the dead. Some of the others might die from their injuries yet, but his faith in the Doctor made this possibility a weak one. His cutlass was still out when he approached the Captain of the Maastricht, and he made no effort to put it away, despite the obvious lack of cause. He carried it with him unsheathed, trailing a spotty line of his own blood as he went. William looked at the man without speaking for a very long time. Then he noted that the First Mate of the Maastricht was wearing a coat. "Your coat, sir." William asked, holding out his unarmed hand, and when the man looked uncertain, William remembered the necessity of language. "Uw laag." The man looked at his Captain, who nodded to him. The First Mate stripped it off and passed it to Captain Brand, who in turn bore it over to cover Lawrence Dinwiddle. Paul never stopped cradling the body, even as William covered the staring, upturned eyes, and William stood a moment with his hand resting on Paul's head. No words were shared. No condolences given. What might he have said, then, that would not have sounded empty or galling? William kept his tongue, for he had no intention of vexing the silent mourner with empty sympathies. He stood there, not only for Paul, but for himself. He needed the time to collect himself. To return from barbarian to officer. He needed the moment to set the cruelty aside for the civilization required of him over the next few minutes and hours. The battle was ended, but not replaced with peace. Peace came by negotiation, and William was already setting the terms in his mind.

As Miss Smith struck the colors of the Maastricht, William gave the deck over to Mister Warren and went to the waist of the Watch Dog. Here he met with some of the Dutch who were trying to do to the 'Dog, what they were doing to the Maastricht, but for their part, the Dutch made a poor show of it. William, not the finest swordsman ever to cross blades, still managed to dispatch a sailor with little effort. The man he struck down looked overwhelmed, and indeed, William's methods of fighting often surprised men thus. He always closed quickly with opponents, utilizing a reckless style that surprised the unprepared. It was hard to reconcile the abandon of it or defend against the rush of it. William had already killed the first and propelled the dying man into a second, before the third had judged the momentum of the Captain, and the third proved to be better than William in many ways. First, he had a longer reach, being much taller than the Captain, and William was almost undone by the man's first jabs. Second, the man was armed with a longer blade which added half a foot to his reach. William only just turned the blade away from his chest and then his gut. The man backed him up three full steps as he came on before William would give him no more ground. The Dutchman lunged into a wide swing, and William set it aside by deflection. This altered the balance of reach, for William stepped so close to the man that he could not employ his weapon to any immediate advantage. The man had enough presence of mind to draw a knife as this happened and William only just caught it in the basket of his own blade, ignoring the damage that it did to his hand in doing so. Then William grappled the man by his sword arm with his left hand while punching the man in the face with the basket of his cutlass. The man's nose disintegrated and William cut the man's arm deep below the elbow. Bill Flint shot William's second attacker who had recovered enough to come upon the Captain's flank. The man went down screaming with his ear and some of his face gone. William offered his only mercy of the battle then by drawing a second a Jacobean to end the man's suffering, but Miss Tribianni had shot him before the Captain could pull back the hammer. William went to the bulwark rail trailing a thin, interrupted line of his own blood.

I will continue to update the list, despite my own abscence. I have added a list of those attending, but staying outside the fort. As you can see, the tentative list has begun to thin a bit with time and moeny quickly becoming a factor. Please PM your names or post them here for that list,

Nigel Brisbane loaded the swivel a second time, and William made good use of it. He cleared a path to the Maastricht's poop deck, well ahead of the 'Dog's tenacious Steward. Miss Smith was cutting a swathe that William would not have believed, had he not been privy to it now. She moved with a deadly grace which surpassed what he had seen at the Don's dress ball. The fluidity of it was distracting. She cut down men twice her size, men which towered over her. From his vantage point, he was hard pressed to say whether she was grimacing or smiling as she went a reaping. Either way, it had an effect on those who fools her dared defend their ground against her, for they looked hesitant at best. "She's striking her colors!" Nigel shouted, waking William from his observation, and for a moment, William was confused. Tudor had not reached the Dutch colors and no one aboard the Maastricht was employed in removing them. Then William realized that Nigel was pointing beyond the fluyt to the Heron, now well removed from the battle. The English cutter was striking her colors.

A gunner's mate rushed the pressing attackers from the 'Dog, and Ajayi struck him with a length of split yard he had grabbed up from the deck. He hit the man so hard that he dashed out one of his eyes and most of his teeth. Eric Franklin ran a man through from armpit to armpit, even as the man hefted a spent swivel gun to throw it into the fray. The gun collapsed upon the man and Eric was forced to leap away, leaving the lodged cutlass. He found another blade almost immediately as Patrick Hand buried first one knife and then another into a startled looking sailor. Eric grabbed the man's short sword while he still stood, moving on through the chaos as Patrick finished off the able seaman. Sealegs Constance almost fell down a companionway as a marauder stabbed at her with a pike staff. The weapon turned upon her baldric and hung up upon the crudely fashioned axe ring she had placed there just an hour previous. The fool of an attacker tried to wrench the pike free rather than abandon it, and Sealegs took his hand off for his troubles. Maurice Roche employed so many missiles in his attack that many after would talk of his deft fingers. Having disharged his musket and pistols, He picked up and threw every small object he could get his hands on. He killed the Maastrict's Bosun with a thrown chunk of iron from a damaged studding boom. It hit the Bosun in the face so hard that the man went over backwards, but not before the Bosun discharged his pistol blindly into the open, striking Manus Hingerty in his right shin. The first victim to fall under Owen Monahan's cutlass was a boy of no more years than Thomas Fitch. He did not cut down the boy out of malice or spite. He was not motivated by any revenge. He was motivated by the veracity of the attack, for the Dutch boy sprang to the 'Dog and pressed an attack there upon Mister Monahan, cutting Owen twice before Owen could cut him down. Two deep gashes ran across Owen's side, one very near his gut, and Owen was obliged to step back from another attacker to clutch his opened side. Andrew Smyth, who had himself been plucked from death by Mister Monahan only the day before, leveled a musket at Owen's attacker and shot him through the neck. This debt repaid, Andrew drew a pistol and narrowly missed a man bent on killing Mister Lasseter with an evil looking implement, probably meant for another kind of butchering.

William discharged a swivel gun on the quarterdeck, just ahead of the Quartermaster as he pressed his advance. The Captain was forced to guess at unseen targets as he fired through the Maastricht's balustrades, killing two and wounding a third. The blast rebounded hard enough off the fluyt's rails, that a redirected ball passed across the buttons of Eric Franklin's waistcoat, which he utterly failed to notice in his charge. Cut-throat touched off his beloved murder gun at the ship's waist, and 'Yer Maker' carried away a would be attacker, striking him mid way between the bulwark rails of the two ships. Marines of the Dutch shot back at the gunner's mate, but Cut-throat was well protected under the stairs from the quarterdeck, and he reloaded as quickly as possible, that he might defend the deck of the 'Dog as the crew abandoned her into battle. A lone Dutchman made the perilous crossing to the 'Dog during this pause, escaping the fluyt to do do murder on the frigate. He drew pistols against Mister Johnson, but he was cut down by an unlikely defender, for Meg Wardell shot him down before his foot could even touch the deck. She was crouched with the musket she had fired from her hip, and in truth, she had not expected to use it in this fashion, for upon seeing the bloodied sailor cross the bulwark rails with drawn pistols, she had grabbed up the musket to defend herself with it club-like. However, her clenched fingers had slipped through the trigger guard and she shot the man through the side above his left hip. Cut-throat Johnson stepped from the shelter of the stairway and buried a boarding axe in his back. "To me!" he yelled to Meg, and she was suddenly awakened to the full gravity of the day, and she he ran to the stair, where Mister Johnson passed her the bloodied axe. Another Dutch marine made an attempt at the quarterdeck by utilizing some damaged rigging to swing across the space. William drew a Jacobean and fired, but the powder merely puffed in the pan and the spark did not discharge the ball. It mattered little, for the man fell even as he made the rail as the line gave way under his weight and he was carried into the sea by his own recklessness.

Bill Flint was a man of decisive actions which followed one upon the other. Every time a target fell he called out another to the lookouts, drawing the shooters to life after life, and moving from death to death. One marine would shoot, the other loaded, and Bill never stopped naming the targets. "Marine on the fo'c'sle." Musket report rang out. "Gunner amidships." And the musket report rang out. The noise of the engine of war played on as the marines aloft passed judgment and lead over the Maastricht. A musket ball almost toppled Ciaran out of the maintop, the bullet just grazing his right shoulder. Flint drew his pistol and shot the assailant from the Maastricht's main top even as he called out another target below. (The following portion was written by Mister Pew:) The blood had begun spill over the deck and from under the tarp of Thom Fitch. As Meg was lead away from the body Jean was snapped back to the present. "Mister Dorleac, some sand 'f ye please," I yelled above the din and waving to the young man. The blood had begun to run over the side causing the deck to become dangerously slick. It was one thing to lose a man in the course of battle to a good shot, but to become injured from a fall on deck was reprehensible. On the bow, Mister Flint continued to call out the targets as if he was in a London pub playing a game of darts with his mates. The gunnery crew continued to move about loading and sponging down the cannon. The momentary lull had allowed our marines to load both of their muskets in preparation for the board. "And none t' soon," I said to myself.

1 and 2 are true. 1. I was a homeless man who lived in Golden gate park in San Francisco. TRUE - I was thrown out of the place I was staying and I couldn't find a place to stay for a little while, so I lived in Golden Gate Park just north of the baseball diamonds. For those of you familiar with the park there is a small druid temple near the road. I slept in a small hidden enclosure of bushes next to the temple. 2. I had lunch with Natalie Cole, the singer and actress. TRUE - Though it wasn't an intimate lunch between close friends. I was on the Set of Touched by an Angel and Natalie was that episode's guest. I stood around with her and ten other people eating chicken noodle soup in the cemetary where they were filming the show. 3. I did time at County. For those of you not in the know, that means jail. TRUE and FALSE - I did not do time at county jail. I slept at county jail. When the Cache County Jail was first built, the public could stay there the first two weeks to see what it was like. Most of the people who stayed there left within twenty minutes because they couldn't handle it. I dressed up as in inmate and enjoyed it to the fullest.

The fluyt, now identified as the Maastricht, was veering off into the wind and she slowed as she went. Her foremast fell away as the wind finished off what Mister Youngblood and Havoc had begun. The eight pounder's shot had carried off part of the foremast high and the lower fore shrouds. The damage was exasperated by a shot from His Grace, under the charge of Mister Pew, which had caught the fore yard almost on its tip as it fell from the fore mast. It had shattered lengthwise, killing no less then eight men with the debris. This damage to the fore mast and sail further dampened the fluyt's speed, and she turned so wide that she almost dashed herself on the stalling cutter's stern, which was carried past the Maastricht by momentum alone. The cutter, now bearing away from them by diminishing speed and a Westerly current, bore the name Heron across her stern. The Heron had managed but one shot as she drifted by the turning 'Dog. This solitary shot had passed through a section of the bulwark rails of the gun deck, leaving the waist of the 'Dog somewhat lessened, and the combined noise from the great guns had been so loud while passing the Maastricht , that very few had realized that their victorious barrage had come at a cost. A screaming went up from the waist that was joined by shouts of surprise, dismay, and no small share of curses. Meg Wardell, covered in a spray of blood which was not her own, had both hands clapped tightly over her mouth in a vain attempt to halt her own horror. Thom Fitch, more than a boy, but not quite a man, lay folded under the Larboard rail, a jagged hole just above him in the 'Dog's side. The Heron's round shot, which had done little real harm to the frigate herself, had struck Thom in his chest just above the heart. His body was almost in two pieces, with most of him from the chest up destroyed and folded over to his side. His left arm was nowhere to be found for the moment, and anyone who had ever wondered before about the mass of blood which might usher forth from a man, had but to look down to the filling sand at their feet for the answer. This was the moment of horrific revelation for those who had never been to war, and a bloody reminder to the rest. Death visits friends and foes in battle. Nicholas Johnson, who was capable of much dispassion, making him the ideal man for a boarding action, had done far more damage than this to his share of men over the course of his life. He often killed dozens at once with murder guns and grapeshot. He was a hardened man who could do good and bloody service when called to do it. Still, despite his own granite constitution, he had the presence of mind to drag one of the great guns coverings over Mister Fitch's remains as quickly as he could. The canvas filled with the stain of him at once. This violent death caused a strange wave of alteration among the crew. The kind of change that only death can manifest. To have guessed the outcome of the crew's reactions before hand would have been folly, for those who might have turned from such a horror, stayed, and strong men looked stricken. Some who appeared hesitant before, now looked alive with retribution. Others who had given no outward sign of fear, now looked shaken. Some faces lent no more to this fall than that of an enemy. Yes, the sudden loss of one who had been well liked among a throng created unpredictable ripples on the water. Harold Press was forced to take Meg Wardell in hand and turn her face away. Jean Dorleac bit his lip until it bleed. Owen Monahan, not generally given to acts of humanity, piled a second canvas on the first. James Whiting was half way through a whispered litany of prayer before he realized he had even begun one. The Captain, only appraised by reasoning, came forward to the taff rail again. He was aware that someone had died. He was aware that it might not be the last. He could not see who it was from his vantage point and he did not scan the faces to see who might be lost. He didn't have the luxury. His was a Captain's reaction. He shouted out continuing orders to lay over to Starboard and back against the prevailing wind. The business of the day wasn't over yet, so he shouted down to the bosuns and they shouted the orders forward and up. The battle was joined. Funerals would come after.

Mister Youngblood was one of the few to appreciate the advantages of the pressing wind, for as the Watch Dog heeled over to Starboard, the recently fired Larboard guns rolled forward again into their resting positions. It took little effort for the Master Gunner and his newly initiated mates, Rummy and Meg, to tie off the guns at once. Those on the quarterdeck experienced the opposite effect, for as the deck leaned, the six pounder were thrown hard against their breech lines as the 'Dogs stern pitched over. William and Dorian were forced to throw their weight against the cascabels to keep the lines from parting. Down below, Mister Brisbane clapped a hand over his right eye, grimacing in pain. A shard of glass had scratched his cornea, and for a moment, Nigel thought his eye had been put out. He fell backward as the 'Dog pitched, and nearly dashed his temple on Freki's cascabel. He clutched at it for support, and pulled out the quoin by mistake, tipping the gun up to its highest elevation. Now, Nigel Brisbane was not a man who believed in Fate, at least, he never had before. Providence was a thing for pastors and poets, but in that moment of pain he realized two things. First, he still had his eye, despite the burning pain which lanced across it. Second, the pitch of the Watch Dog, and the elevation of the gun, had given him a target. He had hoped against hope, that he could fire the grapeshot across the decks of the fluyt or cutter, taking out a crew. What he had before him now was better. As he touched off the match, the Watch Dog's eight pound stern chaser, armed with a double load of powder and grapeshot, tracked across the mast of the cutter. . . . . . . . Ciaran was already shooting the helmsman of the cutter, when Freki went off. It shook his concentration just enough, that he shot the officer behind the tiller, instead of the coxswain. Not that it mattered really, for even as he watched, the grapeshot from the Watch Dog tore everything above the deck to pieces. Most of the crew was spared by the blast, for it found more of a victim in the cutter herself. One moment she was as pretty as a painting, lit from the East. The next moment, she was torn apart. Stays, mast fids, shrouds, blocks, sails, studding booms, and lookouts, were all peppered by hundreds of lead pellets which whistled through her rigging, finding a thousand places to roost. Line went slack or snapped. Sail was buffeted and torn. Wood protested under the onslaught of ten dozen strikes. Even as she bore down on the 'Dog, she was crippled to a near standstill. . . . . . . . It took mere seconds for the Captain of the fluyt to recover himself long enough to see that recovering might be impossible. He watched with horrific fascination as the rigging of his companion vessel came apart. He had expected that cutter to hem in the frigate, and now the prey had become the predator. The Watch Dog turned so suddenly across his path, that he couldn't come over to Starboard for fear of running upon the frigate and stowing her in, sinking them and all who were with him. Instead of hemming them in, he was hemmed in his course, unable to engage the frigate on his terms. To make matters worse, his pride had left him unprepared for so much fight from this frigate. The Watch Dog had seemed small, though in truth, she was not much smaller than the fluyt, and now, this Spanish dog, this pirate dog to a pirate captain, was tearing his small navy to pieces. He was awoken from his staggering thoughts and shock by his Master Gunner. The man, one Joseph Aretineson, was seven years the Captain's senior in age, and three times the officer in a fight. The moment he had realized their plight, he ordered his men over to the Starboard guns, screaming,"Hurry or Hell take ye!". He wasn't wrong. . . . . . . . Hell came in the form of the Watch Dog's Master Gunner, Petee Youngblood. Petee had signed aboard for this very reason. He could think of nothing better than to destroy a ship with cannon fire and be paid for his troubles. The only smoke he liked better than his pipe, was a burning gun deck on any other ship than his. He also liked the smell of spent powder. He was smiling as he touched off the match to Havoc, a gun whose name had only recently become so appropriate. It also came in the form of Raphael-Etienne Chanault, who had been born under a different star. He had seen much in his lifetime, but he could remember few pleasures as moving as the act of touching off a cannon aimed at an enemy of France. He had asked this favor of the Master Gunner, and now granted, he smiled and whispered something that only a few aboard would have understood. He too noted the fitting name of his assigned cannon, Coup de Grace. Sealegs Constance, little more than a messmate aboard ship, enjoyed the pleasure of firing the eight pounder, though pleasure was not the word she would have chosen. During her life, she had enjoyed her share of wins and losses. She had known her share of small victories. She thought she might number this among them as she touched off Straight Shot. Mister Pew was given the honor of touching off His Grace. His face was all concentration and aim as he did so. Whether his thoughts were about the Monsignor or not, was his own affair. He was a Master-at-Arms first, and a man of reflections second. He sighted down the barrel at the fluyt as it rolled by and noted that one of the gun ports opposite him on the Dutch ship, swung up to reveal a hurried crew. He didn't even think of them as he touched off His Grace. The firing of Goliath fell to Jonathan Hawks, who favored the gun which Christine had named. He liked it, not because of its connection to the former cook, but for the name itself. It implied power and perhaps it was the symbolism of a slung stone and a felled enemy of superior strength. It made him feel stronger to touch off the great gun. Iron Destruction, was a gun which had seen its share of action. It had been purchased for farthings from a Ship's Master at La Desirade. The carriage had been a rotting thing which barely supported the trunnions. Now, under the careful maintenance of the gunnery crew, it was an elegant weapon of destruction. Patrick Hand gave it a gentle pat as he sighted down the barrel and touched off the match. The irony of the name given to the ship's 16th gun was not lost on Harold Press. It did not bear the title of impending doom, which many of the guns bore. It was not a name out of myth or legend. Harold imagined that Firethorn had named Charity after a lost love, or maybe a temperamental woman from his past. Whomever it had been, it certainly had little to do with the grace from which the name stemmed, for it roared to life the moment it was touched off, destroying everything in its path.

"I may require you at the guns for the present." William said, standing in close to be heard and gesturing to the three guns of the Larboard quarterdeck, for much of the crew was still aloft and gunnery crews were in short supply. Meanwhile, the Watch Dog's sails, already turning in expectation of the blast, filled up at once. The wind gathered in her sails so quickly, that several able seamen grabbed on for dear life as the rigging leaned hard over to larboard, straining the stays and shrouds. The Watch Dog groaned more in that moment, then she ever had in any storm. The whole length of the main masts, comprising over one hundred feet of timber, bent against a tradewind that none of the masts were fully prepared for. The great roar of the 'Dog's crew died off in the wake of this new danger, as dozens of sailors stared upwards into the rigging, praying for the rigging to bear the turn. Strangely enough, and fortunate for the frigate, the sound of the blast and cries coming from 'Dog had the opposite effect on the fluyt and cutter crews. They made the mistake of believing that the second shot from the cutter's bow chasers had struck the 'Dog amidships, though it had passed well beyond the frigate off her Larboard side. Still, the blasts from the 'Dog were interpreted as a hit upon the 'Dog's powder stores. This was further exaggerated by the shudder that went through the frigate and the shot from her stern chaser. Nigel Brisbane had touched off the cannon a mere two seconds after the others, having only just recovered himself from the hit to the quarter galley. The blast from Geri shot low and the round shot kicked up a huge plume of water behind the 'Dog, which was carried over her stern by the prevailing wind. It also had a poor effect on the remaining windows of the stern. Weakened by the hit to the quartergalley, the stern windows shattered from the roar of the 8 pounder. Combined with all the other noise, spray and smoke, the enemy onlookers were convinced of a hit, and they too broke the day with cheering.