William Brand

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.

William turned away and called for the Steward, but before she could respond, the cutter fired her first shot of the day. The cannon ball from her bow chaser carried away the corner of the Starboard stern, shattering the aft portion of the quarter galley. One moment it was there, and the next moment it disintegrated. The officer's head was carried off with glass and the ornamentation above and below. It was little more than a graze, but it shattered a third of the windows in the ward room. The men there were peppered with glass and dust as the door to the head blew open from the hit. Nigel was saved his good looks just then, for he had bent forward over Geri with the slow match, with his back to the head. The rush of pressed air from the hit came up the scuttleway and almost knocked Lazarus gage off of his feet. William strode to the taff rail and cried, "HAAAAAAAVOC!" Time stood still then in a way that only the brave will ever fully understand. Mister Youngblood touched off Jeanie with three words, "For Mister Sons." The sound of the double load tore the day, for it was followed so closely upon by the other guns that the Watch Dog heaved on the sea. The blast was so loud that it almost buried the roar of voices that went up from all quarters. Every man, every woman and every boy, sent up an answering cry of 'HAVOC!" and William was moved by this more than the report from the great guns. His skin goose-fleshed at once, and a shudder went up his spine. It was not an unpleasant sensation. "I could lead them into Hell." he thought in that moment.

To anyone observing at a distance, the two pressing antagonists had their share of advantages over the solitary defender. The fluyt had fired what warnings it would, and had made the odd hit, palpable or not. The cutter was bearing down hard, pressing all of her advantages. The Watch Dog was moving on a weak wind with all of her gun ports closed. For all intents and purposes, she appeared the weaker target. William put his head down the scuttleway to the ward room and called for Mister Brisbane. The man appeared at once at the bottom of the steps. "Run out out the wolves and prepare to fire, Mister Brisbane." "Aye, Sah." "When you hear the 'havoc' call, fire off Geri's round shot, whether you have a target or no. Then fire upon the cutter at your discretion with the other." "Aye, Sah." William went forward to the officers below the rail. Mister Badger was there, along with Mister Morgan. The masters, Franklin and Pew had just returned from aloft. Mister Youngblood stood just beyond them. "The same orders as before the turn, Gentlemen. Speed. Diligence." Affirmatives came up from everyone. "Mister Youngblood." "Sah!" "Once we come about, the gun deck is at your disposal. Dispose of them how you may." "Aye, Cap'n." "Thank you, Mister Youngblood. Run out the Larboard guns forward and prepare to fire." The Bosuns took up their places, Larboard and Starboard. William gave them a nod and they sent men aloft in preparation to turn. Weathered hands went to ropes. Minds turned inward. There they waited those last few minutes, hands behind the stage of the Watch Dog, waiting for a curtain call. Mister Youngblood ordered out the three Larboard guns forward, heavy with shot and powder. They tied off the lines that would halt the cannons in their retreat from the added blast. He passed a lit slow match to a wide-eyed Meg Wardell and to the stock stern, calm, Master Carpenter, keeping the last for himself. The Steward and Cook each took a six pounder on the quarterdeck. William turned to Dorian then, knowing he might not have a chance to say anything after. If there was an after. There was a great deal he might have said. At a loss for both words and time, he removed his hat and proffered his hand. "We'll drink a toast after. You and I."

William followed suit and stepped up to the poop deck. He was almost overwhelmed in the Spanish colors as he called out. "IK ZAL NIET! IK BEN KAPITEIN BRAND! VERLOF HIER OF MATRIJS!" This was answered by more cannon fire. One shot cleared the ship entirely, but for the hole it made in the mainsail. The cloth about the tear did not part much, but witnesses would swear later that Mister Badger gnashed his teeth when it happened. The second shot skipped ruthlessly across the on board stairway and the rubbing pieces along the 'Dog's Starboard side. This weakened the seam there and parted one of the rubbing pieces, but did little else but cause the gunnery crews to jump at the sound. Even the eight pounder, Goliath, shuddered a little on its carriage. Mister Lasseter was at the rail with his spyglass, though he didn't need to guess the cutter's course of action. As she came about, the wind was at her disposal. Propelled by a wind far more favorable to her than the dog. She was now at liberty to make the rules of engagement, or so thought the English. They continued South by Southwest, to trap the 'Dog as the fluyt began to ease off to the West in an effort to pass the 'Dog on her Starboard side, their larboard guns already prepared for action. All of her gunnery crews crowded the larboard gun deck of the fluyt, intent on firing into the Watch Dog as they passed. Meanwhile, the cutter, bearing down on their larboard side, had her choice of attacking the 'Dog there or falling in behind her. "She's coming up fast, Cap'n." "Aye." William said, dropping back down to the quarterdeck. "Mister Pew!" He called, turning to the taff rail, and the Master-at-Arms came aft, meeting William at the stairs. "Send orders aloft by man. Tell the marines aloft to watch the cutter as it bears down on us. I want them to shoot any man who dares the tiller. Do you understand? Every officer and seaman who tries to take the helm. Cut them down. Make the helm a graveyard, Mister Pew." "Aye, Cap'n." he said. "They may fire at anyone they wish thereafter until all is done." Mister Pew went foreward, and wasting no time in the exchange of orders on deck, he went aloft himself, passing the orders to Mister Franklin, who ran along below even as Mister Pew ascended first to the bulwark rail and then up the main lower shrouds. The Sergeant-at-Arms ran forward along the deck to mount the fore lower shrouds in similar fashion, bearing his orders up. Captain turned to the rail and stood a moment with the Quartermaster. "Corn'r a dog an' get bit fer yer troubles." William said, in a country fashion. "Aye". dorian agreed.

"Aye. It was at that!" William agreed, shouting over the temporary chaos this made of the quarterdeck and the waist. He motioned for Mister Badger next, drawing him in close. "You have a rare gift for sail, Mister Badger. I need you to express this talent for canvas, now more than ever." "Aye, Sah." Mister Badger said, and his countenance went all business-like at once. "When I give you the word, we will come over hard to Starboard again. Our course as Northward as we can make it." "Then you should know, Cap'n. I believe that will take us too wide of the fluyt. We can't come about fa..." he began, but stopped, for William was already shaking his head. "We will come about VERY hard, Mister Badger." William said, speaking slower than before, and Mister Badger's face changed a little then as his eyes fell upon the gunnery crew employed at the quarterdeck's six pounders. His eyes darted forward along the Larboard gundeck and then back back to William. "I understand, Cap'n." he said, his eyes widening a little in comprehension. "Send your orders down to every man and woman now and ask them to be ready when they come again." William said carefully, choosing his words as he went. "I'm asking you to pick a fight with *Aeolus. Throw the gauntlet right in his face and bring this ship about harder than you ever have before! Crack the main a little if you must!" he finished, and his voice was a sharp whisper. "I won't have to, Cap'n." "So much the better." William agreed, for he did not like the idea of doing the Watch Dog anymore harm than necessary. "She'll turn if I ask her to." Jacob Badger said in a tone of absolutes, and he smiled a smile that was quite different then. He had never imagined such a bold, albeit reckless act from Captain Brand. "If this works, I mean to buy you a drink after." "If this works, I will need a drink after." *Aeolus - King of the Winds in Greek Mythology

"Epiphany is the prophecy on the tip of our tongues." Mahdi had once said to William, but William thought that this answer would come out sounding like madness, given the moment, so he said nothing. He did not have the time nor the disposition to explain for the present. He wasn't even sure how he would explain the sudden change, or the epiphany behind it. It might take too long. Instead, he rushed to the Larboard rail to watch the cutter altering her course. He sprang up to the poop deck to find the fluyt already coming to a course favorable to an attack on the Watch Dog's stern. Mister Badger came rushing aft to the holy ground, having issued orders counter to his previous instructions. He looked ruffled, but not angry, his face alive with questions. The Watch Dog pressed forward and Southward with the Dutch fluyt falling slowly in behind them. They would have their range soon and the 'havoc' that William had spoken of before would be the enemy's cannon fire on their stern. The single gunnery crew left to ready the sternchasers was all too aware of the fluyt now as it bore down on the Watch Dog. They, more than anyone else, sat in harm's way, as did the frigate herself. As if moved by this very thought, William called the Master Gunner to the quarterdeck. Mister Youngblood used the opportunity of invitation to ply the Captain with questions. "Sah, I don't understand. Shall I divide and move the crews?" "No, Petee. Man the Starboard guns, but have three crews quickly arm Jeanie, Buttercup and Beelzebub with a double charge of powder, and a double load of roundshot, if you please. Then man each of those six guns with one man each, powder monkeys and galley help will do for the slow match." Mister Youngblood could not hide his surprise, for all five of these guns followed the forward curve of the Larboard bow, and not one of them was pointed towards their enemies. A ship would have to pass forward of the 'Dog's waist before the first of those guns could do any service. "Sah...?" "If you please, Mister Youngblood." He snapped off a salute and an 'Aye'Aye' before rushing forward again. William sent the same orders down the scuttleway to Mister Brisbane with specific instructions for each cannon. "Aye Cap'n. A double charge of powder and a two rounds of grapeshot for Freki and round shot for Geri." he repeated back, sounding no less perplexed. William ordered the same thing done to the Starboard six pounders, only with the exception that round shot was to be added. There was no shortage of stares about the deck.

"Very good, Mister Lasseter." William said with a short nod, pleased to see the marines already returning to the weatherdecks with the small arms. All of the great guns were standing ready to be run out. William went forward to the taff rail and called to the Master Gunner. "Mister Youngblood! Send a gunnery crew aft to the Ward room to uncover the gunnery compartment. We won't have to time to make it ready afterwards." "Aye-Aye, Sah!" He said, already motioning for Brisbane's and three men to hurry aft. William turned to the Quartermaster. "With all prepared, I must arm myself. If the Dutch alters course, come about as hard and fast as the 'Dog will allow." "Aye, Cap'n." The Captain went down the scuttleway into the Ward Room and crossed the open space at once. The gunnery crew assigned to the stern chasers had already spilled in from the passageway door and were just taking up the trapdoors which hid the eight pounders there. They were forced a short pause as he crossed the floor. Then they flung them open to reveal the recently refreshed stern chasers. William entered his quarters, tossing his coat into his hammock as he did so. He went to his sea trunk and flipped it open, delving through clothing and books to fish out what lay beneath. When it was all but emptied, he pressed down on the corner which hid the false bottom, to reveal his most guarded belongings. The space was tightly packed with a few rare and unusual items, each with their own history. He took out the leather pouch with the celtic cross on the front. It was suspended from a long leather cord, which he slipped over his head, tucking the pouch into his shirt. Then he fetched out the oiled cloth which held his Jambiya and Shafra, tucking them through the wide belt at his waist. He closed the interior compartment and shut the lid, leaving his discarded clothing. He grabbed up his blunderbuss and the haversack which contained his brace of Jacobean pistols and powder as he went out, slipping this over his head, opposite his cutlass, leaving his discarded coat behind. As he crossed the Ward Room again, he was forced to jump precariously across the open gunnery compartment on the beams which generally supported the floor when it was shut up. Nigel Brisbane was the only man standing in the space as he ordered the crouching gunnery crew about Freki and Geri. William clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "Good man." Returning to the deck, William found the whole ship prepared to engage the enemy, which was now so hard upon them, that cannon fire from their bow chasers was emanant. It was in this moment, stepping onto the quarterdeck, that William chanced to see Patrick Godfrey standing in the waist, forward. He was a step up on the gun carriage of the eight pounder, Beelzebub, and his face and shoulders were lit by the dawn. Patrick was standing there for only a moment before Harold Press hauled him down again to the deck, but William's memory was already touched in a profound way. The epiphany was absolute. Mister Lasseter was stepping forward just then, for the Dutch had begun their turn. He was in the very midst of ordering the Watch Dog about when William rushed forward. "BELAY THAT ORDER! HARD TO STARBOARD MISTER WARREN! MISTER BADGER, MAKE OUR COURSE DUE SOUTH!" July 23, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog Three bells of Morning Watch

Welcome to the Kate, Mister Riley. I'll have someone fetch you some soap and water, while I fetch up some food from the galley.

July 23, 1704 - Preparing for battle Between two and three bells of the Forenoon Watch "Gentlemen. We are about to come about on the Dutch. Mister Youngblood and I have discussed the lack of sufficient gunnery crews, and while this has ever been a condition of this ship, it was never more important." There were many nods. "The presence of the cutter is difficult to ignore, but ignore it we will, Gentlemen. When we come about, it will be us and the fluyt. We must cripple that ship before we can afford any more regard for the other. Am I understood?" "Aye, Sah." they chorused. Even Jim Warren nodded, understanding that he would be earning his pay at the helm today. "Excellent. When the time is right, I will cry 'Havoc', Gentlemen, then everyone aboard must do their duty. No mistakes, Gentlemen. We cannot afford them, so it's havoc, Gentlemen. Havoc." They chorused their agreement again, and William made a point of looking at each of them before he was assured. "Mister Badger, prepare to come about." "Aye, Cap'n." "Mister Youngblood, place your crews at the starboard guns. We're going to be very close to them when we come around." "I won't mind the range, Cap'n." "Try not to sink her, if you can, but make anyone else who might dare the field think twice about it." Petee's face split into a grin of casual malevolence. "My work will make the carpenters weep, Sah." William nodded appreciatively. "Mister Pew, it seems that your marines shall be required earlier than expected." "Aye, Sah, but not unprepared. Warriors, every one." "Aye." William said, and his orders were coming quickly now. His quiet and careful words followed in quick succession, and there could be no denying the earnest warning in his tone as he clapped a hand on the Master-at-Arms shoulder. "Have your marines distribute arms among the crew, post haste. Put the Larboard and Starboard lookouts aloft in both tops and send up what materials may be lashed in for their protection. Barrel staves. Spare sailcloth. Anything that might stave off the musket fire. Go now. The sand is through the glass, Mister Pew. Mister Lasseter will follow after with boarding orders."

July 23, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog Just prior to two bells of the Forenoon Watch With every passing minute, the decisions of the moment became more important, more focused. Time was reaching that conjunction, lodged between favor and ill fortune, for heading into the wind gave them time to prepare the last of the great guns, but the cutter was slipping ahead of them along a parallel line. They were on even ground with the fluyt, which was almost equal to them in sail and firepower, but the Watch Dog was smaller. She was also lighter than the fluyt, having so recently shed much so much of her cargo at La Blanquilla, so as time passed, they slowly slipped ahead of the Dutch ship by degrees. Once they reached that point where the fluyt might bear behind them and the sloop, far ahead of them, might come about, they would be trapped on two fronts and faced by too many guns at once. William plied his mind again and again with the arithmetic of the moment. He had returned to the quarterdeck to watch the fluyt and the cutter. After a time, he was joined by the Quartermaster and they stood awhile in silence. "She's listing." Mister Lasseter said, in an observational, almost conversational tone. "Aye" William returned, and said nothing else. Both of them had observed the subtle way that the fluyt leaned. At first, it seemed like a distinction of perspective, but over the near hour since turning Eastward into the wind, the subtlety had increased. To most of the crew aboard, it would mean nothing, but William and Dorian had seen close action on the sea many times. This listing was a sign. A tick. A feint before the sword thrust. It spoke of the shifting weight of men and guns. It spoke of expectations. "She'll come about soon." William said, and his tone was as grave as it had ever been and the second bell of the Forenoon Watch rang out over a relative silence. "As will she." Dorian agreed, looking off in the direction of the cutter, which was bearing into the tradewinds with speed. "The timing must be perfect. Prefect. The Dutch will swing about hard. We must be turned about before them, Dorian." Then William changed. His full attention turned to the fluyt. Just the fluyt. He set the cutter aside in his mind as if it was a destination removed by months and weeks, not minutes. He stared into the profile of the fluyt and counted her guns one last time. "Fetch up the Master Gunner and the Bosuns, Mister Lasseter. And bring up Mister Pew." "Aye, Cap'n." And still the Dutch fluyt listed to larboard. The casual contrapposto of an emanant death.

AAAvvvvvvvassssssst! Are you a gamer?

July 23, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog Thomas Fitch was returning to deck with additional powder when he ran headlong into Mister Morgan. The Bosun's Mate thrust out an arm to catch the young sailor before he toppled backwards down the companionway. "Sorry, sah." Thomas managed, out of breath. "No harm done, lad. Mind the pressing crowd." He sent Thomas on his way again and Thomas reached the ship's fifth gun, passing the powder off to Mister Johnson. There he remained by Nicholas, staring out towards the two antagonists on the sea. "We WILL fight them, Sah...won't we?" Nicholas, or 'Cut-Throat' as he was known to some, shook his head and shrugged, as if it was not a foregone conclusion. Then he smiled at the perplexed look that crossed the young face of Fitch. "We won't fight 'em, Tom. We'll slaughter 'em." he said in a hushed and assured tone. "That's if we fight them at all." Jonas McCormick added, his own face turned Northward to watch the ships. "We may thump our chests all day and ne'r fire a shot, lad. The three Captains may jus' circle and circle and ne'r fire. Cut-Throat nodded. "They could lose one o' their's sinking us, see...and that would not be a victory. Better to circle." "They'll fire shots at us, but not on us." Jonas continued. "Then they will call for our surrender. Yell 'STRIKE YOUR COLORS!', and we'll ju..." Jonas stopped this talk at once, for Mister Youngblood had fixed a look upon the three of them. "Save your talk for Martinique!" he barked, and waited while the three went back to placing the great gun. ~ALL HANDS ON DECK

The enemy ships maintained their course, almost due East. They made no alteration in their heading at all, but William suspected they were altering everything else aboard. Even now, muskets were being prepared, powder was being fetched up, gun crews were standing to attention and officers were giving advice. William considered his many choices. If he turned the 'Dog Eastward, they would run into the wind in a parallel course to their antagonists, buying more time for the present, for they were still beyond the full range of one another's guns. The Dutch ship was close enough now by eyes or glass to determine her make and much of her possibilities. Her sides were pierced with just as many gunports as the 'Dog along her gun deck, though the fluyt was advantaged in her spread of firepower, for her gunports were more evenly distributed along the length of her sides from stem to stern, while the Watch Dog's guns were grouped tightly forward from the surgery and galley. Both the fluyt and frigate bore bow chasers, which still made the tally an even one. Like the 'Dog, the fluyt bore tall bulwark rails and she showed no sign of swivels whatsoever, but this only meant that she might have many. They were only obviously different aft, for the 'Dog's quarterdeck was crowded with three cannons per side, while the fluyt bore only two gunports on her holy ground, larboard and starboard. In profile, there was no evidence of stern chasers, though a ship with a stern of such a high carriage was bound to have one or two cannon aft. This was fruitless accounting, as William well knew. It was a small, fleeting reward of math, to count her great guns, for even though they might outnumber the fluyt, there was still the cutter. Fast. Dangerous. It was a lithe looking device of war. The cutter bore ten swivels by his count. Ten that he could see. She was also pierced with four gunports per side, bringing the accounting well past the 'Dog. She was rigged fore and aft, which supplied her with advantages of wind not open to the light frigate. She was in short, all teeth and speed. They might subdue the fluyt in short order, but the cutter? It would race circles about them if given any ground. It was an English devil. A wolfhound at the fluyt's beck and call. "Mister Lasseter. Make our course due East." William said, while moving to the ship's waist from the quarterdeck. Mister Youngblood was ordering the few men of the gunnery crews at his disposal to those guns still lashed against the bulwark rails. William added his hands to the those who rushed to free and reposition the bound cannons. Able seamen, cooks and officers set in against the knots and canvas.

July 23, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog Eighth bell of Morning Watch. The Forenoon Watch begins. A few minutes passed in silence. The Cook arrived on deck and squinted his way to the rail where he joined the others. "The glass if you please..." William said so softly, that it was almost carried away by the wind, and indeed, he seemed removed but for this single attention to detail. The attending sailor rushed to turn the timepiece. Then the moment for alteration came, and with it, the opportunity to change history and fortunes. The Dutch ship, for she was Dutch, unfurled the flag of that nation's sovereignty. It was drawn back away from her stern, and in the increasing light of predawn, it could not mistaken for any other ensign. Almost as an echo of power, the smaller vessel hoisted its flag of declaration, and many a British born subject aboard the 'Dog, was struck with a reaction of lost patriotism mixed with old hurts, for the flag of the English spilled open behind the cutter. William went deliberately to the taff rail. "All hands to your stations! Mister Badger, prepare to alter course!"

The Captain gave the Master Gunner a nod. Just that and no more. Petee touched off the swivel gun and it rent the silence at once. The wind carried off the sound and it rolled away toward their neighbors. Even from the quarterdeck, William and Dorian could here the Starboard crew spilling themselves from their hammocks in alarm. Feet rushing. Men and women shuffling. The die was cast. Now the other ships were the interlopers. They were now the unknown element. Strangers to a declared crew. If they refused to demonstrate their allegiance by flag or force, the Watch Dog would have to decide the next move. Any crew that had been abed before was gathered now along the rails. Not one man or woman, other than the marines of the armory, remained below. The Watch Dog was almost as quiet as it had been before, for little if any whispering followed. Everyone was watching for an ensign.

I think life at sea in the Royal Navy of 1704 would be safer. Hang in there, lad.

Miss Smith ran out the Spanish Colors. They filled at once, carried off to Larboard by the prevailing wind. It was a large ensign, filling the length of the flagstaff. There was so much fabric in it, flapping about as it found the wind again and again, that the new marine on the poop deck was forced down to the quarterdeck for fear of smothering. It was a great banner of colors and there could be no mistaking who and what it represented. William watched the two ships for any alteration in sail, course or identification. He never stopped watching them. Even when Dorian returned and offered him a chance to go below, he remained, waving off the idea of weapons for the present. He preferred to remain unfettered by pistols, and so he stood, armed only with a spyglass. Mister Youngblood returned to the waist to stand among those anxious sailors on the gun deck, though his eyes never left the quarterdeck. He had his pipe out now, set in his teeth and unlit. He would take it out and put it back again every so often in a pantomime of smoking. He was running gunnery drills over and over in his head, issuing silent orders. Over the next few minutes they fired the guns first a dozen and then two dozen times in his mind. One of the gunnery crew made to ask him a question, and he raised his hand and clamped it over the sailor's mouth, never taking his eyes off the holy ground as he did this. Mister Pew stood with his hand on the butt of the new pistol. He and Eric stood in the waist like men that were almost brothers. Had anyone chosen to look at them just then, they would have been hard pressed not to see the similarities of these men that were born strangers to one another. And if anyone could have read their minds, how alike they would have found them. Both men were thinking on bloodshed and defense. Both men were asking themselves, even now, what deeds that might not do in defense of one another and the ship, yet they looked no more poised for violence than a pair of school teachers. Mister Lasseter stood close by the Captain. He looked as calm as a Sunday deacon, standing in quiet contemplation of holier things, though nothing could have been further from the truth. As the Quartermaster, the responsibility of the boarding crew fell first to him. It was he that would send orders down with such oft heard phrases as 'DO YOUR WORST!' and 'EXCEPT NO QUARTER!'. It was he that might run pell mell into the fray, first to die and last to surrender. William closed the glass. "No change. No alteration." he said, almost to himself. "Mister youngblood." "Aye, Cap'n." The Master Gunner returned, putting away his pipe so quickly that it looked like a magic trick. "Prime 'War' with powder at the fo'c'sle deck and be prepared to wake our neighbors."

Happy All Hallows Eve! I brought a few things from the Tsunami. Frosted ghosts Brittle Merangue Bones Mixed drinks And of course, individual chocolate, peanut butter pyracy pub cakes...

Jean arrived before the Captain, and sensing this was more important than he had realized before, given the Quartermaster's reaction, he made two bad starts of it before the Captain took him by both shoulders and said, "Steady on, Jean. Slowly if you please. We can't afford mistakes." Mister Dorleac took a long breath and began. He said everything he had before, and even laid out a few more details, careful to mention Ciaran's most important facts as he had seen them. When Jean concluded, William stood a moment nodding. Then he stepped back to the waiting Carpenter and Blacksmith. "Can you mend it?" "Aye, Cap'n." Rummy said without pause, and that was enough. He did not ask her a second time. He had never had occasion to. "Mister Dorleac, call Mister Pew and Mister Franklin to the quarterdeck." "Aye, sah." Jean said and padded off again. William turned to the Master Gunner. "Mister Youngblood. Be prepared to have the gunnery crew unlash the remaining guns and report to the quarterdeck." "Aye, Cap'n." Mister Youngblood returned, moving aft at once and ordering each of the able seamen to prepare for orders regarding the main guns. William turned to the Rummy and Mister Hawks. "We will soon make an alteration in course. I will send word down. Be prepared to make repairs when that time comes." William made his way aft, stopping only at the galley before ascending to the quarterdeck. He found Mister Gage scrubbing out the few pots of the galley. "Mister Gage, secure the crockery and have the stove fire put out. We may be tossed about shortly and we cannot afford the danger." The Cook did not look alarmed. Instead, he looked intrigued. He was a good man and a most excellent cook, but underneath, William suspected that a quiet and unassuming warrior might be found. The Cook simply knuckled off a salute and began eyeing the ship's cleavers. William motioned for Mister Badger to join him and those officers already gathered on Holy Ground. They all looked anxious, but none of them looked worried. "This is good." William thought. "Nerves without nervousness." "Gentlemen, we have come to the proverbial crossroads. We have just enough distance from those two ships out there to pick our ground...our...water." There were acknowledgments from all of them in some fashion or another. Some smiled. Some nodded. Each of them was aware of the possibilities which the night might bring. Each of them had already decided they liked one almost as much as another. "Our odds at present are split. Those ships are our enemies or allies. It is unlikely that we have a third choice. If our enemies, then the odds are that we have less guns than them or we have more. Whatever the other odds may be, they are two ships to our one. I have enjoyed this disadvantage before and I am prepared for it. Unless there is any dissent, I am prepared to demonstrate our allegiance and begin the fray. I am not a man of false colors. I mean to wear no masks. I mean to show them who I am and what I am about and let the consequence of their decisions be upon their heads, so if you are prepared, Gentlemen, we shall begin the posturing."

Ciaran asked Jean to stay aloft for awhile yet while he took one last, long look at the two ships. The larger of the two was not a large craft at all, not much larger than the 'Dog in fact. It was hard to discern her finer points, but she had a taller stern than the frigate and what appeared to be a long bowsprit. The other ship was smaller, and now that she was ahead of the companion vessel, he could see that she carried considerable sail. A sloop, he guessed, for she was rigged for and aft, and was most likely coastal or Bermuda built. This did not bode well, for it was likely that she was superior in speed to the 'Dog. Ciaran said all of this aloud, but softly, watching Jean to see if he took all it in. Then, before sending him down the rigging, he handed him the glass and asked him to take another look. "What do you see, Mister Dorleac?" Jean took it and confirmed all that Ciaran had seen and said, almost verbatim, adding only small observations, many of them nothing more than reasonable guesses. "But what do you see, Mister Dorleac?" "To tell the truth, sah...very little. It is quite dark over th..." "Exactly. Please inform the officers of all I have said. Then inform them that our neighbors are running dark and silent. I've not seen so much as a spark since the first sighting." ~LARBOARD WATCH ON DUTY

William made his way forward to the damaged gun. He and Mister Youngblood threw an oiled tarp over the gun carriage, so that they might employ a lantern underneath the makeshift shelter without fear of any light shining out beyond the 'Dog. The knelt under the canvas and took note of the cracked wood which ran along the grain in the gun carriage. "I think the Carpenter and strengthen this without too much worry." "Aye." Petee agreed. "She might fire once or twice, mending or no. The other side seems void of any flaws." William nodded. The iron pins which went down through the top of the carriage might be enough to keep it from splitting, but a gun, weakened as this was, might jump when fired. The barrel might come right off its mounts, and with so little room for movement aboard the 'Dog, an able seaman or two might get crushed or maimed by a lose cannon. The deck might be stove in by a cannon flipped over on its back. Sparks and splinters had to be considered. "We must consider the gun lost for the moment, unless the carpenter and blacksmith can say different. ~LARBOARD WATCH ON DUTY

July 23, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog "Not to worry, Mister Lasseter." William said, though his face demonstrated the opposite. With too few gunnery crews to man the great guns, the potential loss of any cannon was unwelcome news. William stood a moment looking at the deck while he pressed his mustache back with a thumb and forefinger. Once, twice and three times he rubbed back the edges of it while he pondered on the problem. A cracked carriage might be strapped with iron or mended with wood and pins, but any effort to sure up the carriage would created noise. For the present, the wind was carrying most of the sound Westward. They could no more be heard aboard the other ships at present than they could hear them, but caution was the watchword for the present. "Bring up the Master Carpenter and Blacksmith. We'll present them with the task...but hold off on any hammering for the present." ~LARBOARD WATCH ON DUTY

Ciaran turned his attention from the distant ships for only a moment as Jean reached the main top. "What have you for me, Mister Dorleac?" Jean always smiled when referred to as 'Mister' and this was no exception. "Gifts from th' Master-at-Arms." Ciaran welcomed Jean to the main top with a quiet smile, accepting the powder he had brought with a nod. He traded the pouch for the spyglass and showed Jean where to look to find the ships in the dark. The ships were almost dead ahead of them now, crossing from East to West, and Jean had no trouble finding them there. ~LARBOARD WATCH ON DUTY