William Brand

Today's special is Bacon Pie.

To the Tsunami.

This is an all encompassing holiday for those of you who celebrate Lief Ericson Day, Columbus Day or any other explorer who failed to pull over for directions. Incompetent European Navigation Day celebrates the finest in accidental, continental discoveries by the world's most reknowned men ever to claim that "I know where I'm going". This holidy can be celebrated in one of several varied ways... Stuff eight people into a rowboat and go rowing about blindfolded. Claim your neighbor's yard for Spain and take all of their jewelry. Destroy all of the personal records of a total stranger. Go on a camping trip and set fire to the car once you are in the wilderness.

Amenhotep died of complications not too long ago. The cat really liked people.

Cryptic.

Let me be the first to say 'Welcome, Mate'.

But of course, Mister Pew.

William continued to read until his concentration played out. His French had always been a very rusty implement and no amount of reading was going to improve it prior to reaching Martinique, so he shut the book and put it away. Then he crossed to the small door which lead to his narrow, private room off the Larboard side of the ship. There he dressed down, putting away his coat and vest. He tossed his hat upon the small shelf which served as a second desk and climbed into his hammock. He lay there swinging with the ship for a time, listening to it until he drifted off. His last thoughts were of a woman he had known and the unlaced night gown she wore one night in the spring of 1695.

Google search "alabama renaissance faire" result... http://ourworlds.topcities.com/alarenfaire/ http://www.archives.state.al.us/emblems/st_renas.html http://www.alarenfaire.org/

Um...

William smiled a moment and then returned to his reading. He was in the midst of some political piece published in French and his face reflected genuine concentration. Then he looked up again as thoughts of the ship cat brought him back to something he had almost forgotten. "That reminds me, Mister Lasseter. We found evidence of vermin in with the stern chasers. We'll need to leave that gunnery hatch which opens to the passageway unlatched from time to time to let the cats inside. I don't want rats at the gun-tackles and breechings." "Aye, Cap'n."

Mister Badger was just beginning his selection of pairs for the armory, when Mister Morgan arrived to take up the Starboard watch. He came with haste, though his locomotion seemed somewhat stilted. "My apologies, Sah." he said through a face that showed evidence of strain. "And your reason for this late relief, Mister Morgan?" Morgan hesitated at the word 'relief', his hand coming to rest on his gut. "I'm afraid...well, sah...it's the fish, sah." "Ahhhhh." Mister Badger said with a nod. "Well, don't let the cook know. Never anger a cook." "Aye, sah." Mister Badger passed on the Captain's orders to send the crew below in pairs, then he retired to his hammock.

William called for the Master-at-Arms to enter and poured him a drink from the heavy bottle still on the Ward Room table. He passed it to Mister Pew. "To your health, Mister Pew." "Thank you, Cap'n. And to yours." "When we reach Martinique, it is possible, however remote, that French favor may not be as forthcoming as it was between our recent allies. I don't expect trouble, but the nature of trouble is the unexpected. I would like you to go to Mister Badger and have him send the watch down to you in pairs, so that all of the crew might give attention to their personal arms throughout the day, and have each pair that comes to the armoury also clean some number of pistols and muskets until all are clean and in good order."

Here, here. I'll drink to that.

To describe a man as our own Mister Lasseter, one must first openly surrender any hope of finding words sufficient to give him definition by the employ of any language living or dead. Let Homer scratch his snowy temple for a lack of words. Let Aristotle beg off the challenge through some excuse of writer's block. His best tribute might ever be, that he is regarded by all who know him, to be a "good man". No other monument can this poor rabble hope to make for him than his own character. Perhaps only the Bard came close when he described another... A good old commander and a most kind gentleman. Happy birthday, Mister Lasseter. You remain as you have ever been since birth...a mortal immortal. -William Brand, Captain

He returned a similar smile and a similar silence and they kept it together a full five minutes, he to his thoughts and she to hers. It was the Captain who finally broke the silence. "Proud Steward of the 'Dog up until a moment ago...?" he said suddenly, if a little falsely concerned. "Well considering..." she began, but he cut her off. "Insubordination." She smiled a little at the contrived tone in his voice, for he had set aside all the seriousness from before which had been so unsettling to her, so that now there was only the feigned hurt. The pretended disapproval. "You'll leave this ship only when I allow you to go." "Subject to no man but at her choosing..." she said slowly, reminding him of his own recent words. "Aye, you mutinous marshal." She was comfortable now due to the drink and the turn in the conversation that they bandied words in this fashion for a time. Then the bell sounded and brought them to purposes of habit and necessity. He set aside his thrice drained glass as he stood up and raised her by the hand. "You showed an uncommon respect in your acceptance before, not to mention a sharp choice of words in your righteous indignation after. That is good. You are learning both edges of the sword one uses to serve and to be served. There is a fine balance between duty and defiance." He looked at her with a measuring eye, appraising her as he had often done before. "You may leave a worthier epitaph than me yet, Miss Smith." "Aye, Captain." she agreed almost too quickly and he nodded. "Please send for Mister Pew. I have business to discuss with him."

He nodded. "I will not sit idly by and watch you rot in some self possessed pool of neglect. No lass, I will not." He drained the second portion of his cup and filled it again with better care than before. Then he gestured about the Ward Room with his unoccupied hand. "What was the Watch Dog before the Monsignor found her? A decaying thing off La Desirade? A shadow of her former self? A husk...? I would sooner sink her broadside than watch her fade again or let the worms at her wood too long. And if her, than why not you? You are worth ten Watch Dogs, and don't you believe that Armand doesn't think so." he said, speaking of the young Frenchman in the present rather than the past. He placed a hand around her shoulders, and it was strange, for it was more contact than she had ever had with the Captain. He lead her to the bench at the stern windows, and after she was seated he sat down opposite her. "Duty and honor are compelling masters, but I would wager the weight of the 'Dog in gold that Armand dragged an anchor all the way to the door of his future rule. He sleeps on mattresses stuffed with goose down and caltrops. He dines on ashes and every day is a lent of Tudor. A starvation of Tudor." He sipped his glass and smiled at her.

William's smile spread very slowly, but wide. He grabbed her by both shoulders. "There she is!" he exclaimed, and then again softer. "There she is..." He stood back a pace, pointing at a shaken but more defiant Steward. "There is the Steward that was want to flash pistols at Scully! How I have wondered when and if I might see her again..." He went at once to the bench and threw open one of its hinged compartments. He brought out a sturdy bottle of some unknown vintage and crossed to the table with it and two mismatched glasses. He drew the cork out with his teeth before he plopped the first glass down on the table and filled it to the brim, spilling no small amount on the table. Then in an unaccustomed manner, he spat the cork away and filled the second glass. "What shall we drink to?" he shouted, lifting the glass into the air. Then before she could answer he cried, "To Ship's Stewards! Let maids and manservants keep house in dry and stationary houses! Stewards will draw pay in blood and in blisters. Let no page boy dare the field against a steward, but couch down in fear amidst dust brooms and hearth rugs! Here stands a Dodonide! What fool is a lover who takes a throne over a Steward's chair!" He drained half the glass, almost choking on its contents before raising his glass again. "To Miss Tudor Smith, queen of the Earth and subject to no man but at her choosing."

William crossed the distance between the bench and Tudor so quickly that she almost fell back apace. She would have stood her ground, if not for William's jabbing fingertips which reached out and shoved her off balance. "Who are you?" Before she could answer he jabbed her shoulder soundly again, forcing her back a little. His face was that of the night watchman. All questions and severity. "Name!"

"Im sorry, Miss Smith, but I'm afraid that once we reach Martinique I am putting you ashore. You'll draw your pay and seek another berth."

William raised a solitary and inquiring eyebrow. "Perhaps I guessed incorrectly. After all, he was here but a very short time." William looked out through the stern windows at a sea that had covered the horizon of La Blanquilla hours ago. "Given our recent troubles and treasures, you may have forgotten him."

This is one of my favorites discovered by accident at glorioussloth.jackson-myers.com The Jolly Slother

The best rule of thumb is this... If you can tell what it is through a spyglass several leagues off, it's a good design, so if you make it on a computer, shrink it down really tiny to see if you can still get the "feel" of it. Example:

William sat along the curve of narrow bench against the stern windows and made small notations concerning the Watch Dog's needs and expenditures. He compared these against Mister Lasseter notes and found that little or no alteration was necessary. The Quartermaster kept excellent books, and William was once again grateful that he need not concern himself too often with the accounting of the ship. Still he enjoyed going over the ledgers, if only to understand for himself what needed to be done and what was being done without need of him. While he did this, Miss Smith made her way about the place, busy with her own labors. They shared the Ward Room as two ghosts haunting the same house, all but unaware of one another much of the time. William might have left it so, but not for an occasional exhale from her that came out more like a sigh than a breath. He guessed at her thoughts and smiled a little as he watched her over the top of the ledger that was resting on his drawn up knees. She had been melancholy of late to be sure. Her spry friendliness was now replaced with a routine and half-hearted cordiality that spoke of deeper feelings and removed distractions. She moved about the room in a fixed and quiet circumference, like the moon, waxing and waning in a lifeless circle of habit. She was the embodiment of sad resignation. "I miss him as well." William said aloud, but not to loudly for fear of startling her in her thoughts.