William Brand

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.

A very cool picture. Surreal doesn't begin to describe it.

Fine work. Aye. fine work indeed. Are you set up to do castings made by other people? Say, for example, I wanted to carve something and have it cast in white bronze. Can you cast the custom work of other artists and would you?

I saw a Japanese hook claiming to be from the 1750s that looked very much like that one. And not too bad a price either.

William moved forward and near the larboard rail as Mister Lasseter's instruction went from instrument to instrument and pupil to pupil. From this vantage point he watched the sea roll by, sometimes with the aid of the glass, and sometimes without. After a time, he gave the deck completely over to the Quartermaster and Mister Warren, retiring for a time to the ward room to read. He plucked through many volumes until he found a dog eared copy of Don Quixote. The binding was well past its prime and the cover almost came away from it as he opened the old tome. As he set it on the ward room table, he was reminded of the stern chasers under the trap doors in the floor and decided against reading. Instead, he called for Mister Youngblood and in turn, he had Mister Youngblood call three more sailors aft. When they were all gathered, he made them fold up the table. It hinged in two places on the top and on either foreleg where they met the floor. They folded it forward in an accordion fashion. Next, they brought up the two trapdoors, swinging them outward from the middle of the small room. This revealed the shallow gunnery compartment secreted below the Ward Room floor and the two 8 pounders, Geri & Freki. "Wolves of Odin." William said aloud softly with a smile, and they all stood a moment admiring the Master Carpenter's handiwork. The worms, ramrods, sponges, priming irons, and lint-stocks were all well compartmentalized along side each gun. The ring-bolts, gun-tackles and breechings all carefully stowed within a functional, if somewhat confining space. The guns themselves were draped in sailcloth that was covered in the fine dust and crumbs which had settled between the cracks of the Ward Room floor over their many weeks at sea and port. Mister Youngblood ordered them uncovered at once, and the well concealed, but oft forgotten guns showed a great need for attention. The four men, under the scrutiny of the Captain, checked, cleaned, and polished ever inch of the stern chasers, careful to sweep out the space around them. The sailcloth coverings were sent forward to be cleaned and the tools were unpacked to be checked for damage. One ramrod showed signs of attack by shipboard vermin and it was brought out so that the Carpenter might see to it. They cleaned, inspected and replaced each mended and cleaned item, and by the time they were finished, they guns had a deep polish and a whole bucket of dust, crumbs and rat droppings had come up out of the compartment. With all of their ministrations performed, the trapdoors were lowered over the shrouded and sleeping cannons like coffin lids. William had just a moment to ponder the many metaphors which this image conjured. "Excellent work, Mister Youngblood." "Thank you, Sah." July 22, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog Just prior to eight bells of the Forenoon Watch

I like the satisfying idea of that box. 45 pounds of cutlasses and flintlocks. Say it with me. 45 pounds of cutlasses and flintlocks. Mmmmm.

July 22, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog Six bells of Forenoon Watch Raphael-Etienne Chanault sat in a quiet corner of the nearly deserted surgery watching the able seamen pass by the small window set in the door leading out onto the gun deck. Apart from the sunlight which passed through that small opening into the world of the Watch Dog, the surgery was otherwise unlit. Chanault didn't mind. He rather liked the dark. It was his element. The inkiness of half lit rooms and night alleys had served his purposes on more occasions than he could count, but this darkness was different. It was small and enclosed and it rolled and pitched all of the time. The ship dead ended in too many places. Options for retreats and attacks were few. It was a kind of claustrophobic box for cats. The only trees were the rigging and the only alleys were the narrow passages and companionways between decks. The Watch Dog itself was so small and narrow that it was in and of itself a kind of alleyway, filled edge to edge with a cross section of teeming humanity. Chanault did not mind the sea so much, nor did he mind the ship, for each experience of life was an opportunity to test and try himself. The 'Dog was the world in miniature. A microcosm of his previous experiences. It was a classroom of the human condition and he watched and watched and watched all day. The cat on the window sill. The calculator. The observational naturalist of a thousand unspoken cues and experiments. He heard a soft thump and a click in the adjoining room and ceased his musing long enough to listen. "She is at the cupboards where the vials are kept." he thought to himself. "Now she is pouring herself a drink. And now she is penning some note in a ledger." He listened to the subtle, almost imperceptible movements of his most recent charge. She moved, even in the lulling of the ship like a lady of distinction, and even without seeing her through the door, he could picture the way she paused with the quill lying across the inset curve between her thumb and forefinger as she gathered her thoughts for the next notation. She was a quiet woman, and even in the most agreeable company, she was sometimes removed. Distant. He could only guess at some of her histories, for she bore an unseen mark of another life, all but amputated. Her grace, lilt, accent, mannerisms, training, education, understanding and comprehension were the telltale signs of some previous grandeur secreted away in this unadorned world of wood. A jewel in the casement of a unremarkable bureau drawer. Having known her but a few short days, he had still come to like her. She was in her silences as he was. An observer. She watched the world through eyes which gathered volumes daily and he often wondered about the library of her mind. He also wondered what her laugh sounded like. Not the laugh she made or tailored aboard this ship, but her real laugh. Her most genuine laugh. He imagined it was a good one. The kind which makes others smile despite themselves. Chanault himself was not a man of much outward mirth. His laugh was often an echo that he alone heard reverberate in the hollows of himself, and he understood that his reserved countenance had a way of unsettling others, but he also appreciated this understanding of self, for he recognized that this discomfort placed him on ground that kept him apart from others. Safe ground. Ground of his choosing. Raphael-Etienne was a cat among four dozen dogs.

Harry said that any reenactors may ship their items ahead and they will store them for PIP. Tents, costumes, the whole bit. I would recommend sending them certified mail and contacting Harry at the fort before shipping, but he has volunteered the storage of items each and every time I have spoken with him.

It's nice to see some new ensigns on the thread. There are some very fine flags, indeed. Despite how simple and similar some of the elements are, we have all managed to make some very unique flags that are striking in their own familiar way. I'm beginning to recognize people as much from their jacks as their names.

A nice pic of Patrick form the Tales of the Seven Seas site. And that is a great new pic of Gregory.

"Ahh, Mister Lasseter. You'll be happy to hear that Mister Badger has coaxed two additional knots out of the 'Dog since last night. We are making excellent progress. Clear weather. Clear Sea." "Very good, Cap'n." "You're proving the better navigator than I, Mister Lasseter. I wonder if you would take stock of our position?" "Aye, Cap'n." "Invite Miss Mcdonough to join you and anyone else who may be in need of instruction."

You can just tell who some people are almost immediately. I was some hundred yards away from Fort Zachary Taylor when I heard someone yelling, "CAPTAIN!" I turn around to see a man waving a hat from atop the wall who yells out, "Would you be Captain Red Wake!?" I knew almost at once that it was Captain Jim.

A fine looking group of pirates.

"Ladies." William said, turning away now satisfied that the matter needed no more attention. "Mister Franklin. A word if you please." Eric turned away from the two ladies, not smiling as before, but not angry either. He joined William as they moved along the rail aft. "I trust you're satisifed, Mister Franklin?" "Aye, sah. Though...?" William said nothing, waiting for him to finish if he would, but Eric did not continue. Instead he chose another track entirely. "Cap'n. Is Jonas to be armed during an attack?" William considered the question only for a moment. "He signed on aboard. He took payment and he shares the berth deck with everyone below. Equal work. Equal trust." "Pegging your pardon, Cap'n, but you...well...we all trusted Muller." "Aye." William agreed. "And you may trust that I will shoot Jonas in a similar fashion if his loyalties prove too similar." "Aye." They spoke at length and william asked many pressing questions as touching the handling of arms, the armoury, the storing of personal weapons and the crew's training. Eric was reminded of Murin's weapons and he dismissed himself to that duty.

"What is the matter, Mister Franklin?" William asked before Eric could speak again, not that he thought Eric was the matter. He also couldn't imagine Siren being the cause, but no matter, he asked anyway. "This sailor is under the misunderstanding that 'Sirrah' be a proper way to address an officer." "Sirrah...?" Siren nodded. She had a defiant look about her that she was just reigning in. He didn't mind. He appreciated her defiance far more than some sailors acquiescence, for a weak crew member is often a poor one, and William could never abide sheep. "Is this true?" "Aye, Sir." She said at once, then she took the opportunity to explain herself. "I was lead to believe that 'Sirrah' is a form of respect, Sir." William nodded very slowly. "You were mislead to be believe it. It is in fact a form of respect. Disrespect to be precise, and you will not use it again. Is that clear?"

Eric and Siren were nose to nose by the time William came on to the gun deck, stifling a small burp from a meal he had just taken in the galley. He watched this interchange of wills, more surprised to see Eric and anyone else, let alone Siren, standing one another down, for he had never witnessed a close altercation between the Sergeant-at-Arms and a crew member. Murin was rising next to them both and she looked nervous. William walked slowly over to them, trying not to gain their attention as Mister Franklin spoke. "Who told you thus?" Eric said, his tone both curious and dangerous. "I cannot say, Sirra..." "Can't? Or won't?" Eric shot back, for now he was growing angry at her repeated use of the word.

"I beg your pardon?" Eric asked, his smile fading for the first time that day. Never since becoming Sergeant-at-Arms had any crew member called him anything but Mister Franklin or Sir. Certainly no one had used a term as contemptuous as 'sirrah', an address often reserved for an inferior man or boy. He stepped a pace closer, while most, but not all of his mirth faded away. "What did you call me?"

I thought I had a lot of time on my hands... http://mahrabu.blogspot.com/2006/09/powarr...rrrrrr-law.html

Having done my share of painted backdrop flags I can asure you that the need is strong enough to warrant interest in a good flapping flag. Too many of us have overly heavy flags. I would be very interested in having some done.

That took me back so far I couldn't stop laughing off and on for about ten minutes.

July 22, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog Second bell of Forenoon Watch Eric Franklin's shadow fell across the seated ladies. "Aye...some topics are best left alone." he agreed, and his tone was pleasant, even conversational, though Murin noted that his accent had enough English in it to make more of a point than his words had made. There was no shortage of both English and Irish born aboard the Watch Dog. Most of them had severed ties with one or the other. Still it paid to ere on the side of caution concerning some subjects on a narrow ship. There was no real threat or malice in Eric's voice, just the cautionary tone of a shipboard officer and a smile that won everyone over daily. It was a good smile, almost impish. Even Owen, surly as he was at times, could not be entirely disagreeable in Eric's company because of this. The Sergeant-at-Arms was a man of many mixed attributes that should have worked against one another, except that they seemed to work in him. He had a casual aspect that never left him even in serious situations. He was untouched by any weather, mood or situation, though he was a practical man with a boyishness that he could set aside in a moment if the cause called for it. Siren gave him a salute and Murin noted that his eyes fell almost immediately on the pistol and then the cutlass. "I was look'n' fer ya...or d'master at arms." She said at once. "Were you now?" he said with that same smile. "Here on the coils...?"

Welcome aboard. Always a pleasure to see another Sheppey Pyrate.

A good rule of thumb is simple and functional, especially in the face of little evidence and in lue of the ongoing speculations. This tent is simple so it works on many levels. Straight pieces. No unnecessary flash. And given your future plans to travel to events as a vendor, it is also pragmatic. If you can add to it some hemp ropes and hand forged stakes, not to mention some stains and a little wear over time, then I think this would be a good tent.