William Brand

You'll both be missed.

No. I haven't heard a thing about the Royaliste in many months, but you have raised a topic I don't think we've discussed that much. How many tallships winter in colder climes but remain open as working ships?

It might help to revive a few favorite threads. We should find topics of research that were never completed or discussions that might be revived by new news and information.

Just another quick reminder that the deadline for registration is closing. Don't assume that you're automatically registered. Get it done!

To be fair, it's less about the rum for me, because one of my favorite foods is bananas foster.

A cannon not properly secured is a dangerous thing. If it remains upright while traveling across any open stretch of deck, the mass and momentum can cause all sorts of damages to the men and machine of a ship. A boom attended to improperly can sweep a man to his death or deal him a blow that would damage him. Hatchcombing left open, but unnoticed. One false step.

clam1 [klam] Show IPA noun, verb, clammed, clam·ming. noun 1. any of various bivalve mollusks, especially certain edible species. Compare quahog, soft-shell clam. 2. Informal. a secretive or silent person. 3. clamminess. 4. Slang. a dollar or the sum of a dollar: I only made 60 clams a week.

Bo needs to post more trekking pictures!

Great shots!

Welcome aboard, John. Where do you hail from?

Just because...the most common first names among the 82 (if listed). John comes in first at 15, followed by Thomas at 10 and Edward, George, Joseph, Richard and William tying for Third. Alexander Wyat Bartholomew Roberts Benjamin Hornigold Charles Vane Charles Harris Edmund Condent Edward Coats Edward England Edward Williams Edward Teach Francis Fernandez Frank Spriggs George Cusack George Booth George/Josiah Raynor George Lowther Henry Every Henry Jennings Howell Davis Ignatius Pell Jacob Mason James Skyrm James Allison James Fife Jasper Seagar John Halsey John Hore John Kelley John Bowen John Quelch John Phillips John Cockram John Martel John Vidal John Augur John Gow John Evans John Fenn John Taylor John Rackham Joseph Bannister Joseph Farrell Joseph Bradish Joseph Cooper Leigh Ashworth Nathaniel North Ned Low Nicholas Clough Paul Williams Phillip Lyne Philip Roche Richard Want Richard Glover Richard Shivers Richard Worley Robert Culliford Robert Sample Samuel Bellamy Stede Bonnet Thomas Wake Thomas Tew Thomas Howard Thomas White Thomas Mostyn Thomas Pound Thomas Shafto Thomas Nichols Thomas Anstis Thomas Cocklyn Walter Kennedy William Kidd William Maze William Moody William Fly

There are examples of Captains not being 'navigators' or of high position aboard ship ascending to the place of Captain, but with no nautical knowledge at all? That, I don't know.

Thanks for sharing those.

Ditto. I stepped aboard the Nina years ago while it was visiting San Fransisco Bay and that was my same reaction. The term 'close quarters' becomes a profound reality when you stand amidships on the Nina. There really isn't much fore and aft to be amidships on a ship of that size, but what a beautiful little ship.

Anything for a fellow pyrate. Well, not anything. That thing with the goat's blood and the three piece suit made of bullrushes is right out.

I've actually done artwork for both events in Arizona. They have great volunteers putting on those events each year, so I plan to attend an event there one of these days.

We're coming to the close of another Can't Stop the Serenity season. If you haven't been to a charity screening in a major city around the world, you really need to get out to one. There's nothing like seeing 'Serenity' on the big screen with over a hundred fellow Browncoats and yelling lines aloud. Our Salt Lake event is just around the corner. Brewvies2013CSTSflier.pdf

I was of course flattered to hear from Paul and honored to take over the Pub. He gave me almost half a day to think about it and I found myself laughing and then pausing at one point, because it occurred to me that he might owe some Russian mafia-run bank a lot of money and that he was already wiping the place down for fingerprints as he handed it over to me. No goons on the porch so far. Good luck with everything, Sah. You kept the Pub running in tip top shape.

She was talking more than him. He understood. She was asking and answering questions aloud. He understood. She was arguing with him about things she knew he wouldn't relent about. He understood. Like many times since going aft, he nodded. Just one more nod among many, but he wasn't accustomed to giving orders twice. "Sit." She sat. He freed her of shoes, stockings and everything but the shift like shirt that was so common between both sexes aboard. He did this mechanically, like a footman. Again, it would have been intimate if not for the circumstances and he hoped not too intimate considering them. Then he nodded again, unable to help himself. To see her now, with her short hair and trailing shirt, she was boyish. He might have tussled her hair but for the bruises. He was more careful with her clothes than he had been with his own. He laid them over a chair and fetched up a cudgel, which he gave to Tudor. All of this without a word. Then he excused himself into the companionway, but was gone less than a minute. When he returned, the doorframe filled behind him as Ajayi stepped into the space. The Yoruban, a sober man most of the time, sobered more still at the sight of Ajayi. Tudor did not look happy for the added company, but William made no apology. He simply closed the door and turned to them both. "Ajayi is injured." he began, "More than once these few weeks…and…being a man of few words AND being relieved of any duty on deck, he will sleep here." He did not give her time to protest. even if she meant to. He turned instead to Ajay and using English seasoned with some few Arabic words he made it clear to the man that his duty was now to the room as much as any other part of the ship. "You will stay here and guard this door and that one." William gestured to both the companionway and the small door that separated his sleeping quarters. Ajayi nodded, unfettered by any excited ideas or the judgements that might have come from any other person aboard. William knew that the Yoruban wouldn't read into the presence of a half dressed woman in his apartments, but would take only that explanation given him. It wasn't that Ajayi failed to grasp the implications. No, quite the contrary. Ajayi was actually a better man than most aboard. He was an intelligent man, free of rash or wandering thoughts. In that way, William believed Ajayi to more civil and civilized than any other man aboard ship. Compared to Ajayi, Saltash was barely an animal at all, let alone a man. William turned to Tudor then. "Mistress Smith, you are injured. You are therefore unfit for any service of the weatherdecks. Also, you are my Steward and are oft found here. No one will see fit to speak otherwise of this and Ajayi is beyond, even above gossip." He nodded, as much to end any discussion on the matter as to augment his unwillingness to hear otherwise. He walked to the door of his own chamber and gestured to the space within. "You will sleep here. You will not have the use of a knife or pistol. I would have you sleep, but as your sleep might be restless, than a pistol or a knife might bring you harm." Instead, he gave a knife to Ajayi. It was a wicked wedge of a knife and Ajayi was quick to tuck it away. . . . William went forward to find Mister Saltash. He murdered Saltash in his mind about three dozen ways between the great cabin and the hold forward. He did this freely in his head to work out the ‘salt of the anger from his water’. A ritual to ‘purge the poison from the fresh’, as one of his many mentors had said. In one imagined murder he killed Saltash by clubbing him soundly with the butt of a pistol, stoving his skull soundly in one angry thrash. This comforted him not at all. In another he tossed the man overboard with loud words and rough manhandling, throwing Saltash clear, but not carefully of the bulwarks and sending him down tied and screaming to his grave. This only tired him, but it burned off the anger, replacing it with a careworn feeling that left William only a little more aged. He finally gave up imagining anything, for the day had been long, Lasseter was gone to unknown parts and the Whole Company was adrift on two many currents, real and imagined, for him to be angry enough to kill or cause harm. He just wanted to say his peace, give his orders and be abed. When he reached the forward hold he found curious, but well chosen men to guard the prisoner. Manus Hingerty and Alan Woodington stood up quickly, but carefully so as not to strike their hades on the low beams forward. Their presence made him count the watches in his head, because he’d lost track of the ship’s bells. William offered a solitary “Gentlemen” before entering in at the cable tier. Saltash stood up and did hit his head, which William enjoyed despite his growing fatigue about the whole affair. “Sah…” Saltash began and William only raised a hand. “It is not in your best interest to speak, Mister Saltash. Not one word, if you please,” Willam offered quietly, but sternly. “I’ve put my anger to bed, but it is not asleep.” “But, sah, I…” Satlash started again. William gave him a look he once reserved for only the vilest few. A kind of wild, dangerous fire seemed to burn in his looks for a moment as he took in one slow breath. Saltash retreated a little and shut up is mouth. William closed the distance, almost anxious then that Satlash should come at him with some violence, so he’d have reason to kill the man in the moment, but he wouldn’t risk the right of the crew then to have their say. He’d taken their voices from them once before in the slaying of August Muller and had carried the regret of that decision awhile. “Mister Saltash. You will be brought on deck tomorrow to answer some charges laid at your feet. You will have time enough to answer to those charges in the presence of the Whole Company, such as it is. You will keep the night quietly here, where you may rest or lay awake. I care not which.” There was venom in this last remark, and William did not withhold any disdain. “If you leave this compartment for any reason, but to be brought to the head and back again, you will be shot or cut down at the leisure of the marines.” Saltash flinched a little to be under the shadow of Brand’s anger, for he could see it rising like a tide at Wapping. William was almost nose to nose by then. So close was he that Saltash had trouble focusing on him in the low light. “Do I make myself understood?” William said finally and slowly. “Sa…” Satlash stopped to swallow once and repeat. “Sah. Aye Sah.” William turned and left. He left so simply and casually, that Saltash stood almost a full minute before realized he’d been holding his breath at the end. Satlash couldn’t ever remember a man making him so nervous that he forgot to breath, even momentarily. William didn’t even pause with the marines, but asked them as he passed if they understood, having heard all, and they sharply replied with twinned ‘Aye-ayes’ to his back as he went. Then William retired to a hammock made recently empty by the loss of Mister Badger. It was a sobering choice that William made on purpose, so that no member of the Company there would question why he slept in their midst instead of the great cabin. He knew they’d find it either to solemn a choice that the shock might give them pause, or too personal choice to inquire. Either way he’d be left to sleep. If any man aboard took issue with it, he’d address it when they came at him questioning, but didn’t imagine it coming to much, since the other revelations about Saltash would greet the day.

William did not completely hide his reaction to her revelation, despite a long life of such revealing deprivations. Of course the how and why of it bothered him, but this was a moment of pure 'now'. She was showing all the signs of someone who's emotional compass was on the spin. Of course she had every right to be that way, act that way, but he wouldn't have any of it for her sake. "Harry Saltash is in chains. No work will be required of you." He threw the water from the basin out the casement window, which proved fruitless, since so much more water came in at the open window from outside. He continued. "If you go out there, they will see the bruises and cuts that weren't there from before, and questions will be asked of you. No, you'll stay here the night and you'll pick your marine, or if you like, any other man or woman to guard the threshold."

"Are you harmed in any way that would present over time." It was a question of many answers. It was a question of many questions. He didn't like asking it anymore than she liked being asked, so that it hung in the air, but William was a pragmatist.

William had nothing to say on the subject. He nodded once at the last, then plucked up some of the hair, placing it between the pages of a book set near the windows. He did this wordlessly. Then he took back the scissors with no more command than an open hand. Once replaced among his belongings, he said, "Sit." It was a command and an invitation at the same time.

William first mistook the request as a prelude to some violence on Saltash, but it was the 'scissors' and her hand that brought him down other roads. "Scissors." It was not a question. William had known his share of women at sea. Some of them were shorn. "I have two pairs of scissors." William continued. His tone was matter of fact, though he was at a loss about his feelings on the matter. He found himself in two camps. "One pair is quite fine, being made of well fashioned steel and refined gold, though I expect the quality is not important."

William closed the door, going first to the surgery to fetch some salves and a cloth or two. He made no report of the Steward, but being so direct about what he required, Maeve simply guessed that it was for the care of some wounded fellow. She gave over everything that he asked for, though some of it came from the floor and under tables, as they were still collecting all the fallen and smashed things about the surgery. He next went to the galley and finding a man there that was not the cook, but he ordered him to have the cook prepare some dish to which the man was not familiar, though of which William was certain that Mister Gage would provide. When he returned to the cabin he noticed, but made no outward mention of the sudden way she seemed to change as he entered the cabin. He laid the small bottles and the cloth on the table and fetched up the bowl he used for shaving from his own quarters off the room. As he set it upon the table which served for a desk and dining, he noted the crack in the porcelain. Just one more battered victim of recent events. He poured a generous amount of water and seemed satisfied that he had all that he required. Then he threw off his oilskins and the wet waistcoat that had failed to shield. He did this with no care for either garment, but tossed them were he would. Then he performed an act not often afforded him. He played the servant. Taking up a three legged stool which lay on it's side nearby, he placed it and himself in front, and at the foot of Tudor. Drawing the bowl from beside the table he placed it at his right and took up one cloth and soaked it. He did this wordlessly. His face was calm, even gentle, but he said nothing. He simply wrung the cloth and began the careful task of wiping a wound here and gently sponging a bruise there. Despite being taller than her, he was seated low enough to make eye contact, though she made none. Occasionally his brow would wrinkle with the empathy or sympathy each wound called for, much has he had done when he was only a servant in a bygone house, two decades removed. The water in the basin slowly turned from clear to pink to red as he worked and he was further reminded of his Egyptian captivity. Then once, amidst it all, he kissed her forehead. Just that. He found one soft, unblemished part of her head, tucked back a wet lock and kissed it. Under the circumstances, and in a place so private, it might have seemed intimate, but of a kind which only friends know. "I'm reminded a brave and worthy Steward…" William began then as he wrung a fresh cloth. He wiped blood from her hair as he continued. "She was a woman of small stature and of a station neither too high or too low, but of such a carriage of dignity and loyalty, that she set aside her mortal fears to strike the flag of my enemies." He smiled then a little and plucked a splinter deftly.

William despised men who beat women. He despised them thoroughly, and without forgiveness. Nevertheless, his face did not change much. As his Steward spoke, he looked less moved rather than more, and knew it would appear so, but in fact, this was the slow, placid, almost stoic outward look of a very inward hatred. The black shell of the grenado hiding the potential. Vandevender was William's opposite in every way. His face curled, and uncurled in surprise, sympathy and understanding more than once and he shot glances in the direction of Saltash, William and Tudor respectively. William simply nodded as she explained, saying nothing until she was finished. "Mister Vandevender, you may inform those men at work below that I have their report. They may send for what supplies and men they have need of at their leisure. Nothing is to be spared above or below to get us underway." "Aye, sah." Vandevender returned and rushed off again. Several things were happening at once. Robert Thatcher, too fond of Tudor not to notice her passage at the best of times and her visage as it was now, was reprimanded for taking his eyes and hands of the task at hand, and Mister Light was giving him an earful for his troubles. Harry Saltash had found the only solace that he could, throwing himself into work among many, if only to escape notice and the dog which had chased him bristling out of lower confines. No one noticed his wounds, mistaking them for injuries by ship and the collision. Mistress Tribbinani, having caught up with the loose Argus, was kneeling beside him, trying to assess what he had done, how it touched Saltash and what should be done about either of them. The prisoners at the space below the foredecks were watching all of this with a mixture of boredom and opportunity. Jim Warren, too observant a man not to see almost all, had crossed to the Captain and Steward. "Mister Warren. The men below have staved off the flooding aft, but may require some additional men. Please send any man below who may be of service, then have the marines clap irons on Mister Saltash." William said all of this, almost conversationally, removed. Mister Warren simply nodded, business like and made no questions. "Aye,Sah." "You have the deck, Mister Warren." Then, stepping away from the commotion of all things, William opened the companionway door and held it waiting. "Mistress Smith."