Tudor MercWench Smith

Ahoy the ship (of craftiness!) I am starting the process of putting together a fully functional kit to be ready for an event this fall, and I am starting almost entirely from scratch. What I have from back in my “heyday” is either too ‘disney’, too small, or long gone. I thought it might be of interest to some to chronicle this as I go – both to share ideas, and also to get advice and input. This is going to be a combination of sewing projects, upcycling, and thrifting. I will probably be exploring fabric options and sourcing, trying to find a balance between authenticity and convenience/expedience, and doing this all in a relatively short amount of time. This is what I am starting with: - Five Reconstructing History patterns. I probably do not have the skill set needed for several of these, but they are the only patterns I can find that I trust the accuracy on for this period. Plus, I’ve had them stock piled for give or take 15 years, so why buy something else when I could just . . . get better at sewing. I have the Slops and Breeches, Sailor’s Jacket, Stays, Mantua, and Bodiced Gown patterns. Obviously, heavy focus will be on the Slops, the Jacket and the stays. Fortunately I have access to a large format printer that I can make copies of the pieces I am using, so that if I skronk it up in cutting or size altering the patterns, I still have the originals, uncut. Should be invaluable for the more fitted garments that require a fair bit of tweaking. (Looking at you stays!!) - A moderately sized fabric hoard, of varied content and usability. I have several 2 yard pieces of linen left overs from other periods I play in, that I am not sure if I will be able to use for anything (everything I am currently doing seems to be a 3 yard minimum) The larger sections I have are all either modern or incorrect types of fabric. Some “look” ok, but besides the accuracy I don’t want to be sweating bullets in a poly blend in the deep south heat and humidity. - A black wool frock coat Made almost 20 years ago now, with the Pirates of the Caribbean knock off Simplicty pattern, so of suspect accuracy, but made with good fabric and buttons, so looks good from a distance. Still needs button holes but it’s one thing that I still have, that still mostly fits, and looks the part - two knives, both handmade (not by me), one a specific seafaring style. Both in dire need of a good cleaning and sharpening. Will have to figure that out - some sashes and socks My “to-do” list (subject to much change) – what I think I will need to get by for five days on a beach on the Gulf. If you are following along, your mileage will vary in how much you would need to get started. This is also the #goals list. It might get pared down as I go, and I get feedback from more experienced hands on what and how much I actually need for this length of event. Must haves; - Slops (x3 - Shirts (x5) - Petticoats (x3) - Stays (x1) - Light jacket (x1) - Frock coat (x1) - Belt/baldrick - Bag/haversack/satchel - Boots/shoes (x2) - Socks/stockings (x5) (I have 3ish passable pairs so far) - Sashes/scarves/coifs for covering the head. Ideally would also have - Additional slops, shirts, petticoats & socks - A second set of stays - A second jacket - A Mantua or two Accessories, camp gear, set dressing, bed roll, storage chests and flags not included in this list, but also on the agenda somewhere, maybe Specific trouble points I know or that I am expecting to encounter are mostly in sourcing as inexpensively as possible. I have some great leads on linen, just got some samples in on some linen blends I am considering, but finding tropic weight cotton that won't affect my credit score to purchase is proving tricky. If I could find somewhere to buy period correct stays that don't cost more then my first car I would probably do that rather then attempt to make them I will post projects and finds separately as I get them, and provide what insight i can on how to put a passably PC kit together in minimum time and budget. I'm also thrilled to get any input, suggestions or opinions anyone cares to offer along the way. cheers for now! -Merc

Likewise. Let me know what i can do to help make it happen

Thanks for the welcome! I'm very excited. I made a very poor choice years back to *not* go to PiP one year when i had the opportunity so Massacre Island is really going to to be an amazing chance to right that wrong lol!! So good to be back! Thanks for resurrecting it Will do, thanks very much! I'm starting from the ground up as what gear i had back in the day was all Ren faire pirate and didn't survive the years. Like i said, i will probably start a thread tracking my progress, and I'm sure asking for opinions lol *Snappy salute* here, sir! Three is a good start. How do we gang press more lol??! We need enough to justify flying the 'Dog's flag. (Do we have one? Do i need to add it to the list of what i need to make lol???)

Evening, all! So strange being back on the Pub! Back in the day, I was known as MercenaryWench around here. This profile got created a few years back during a previous attempted comeback, at which time i realized that i didn't even remember what email that original account was linked to so i couldnt reset and log in. In reality, the name is Miranda, but I'll probably also answer to "Mira", "Merc", "Tudor', "Mistress Smith", "Where the hell is the Captain's Steward???", And if you are under three feet tall and look excessively like my husband i will also probably answer to "MomMOMmomMAMAmooooom" I showed up here, originally, around '04-'05 as an a socially inept 17 year old with a pirates of the Caribbean fanfiction, no friends, and a crush on a wastrel that played a pirate at a Ren faire. I had always loved pirates prior to that (thanks for that, Erroll Flynn's "Captain Blood"), and was a massive history nerd, so finding this place was just the *perfect* outlet. Not to get too sentimental but it was actually rather formative and life saving in a way. Especially once i got involved with The Watch Dog project. I loved being a part of that crew, even if i wasn't always the most reliable or best contributor. i faded away from the Pub in general in my early twenties due to, no lie, absolutely no access to the Internet (sounds crazy now) and a crazy work schedule. As previously mentioned, a comeback was attempted a few years back but then, again, life.... marriage, mortgage, kids, the whole lot of it. So, now that i have a novel of a post written....here i am again, just a new version. I live in NE Ohio, a mile off the greatest lake, and yet have somehow never gone sailing on it. I still absolutely love maritime and piratical history along with several other periods (though my scholarship is amature if ardent). I am married to a man who is very much *not* a wastrel, and who bemusedly indulges my pirate proclivities, and have two toddlers, one of which i have recently come to realize is the human embodiment of my pirate persona (God save me!). In addition to history, and writing, hobbies include sewing, gardening, drinking more tea and coffee than is probably good for me, playing video games, reading, teaching Sunday school, and hanging out with my kids. I'm mostly back here hoping to do some more writing again, and because I've been talked into making the Massacre Island event my annual "mommy needs a vacation" break this year. (It didn't take much convincing). I think i might do a thread to chronicle building my entire kit from the ground up over the next four months to be ready for the event if any one is interested. otherwise.....cheers, all! Glad to be back. - Merc

Every minute was an hour, every hour a century. Tudor tried to rest, tried to do as she had been instructed, knowing the surest way to be released back to duty was to follow her instructions. But silence roared loudly in her ears and kept her from sleep, or peace, or any kind of rest. A strange gratitude formed for every occasional noise from the decks that echoed it's way into the room, every gust of wind that rattled at the windows. She lay in the bed, pretending to be asleep, hoping against hope that if she lay there long enough, eventually the exhaustion would take over. But no matter how dormant her body felt, her mind still raced. What little sleep she did was fitful, much like the captain had predicted and when she could not lie still any longer without joints and muscles aching, she paced, bare feet silent against the planks of the floor. She wished they would make noise. Never had she wanted to wear heavy boots that would make a ruckus more than she did just then, if only to drown out the interrogation she felt herself being put through by her own thoughts. She collapsed onto a the floor after walking miles without traveling any distance, unable to keep standing, but unable to lie back down. She leaned back against the wall of the room. With a sigh, she began to take account of events, just as a tactician evaluated his standings after a defeat. Voices of far distant and long departed mentors demanded to be heard, as clearly if they lived and stood in the same room. She could see them in her imagination, and while none of them had ever met so, she pictured them sitting around a table not dissimilar to the one close at hand in the Ward Room. They were her personal councilors of war, and every one of them had something to say. Why do you sit and let these things happen to you, where is your fight? The first chided. You are at a disadvantage here. You should have retreated months ago - the minute your judgement began to be clouded by emotion. You thought this place was safe and you were ambushed. The second growled. You let your guard down, you stupid little girl! You let them see you weak. That disturbing propensity to trust will get you killed one way or another. The third mocked. The thoughts continued but they didn’t take their turn. You don’t belong here was followed by A solider never is without a weapon which was drowned out by the third, cruel voice shouting at her You are weak, and useless. This inner conversation went on and on, Tudor took every thought, every word, and clung to it, believing them all to be true even if they were such contrary ideas of both how weak she was, and how much harder she could have fought. They tore her apart inside. The the turmoil ran deeper in her than just the fear and anger brought about by her encounter with Harry Saltash – the attack only dredged up every other fear and doubt – and she could not separate all the emotions, and wished to be rid of every single one of them. Just when she thought she could bear it no more, more noise invaded the silence. It was just a muffled voice from elsewhere on the boat - perhaps the changing of watches, or repair crews calling out to each other, she couldn't make out the words. But it acted as touchstone for reality - the world beyond her own world.This ship, this floating fortress had been battered, beaten and often times betrayed, and yet it went on. And so would she. In light of that simple though, that profound lesson, realized on the floor of the great cabin in the darkest hours of night, all other teachers from her past were silenced. She knew that there would be struggles ahead - she'd bear the scars from this day just as she bore from every other thing that ever happened to her. But someday they would heal, fade. Someday, like that very ship, she would be repaired, righted. It might not be in that very moment, but knowing that someday they would no longer run so deep into her gave her something like peace, enough to actually sleep. She crawled back into the bed and as soon as her eyes shut, she slept. It was dawn until she woke again. She rose again, not because she could no longer lie still from the pain, but because she finally felt ready to move. The light pouring into the room gave promise of a clear day - the storm had finally passed.

His words smarted as they hit her - he knew her too well. He knew how little she wanted everyone to see how damaged her face was, and, in kindness, he used that against her. "I will go mad if I sit still too much longer. More mad, at any rate." She smiled a bit at this, clearly aware of how insane she must seem at that exact moment. "You think this is just reaction to . . . today." She couldn't bring herself to refer to anything more specific. "This is an everyday fight for me. Today just has me too broken to hide it." She felt she was being too dramatic, too cryptic and she forcibly shook her head, as if the action would clear it. "Please, if Saltash is in irons, I have no reason to sit in here, wallowing while others labor, cowering in fear while there is work to be done. As much as I hate the idea of questions, I hate more being seen as weak, and injured and . . . damaged." She could tell her babbling was not convincing the Captain. He looked at her, kindly, but in an unyielding sort of way. She sighed, defeated once again. It was becoming the theme for the day. "I won't have an able bodied crew mate wasting his time being my nanny at the door. I'd rather have all hands working to right the ship, as long as I can have a pistol and a knife with me in here." It was a request, stated as a preference. "But, just . . .what will I do to occupy myself all night?" Her tone implied sleep was the furthest thing from her possible agenda.

Her eyes narrowed a moment, as if she had to think, but really the truth was she was deciding how much of an answer she wanted to give. "No. Not for want of trying on his part, only . . . ." Suddenly she had to choke back a bitter laugh. She knew the Captain was only doing as he needed, both as the commander of the ship, and as a caring friend, but she didn't want to say the answer, and no one aboard ship had ever seen the scars she knew she would have to show - a simple no, without evidence, would leave everyone holding their breath for weeks. Without another word, but a resigned shake of her head, she lifted the hem of her shirt, exposing only the lower part of her abdomen. From the navel down, she was riddled with the ridges of a series of old wounds, perhaps only two years into healing. "Even if I wanted children, I've been told it would take heavenly intervention for it to happen. So, no. You will still have your Steward in nine months time." She dropped the shirt again, looking away and closing her eyes, thinking of it all - Saltash, the damage to the ship, the storm, the scars - all of it burdened her, ground her further down into her chair, until with a gasp for air, she stood up abruptly again, but instead of pacing she was practically lunging for the door. "Captain, I need to go back to work. I need to not sit still right now . . . I can't . . .I can't . . . I just can't . . ." She didn't know what she was trying to say, and she was literally choking on the words, they stuck in her throat and she fought the urge to cry, but she didn't know what she was weeping about.

Tudor sat, still clutching some hair, still looking every which direction, as if someone might jump out of a trunk our walk through the very walls. She didn't speak any more. As quickly as they tumbled out of her while cutting her hair, they were gone again. She was the discarded rag doll again and sat with no comfort, just weariness. After a heavy sigh, she finally made eye contact with William, as if bidding him to say whatever he had to say, ask what questions he had to ask.

"Which ever is sharpest." She growled, a vicious enough sound that for a moment he reconsidered his original supposition that she intended violence. The fire in her tone told him that if he did not give her something sharp to do what she planned in the next few minutes, she would set about finding it herself. Still she paced like a caged animal, eyes darting to the door every few minutes and hand still wrapped around her neck. With a resigned sigh, William stood and retrieved the fine pair of which he spoke and carried them across to the corner where she now stood, but he hesitated in placing them into her open palm. There was a silent understanding that he was offering to help with the clipping, knowing it's not so easy to reach the back of one's own head, but the Steward, angry facade once again melting into broken and weary faced smiled and shook her head at him. "I'm sorry, if there is going to be sharp metal anywhere near my neck right now, it's only going to be in my hand." Taking the blades up quickly she tugged at a giant hank of hair and chewed through it with the scissors with little regard to the evenness. "It was foolish of me to let it get so long. I always used to keep it fairly close cropped." She said, the first fistful of hair entirely separated from her head, leaving only an inch or two to cover her scalp. She set to work on the next section, capturing the spring like curls in a white knuckled grip, "Y'know, don't give anyone anything to grab onto in a fight." And with a clipping sound, the second handful was freed, the back of her head having less length now then the side. "But, a while back, I was bed-bound for about six months and it started to grow out. I guess I thought it looked pretty so I've not cut it for the better part of 2 years." She set about the final strands, and spoke with a strained cheerfulness that seemed to teeter on manic. "Vanity getting the best of good sense I guess." And with that, the halo of spiral ringlets that always fluttered about her face was gone, in it's place, odd ends and disparate lengths, all evidence that her hair was even curly was now spread between the floor and her two fists.

A brief, weary smile twisted at her mouth, causing the recently staunched blood of cracked lip to start to well again, and out of habit, she raised the heel of her hand to press at it, and wipe away. Tutting at her, the captain batted her hand away, and dabbed at her mouth with cloth. "That was easy, compared to this." She said, with the first bit of bravado she was able to muster. "I was armed and prepared. Mostly, I was armed." She laughed a bit, trying her best not to wince as William continued to tend the myriad of bruises. It was painfully obvious that she still was on edge. She sat on her seat, slouching but not relaxed and she could not let her gaze settle anywhere - not from disinterest in making eye contact, but simply that the kept watching the door, lest it swing open with Saltash behind it. "You are handling it with far more strength and bravery then many others have done before you. You inflicted quite a bit of damage on him for his trouble." He thought to encourage the bravery and the pride that was naturally in her manner, and her eyes did flicker for a minute with the sheer joy of having at least stood some ground before falling to the enemy. "The Devil himself couldn't take me to hell without me giving him a fight." She said, again smirking, and again wincing at the pull it made on her wounds. "And. . . it isn't as if this is the first time something like this has happened to me. And I won't be surprised if it's not the last." She said in an oddly light tone for such a serious subject. As if feeling the burden of such statements, her face shifted, dramatically and quickly, to a look of steely determination, with a touch of madness about the eyes, and she bolted upright from the chair, almost knocking the captain off his perch on his stool. She started pacing frantically, holding onto the back of her neck, all her hair pinned under her hand. "Captain - do you have some scissors, or a sharp knife somewhere around here?"

Tudor ducked into the doorway that was held for her, not caring if they were heading for the brig or anywhere else, except for maybe the small confines of her sleep area. All she wanted was to sit. Her feet felt heavy, her head pounded and stung from where it had been bounced off the floor, she was dizzy - not from the injuries but just from all strength finally sapping out of her. She wanted to sit, but wasn't sure that she could make it further then the ground right in front of her. Noticing the unsteadiness, Brand proffered an arm to her, as if he was escorting her into a ballroom, rather then the great cabin to which he was now opening the door, although the whole time his face continuing to remain stoic. At first thought, Tudor wished that perhaps the Captain was being more clear with his thoughts as she was in mood to try and decipher moods and body language, but she now thought the better of it. Her own emotions were riotous enough, and she was glad for the pillar of solemnity beside her -it steadied more then her steps. She still didn't speak another word, all of them were used up, as her captain pulled out a small chair for her. Collapsing on it, she never looked more like a porcelain doll, only now slumped over and discarded. "Mistress Smith, please make yourself comfortable in here, while I go and see to matters." He still spoke formally, a apparently collected calm, and he turned to exit the room again, but before he was out of earshot, she finally found some small voice again. "Captain?" He hesitated. "Please, can as few of the crew know about this as possible?" Another piece of her broke, asking this. She was certain that such a pitiful request would solidify any doubts the Captain might have had about the extents that her vaguely described 'attack' had gone to, but it seemed that what was left of her pride had to be shattered further in order to be rebuilt, and the only way she would be able to survive was if she didn't have the pitying, or judging, looks of every crewmate as gossip spread. As soon as she asked, she started ennumerating the people that might have overheard or would have to be told; Vandervender, Robert Thatcher had been watching, Mr. Warren, the marines that would be sent to detain Saltash . . . .she kept counting in her head, wishing the number could be fewer . . . .

The storms had started to abate, suddenly dropping to no more than a light drizzle, just as quickly as the had set upon the battered ship. The general din of topside both comforted and terrified her, the space to breath, no shadowy corners, gave her a sense of security, but every yell, bang, sound, creak of the ship, sound of footfall behind her made her skittish, and all of these noises ruled on the deck. Everyone was too busy to notice her as she followed Vandervender, but she tried to shrink into herself as they walked, suddenly conscious of just how she must look. As they approached the captain, she pawed nervously at her face, trying her best to rub away the dried brown, and the fresh red, that stained her face, with her sleeve. More blood on the linen shirt she wore wouldn’t signify - it was already covered, both in her own and Saltash’s. “Je spreekt hem eerst.” She mumbled to Vandervender, bidding him to speak first to the Captain, remembering her basic grasp on his language, though he would have understood her in English just the same. She still wasn’t sure she had it in her to speak the words she knew she must. William spared them both a glance as they approached, but turned to look again at his Steward, surprise at her state on his already troubled face. “Mistress Smith! What in the seven hells . . .” She raised a hand to cut him off, insisting that she could hold her peace until the carpenter’s report was given. Every word that was spoken between the two men in regards to the securing of the ship caused the knot in her stomach to tighten, knowing that soon, it would be her turn to speak. All she could make out from the conversation was that the ship was out of immediate danger, for the time being, the details of how this had been accomplished, or how such progress was to continue were entirely unheard by her. Their conversation ended, the Captain bade her to speak, and taking a steadying breath, she began. “I was, uh . . . attacked, Sir.” She tried to sound calm and collected, but the devil may care attitude she wished for was missing, and her sentence sounded stilted even to herself. Hearing a commotion from the other side of the ship, she saw that Saltash just appeared on deck himself, almost looking as if he had been chased, and she no longer had time to fumble for words. “Saltash. He cornered me below.” Again she looked over her shoulder quickly. Her attacker had just found her in the sea of people that ran about, and his eyes spoke murderous volumes as he noticed who she was speaking to. “I am fine, but I tell you so you know, so that he might be detained. There is too much happening on board to have him guarded, and I would hate others to fall afoul of him. Young Dash already bore the brunt of his anger for attempting to intervene.” Again, a nervous glance cast behind her told her what her soldier’s sense had already felt, that Harry Saltash was trying to get to her as quickly and discretely as possible, and he was already halfway closer to her then he had been the moment before. “I understand that I am accusing a shipmate, and that no action can be taken against him until both sides are heard, but please - do not let him have liberty of the ship.” Her voice wavered at this, and she gritted her teeth. “Please, have someone put him under lock until . . . until.” She was running out of energy and the little courage she had was wavering as he approached closer and closer. “If I have to be locked somewhere as well, as a party to violence on the ship, I understand, but please, please,” She winced, tears starting to well in her grey eyes as she could almost feel him looming, only a few yards away, attempting to look busy as if he was working, while still holding at his sliced ear and face. “Keep me far away from him. Please.” The last plea came out of her almost as more of a gasp for air, weariness finally washing over her, as she slouched, no longer able the proud posture she was attempting, and started shaking from agony, pain, misery, chill and fear. She couldn’t meet her Captain’s eye, but kept her face turned down to the planks.

"YES!" She said, perhaps a little to forcefully, but then curbed her emotions - the sheer joy to see more faces, the relief that they were others with more strength. Her next words were measured carefully, but she spoke them quickly. "Please, some one get Dash here to the surgeon. I can't carry him there myself but he needs to be looked to, badly. He was hit very hard." She paused, unable to hide a groan of relief when, Sparshott reached for Dash, shifting the weight of the boy so it was no longer bearing down on her own battered body. "Get him to Mistress O'Treasaigh and tell her to bolt her door and not let any one short of an officer anywhere near the boy." This part was more than she should have said, and the words tumbled out of her mouth without her weighing them, but she couldn't regret saying them. As much as she wanted to give details of the occurrence of moments past to as few people as possible, she also could not bear the idea of Saltash finding his way to the surgery, and devising a way to silence the boy from confessing what he had witnessed. The thought quickly crossed her mind that depending on just how hard he had been hit, Saltash might not have to do any more to keep him from talking. Biting back that bitter thought, she sized up Tobias quickly. She had known that he had been working with the Carpenter and guessed what his original destination had been. "I need to get to the Captain, but I need someone to walk with me. I cannot go alone . . ." Her Dutch was limited in the best of circumstances, so she didn't even attempt to speak to him in his mother tongue, as she normally might. Sparshott glanced her over, blood smeared over her face, broken lip still adding fresh to the stains and the red marks around her jaw already starting to turn to bruises. "But surely you need to go be seen by the Doctor too? What in God's name happened?" Shaking her head, she determined to answer only of his questions. "I am fine," Although as she said this, she began to notice every ache and hurt more, as if her body was calling her a liar. "It is more important I get above decks right away." And away from where ever Saltash might be hiding right now she thought. "I MUST speak to the Captain, right away." The emphasis on this need was just as much to convince herself. Talking to anyone, let alone the Captain, about this was the last thing she wished to do. Given her options, she would have chosen to wipe off her face, go back to work and pretend nothing had happened, over having to confess to her ranking officer that something like this would happen - it would make her look less strong, more fragile, weak, a liability, unable to take care of herself, foolish - and she hated to cast herself in such a light. But more foolish would be to keep silent to save her pride and have Saltash walk about the ship free and merry as he pleased. It wasn't for herself that she had decided she needed to at least speak to the master of the ship, but for every other woman in the crew. It was at this moment that another crew member, this time of a four-legged variety came barreling down the corridor, all teeth and barks. What he was after, if anything, Tudor couldn't speculate, and instead left the pup to his own devices, sure that his mistress would be after him in a minute. She couldn't be below another minute, it felt as if the walls were closing in, making it hard to even breath, and so she took the first steps up the ladderway, unsure if Vandevender would follow as she had requested.

The cool metal in her hand seemed to clam Tudor, all riotous thoughts stopped instantly the moment the blade was safely in her palm. A million thoughts had been screaming since the moment she had be pinned to the ground, but she couldn't fight them or silence them, but instead had dwelled on them, thinking perhaps they could drown out her current reality. But her grasp finding the knife caused everything to shift. She still fought and thrashed as she had been doing, but it was more calculated now, less of a hopeless attempt. She used the motions that Harry Saltash all but expected from her to disguise her turning the knife around slowly a few times in her hand, to get an idea of the size and sharpness, without drawing attention to it by turning to look. A light thumb brushed against the edge told her that Saltash kept it sharp - either from being an experience sailor or from being a brute who wouldn't be above using the tool as a weapon when no others were allowed to be carried on ship, she couldn't say - but either way she was glad of it. Despite the rounded end, she intended to inflict as large an amount of damage as possible. Sparing a quick glance over at the young powder monkey who had both so bravely and so foolishly tried to come to her aide, Tudor allowed herself a brief second of worry for the boy. He had been hit hard, and probably hadn't suffered as many fists as she had over the years, and the only thing that had stopped him being flung further by the force was the wall. Her anguish grew as she saw him crumpled on the ground, but kept herself from losing her newly found focus. Now it was not only herself that was depending on her clear head. Finally, his mirth at injuring the boy worn thin, Saltash turned back to his original object of amusement. He fell upon Tudor's neck with his mouth - it could neither be called kissing, as that implied gentleness and affection, nor could it be called slobbering, as it was not nearly so simple-minded - he bit, with force, adding to the list of bruises Tudor was sure to have if this ordeal ever ended. But this action, as unwanted in and of itself as it was, was exactly the sort of thing the Steward had been waiting for. Grasping the knife firmly, steadying the blade with her index finger, she raised her arm, hooked the sharp edge agains the back of his ear and pulled forcefully. Between her forward motion, and his recoiling from the pain, she sliced the clear through, and not willing to loose the forward momentum , continued to slice across his face. What started off as a thin red line that crossed his cheekbone, his left eye, the bridge of his and cut through his right eyebrow suddenly turned into a geyser of blood, although Saltash was still most shocked about his ear. He bellowed angrily, a injured bull in the matador's ring, but Tudor had no red flag to wave, only a spear. Shifting her grip on the knife she dug the edge into his upper arm, with as much force as she could, trying to push through all the skin to the muscle. He tried to hit her, to pin her hand down, but the cut across it's face served the purpose she had for it - the blood dripping down his face was blurring his vision and she managed to evade his grip, raking her weapon across his chest. His weight on her lightened enough that she could sit up, and as loath as she was to put herself any close to him, she wraped an arm around him and gave him another cut on his back, the mirror image to the one on his chest. With that, and a small shove, she finally was able to wriggle her self out from under him. Stumbling to her feet, she pulled her slops back up to her waist, buttoning as she tried to find her footing and hurry her way across the room to where the boy lay unconcious. "Boy . . . which one are you . . . I don't remember, I'm sorry" She spoke to him as if he was conscious and would be offended that for the first time in months she couldn't remember everyone's names. "Dash! That's it Dash, wake up, c'mon, wake up. You need to get out, now! DASH!" She tried in vain to wake him, yelling, shaking him, tugging on his hair. Part of her said to leave him and run. Saltash would most likely follow her and leave Dash in the heap on the floor, but she couldn't leave the boy - he hadn't left her. Dash's eyes fluttered open, staring up at her dazed for a moment, but quickly his line of sight focused on something just past her shoulder, fear filling his bleary eyes, and he just manged to mouth 'behind you' in time for Tudor to turn, and see Saltash lumbering towards her. Once again, she used his own momentum against him and rammed the heel of her hand forceably upwards against his nose, causing what some would consider a knee-weakening cracking sound to echo. Tudor found it quite satisfying, almost as satisfying as seeing the man fall to his knees from the sharp pain cause by the snapping of nasal bones. Not waiting to see if he would find his strength yet again, Tudor did her best to lift William Dash, who had once again slipped away from the waking world, up from the floor and carry him from the scene of the horrors. This was no small task in and of itself, and an incredible feat considering she bore injuries herself. The boy, while lighter, was the same height as she was herself, and was completely limp, passed out from pain no doubt. "Stop!" Saltash shouted, still disoriented but standing again. "Don't! I'll leave you be, just don't tell anyone what happened here." He toppled over again as the ship shivered in a strong wind. "I'll never come near you again, I swear, but just don't tell anyone, or else!" Twenty minutes prior, this would have sounded threatening, but now his words were choked on blood, his face was in tatters and he could barely stand. Or else WHAT? Tudor thought to herself, but didn't stop in her attempts to take the young boy and flee. She couldn't think of a single thing that he could do to her that would be any worse then what she just had to bear, so his threat was beyond empty to her. Besides, someone MIGHT just notice something. Your nose is broken and I will have bruises for weeks. As if he sensed her skepticism, he gave intimidation another attempt. "I'll tell everyone you seduced me - lured me in - and started to attack me, to rob me!" This time, she couldn't hold her tongue. "I wouldn't willing seduce you if you were as rich as Croesus you disgusting oaf! As is, what would I steal from an ugly half-wit with barely two shillings to rub together!" She yelled back at him, never ceasing to keep moving forward. It was beyond foolish, to continue to let him distract her, and to continue to antagonize, but the words flew out of her mouth too quickly to be stopped. Hope, she could see hope in the form of the steps to the upper decks now, she was halfway down the narrow corridor. She wanted to rest for a breath, but heard him starting to set after her, and so she quickened her pace. She was almost to the steps when she lost the hold she had around Dash, nearly falling over with the boy's dead weight.

Only being able to imagine what kind of state the hold was in, Tudor set her course first for her own quarters, knowing that there she would be able to find a lantern in undamaged state, as well as various other tools that might help her. She quickly tossed a tangled mess of thick twine for lashing her foraged scraps of wood together for easier carrying, into a bag, along with a long, dull knife, useless for cutting but entirely practical for prying, and scraps of rags, either for drying or wrapping around her hands to prevent splinters. She was certain that there were other tools more suited for her tasks stored somewhere on board, but she wasn’t entirely sure where to find such items, and she would be damned if she was going to bother any other crew member who might be useful elsewhere to help her locate them, when she knew she had passible substitutes in her own trunk. Finally certain that she had all that she might need in her task she turned to leave, but stopped short when she opened the door, and a mountain stood, leaning against its frame. “Saltash?” It took her a full second to realize who it was. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have something you should be doing?” She gave her best attempt to not sound annoyed, as she did not have any reason to dislike the man, he had been aboard such a short time. Likewise, however, she had no reason to like him either, and his malingering outside her door while others slaved to make repairs to the shop did not do much to steady her patience for him. Deciding that the conversation needed to remain short, Tudor attempted to push past him, but he shifted his weight to prevent her. “You are in my way. “ She snarled, and managed to duck under his arm that barred her path. “What’s your hurry, little miss?” Finally the man spoke, turning to look at the retreating woman, and causing her to stop dead in her tracks and turn back to him. His broad face bore what she could only imagine was what he would call a flirtatious smile – she thought he just looked like every other lecherous sailor that thought she might be an easy conquest. “My hurry? My hurry? “ She repeated his words, her pointed features contorting into a horrified look of disdain and annoyance, all hopes of remaining civil gone. “In case you didn’t notice, Saltash, another ship just collided with ours? I don’t know about you, but I rather like keeping the ship that I am on from sinking. Now, go back to your duties, and if you have none assigned to you, find something useful to do and leave me be.” She sneered at the man then turned away again, determined not to waste any more time on trying to figure out what the man was about. She hurried her pace, but in two strides he had caught up with her, and grasped at her shoulder, stopping her movement forcefully and almost causing her to lose her footing. She tried her best not to flinch as his fingers dug in, a vice-like grip, almost feeling as if he might crush the whole blade, and force his fingers and thumb to meet. “You can’t talk to me like that!” “Can’t I? I thought I just did.” By now, it was more than clear to her that neither Harry’s intentions nor his manners were good, but Tudor refused to be intimidated and looked the man squarly in the eyes. “And I am about to do so again. You may not respect me as an officer, a crew mate or even a person, but if you do not do as I say, I swear to you, I will make your life a living hell. Now, let go of me you giant idiot.” Her final words were said through clenched teeth, and her delicate, pale hand shot up from her side and thumb and forefinger just managed to wrap around the man’s large wrist, grasping tightly onto his pulse points, causing his hand to go numb and his grip to slacken. Not hesitating to see what he might do, she started to walk away again, this time with much more haste, and with a different destination in mind. She was no fool to think that this man wouldn’t continue to follow her, nor foolish enough to think that if it came to any kind of physical altercation – which seemed likely with how forcefully he had just held her – that she would stand any kind of chance, being unarmed and facing an opponent literally twice her size in height and weight. Above deck was her safest option for the time being, and while she loathed the fact that she would be abandoning her task, going above she could find others to replace her, and could stay in the eye shot of others. Her progress was stopped yet again, but this time she couldn’t help but gasping in pain as the man’s hand wound into her hair, causing her neck to jerk awkwardly. Pulling her towards him, Saltash actually managed to lift the Steward of the ground, by only her curls, but he quickly wrapped a muscled arm around her ribs. “I said, you can’t talk to me like that.” He could feel, and was amused by the fact that Tudor’s breath was becoming a bit labored, his crushing arm around her knocking the wind out of her. With a force that would rival that of a mule’s kick, Tudor’s small heel smashed into his kneecap, causing him to lose his grip on her for a second time, and this time, also causing him to have his leg buckle out from under him. Her landing from being dropped was less then graceful, her own footing lost, giving her no real chance of escape. As she tried to quickly pick herself up off the floor, Saltash grabbed her ankle, dragging her towards where he still knelt. “You stupid bitch!” He growled, still wincing from the knee that was already swelling. “That hurts!” She couldn’t hide a derisive laugh. “It wasn’t supposed to tickle you stupid shit!” This earned her his large hand flying at her mouth, the loud smacking sound echoing for a second. Tudor blinked a few times, trying to shake of the impact, but the blood was already welling up from the lip that was now split open, and her nose, having caught half of the blow, was not in much better condition. While still recovering from the stinging in her face, Saltash had already rediscovered his strength, and with his grip having never left her ankle, he started dragging her back towards her small quarters. “Let GO!” She shrieked as loudly as possible, knowing that he would pay it no heed, but hoping that maybe she might be heard over all the other cacophony of sounds that swirled through the ship at that exact moment. In other actions that she assumed to be futile, she quickly landed two blows to the man’s head, one balled up fist smashing into his temple, the other landing squarely between his nose and cheekbone. Such strikes would have felled men with less of Saltash’s strength and experience with brawls, but all it served to do was distract him for another moment, but not enough to loosen his grip for a third time. Wincing, and blinking, he picked her up again, and limped his way back the last few feet to her small corner of a room, and forcefully threw her onto the floor again, causing her head to bounce off the wood floor. The pain was excruciating, and Tudor’s line of sight blurred, but she did not lose consciousness. She almost wished she had. Barely able to see and pain coursing through her she tried again to writhe her way free, but now Saltash’s full weight was upon her, straddling her waist, one hand crushing her jaw, it was clamped so tightly over her still bleeding mouth, the other hand searching for the buttons at the fly of her slops.

B the time she found the carpenter, the carpenter's mate and the few crew members that had been assigned to their assistance, Tudor had recounted any and all carpentry experience she ever had. It had totaled one project, when she once was responsible for reattaching a table leg to it's top. The table was made sturdy by the time she had finished but it had taken dozens of nails, half of which had been bent, ruined, pulled from the project and cast aside. If the water that was flooding in was any indication, there wasn't not the time to have some so useless with a hammer, attempting to help. She would more then likely make more holes, then she would patch them. "How can I assist? I am useless with tools, but I have two free hands." "Aye, and a mind for every detail about where things are stored about the ship." The Carpenter quickly explained his proposed repairs and told her of his need for more wood for the undertaking. Be it debris, ripped from unneeded areas, whatever could be had to help patch the Ship's wounds. "I know there are some sturdy crates that supplies were brought aboard in. Some should be empty by now. If not, I will make them so. I would bring you the ward room table if you thought it would help." She said, making a mental note of the size and quantity that would be needed. "The broken up crates should do fine, if you can muster up enough of them. Don't go bringing the Captain's table to be chopped up for repair scrap. He might have need of it." "Not as much his need for it then need for this hole to be plugged, I'm sure. No need for a table if there is no Ward Room, or ship even, to keep it in." Tudor laughed a bit despite the situation, as she started to leave to set about her task. She was grateful for the moment of lightheartedness. Watching the skilled craftsmen at work, she felt almost as if she could start breathing again. The damage was still great, the danger was still serious, but even if she didn't, someone knew where to begin to set things right, and that was something. She took her leave with a promise to hurry back from the cargo hold with what she could find, asking for neither assistance nor accompaniment from any of the crew that were gathered there, and everyone else continued on with the work they did. All but one. No one noticed when Harry Saltash left after her.

Upon arriving back upon the deck, Tudor realized that one chaos had been replaced by another. Andrew Light was giving the orders of a Bosun - she could only assume that the Captain had name him such - and the and through the newly promoted man's commands, the chatter, noise, yelling and general din had died down to a somewhat normal buzz. However, the storm was starting to gain ferocity. Rain poured down heavily, and within a moment of being exposed to it, there was barely an inch of dry cloth about her and her bright hair had been darkened from the water, the spiral curls drooping. The storm did not bode well, and for neither the first nor the last time that day, Tudor wondered why storms and crises always had to strike in tandem. She looked about the deck for a sign of the commander of the ship, completely at a loss and in hopes of some instruction. She was a fair weather sailor - the few storms and events she had seen in the past few months aboard the Dog were both the width and breadth of her seafaring knowledge and she had no inkling as to what task was best suited both to her skills and to the crew's needs at this exact time of emergency. As she looked forlornly around the deck, all she could see in her mind's eye was the image of the shattered tea-cup, everything was broken, but this time she did not know where to begin to clean. The rag that held the broke porcelain was still in her hand, momentarily forgotten. Taking an opportune second between gusts of turbulent wind, she tossed the knotted cloth into the choppy waves that splashed around the ship's hull, took a moment to breath, then looked around again with fresh eyes. Now was not the time to allow herself to be overwhelmed by circumstance, although that is what she wished she could do. Now was the time for action, for work, and so work she would. Whatever task she could lend her hand to, she wanted to. There were guns to be re-secured, debris to be shifted; All these tasks seemed as trivial as the smashed mug of a few moments ago in comparison to the entirety of the damage, but she hoped staring at the tasks one at a time would keep her from being overwhelmed by the enormity of all of them together. Upon arriving back upon the deck, Tudor realized that one chaos had been replaced by another. Andrew Light was giving the orders of a Bosun - she could only assume that the Captain had name him such - and the and through the newly promoted man's commands, the chatter, noise, yelling and general din had died down to a somewhat normal buzz. However, the storm was starting to gain ferocity. Rain poured down heavily, and within a moment of being exposed to it, there was barely an inch of dry cloth about her and her bright hair had been darkened from the water, the spiral curls drooping. The storm did not bode well, and for neither the first nor the last time that day, Tudor wondered why storms and crises always had to strike in tandem. She looked about the deck for a sign of the commander of the ship, completely at a loss and in hopes of some instruction. She was a fair weather sailor - the few storms and events she had seen in the past few months aboard the Dog were both the width and breadth of her seafaring knowledge and she had no inkling as to what task was best suited both to her skills and to the crew's needs at this exact time of emergency. As she looked forlornly around the deck, all she could see in her mind's eye was the image of the shattered tea-cup, everything was broken, but this time she did not know where to begin to clean. The rag that held the broke porcelain was still in her hand, momentarily forgotten. Taking an opportune second between gusts of turbulent wind, she tossed the knotted cloth into the choppy waves that splashed around the ship's hull, took a moment to breath, then looked around again with fresh eyes. Now was not the time to allow herself to be overwhelmed by circumstance, although that is what she wished she could do. Now was the time for action, for work, and so work she would. Whatever task she could lend her hand to, she wanted to. There were guns to be re-secured, debris to be shifted; All these tasks seemed as trivial as the smashed mug of a few moments ago in comparison to the entirety of the damage, but she hoped staring at the tasks one at a time would keep her from being overwhelmed by the enormity of all of them together.

For once the role of clairvoyant was switched, and predicting Tudor's approach, the captain turned to look at her, as soon as he had finished calling out across the still turbulent waves to their sister ship. "Mistress Smith! get this man to the surgery." Her customary curtsy or nod of acceptance of her orders was missing, instead she flew right into action, motioning for the first unoccupied crewmates she found to come and assist. It took a combined effort to remove the man from the line, but soon they were making their way below and approaching the door to the surgery. Even if they had knocked, chances are the occupants of the room wouldn't have noticed. Managing to push open the unlatched door with her foot, Tudor continued to struggle to be of assistance in the carrying of the unconscious man, but no sooner had they laid the man out on the cot, then she realized state of pandemonium that the usually restful room was in. Everything that had at one time been on a table or a shelf was now on the floor, including several bottles and what appeared to have once been a cup of tea, before it had been knocked to the floor and shattered. Both women of the Surgery were running about the room, trying to put everything to rights. After sending the crewmen on their way, back to be of any assistance topside, Tudor briefly informed Maeve of what had befallen Paul, before offering to replace the doctor in the task of cleaning up shards of tea cup, so that she might be free to see to the patient. In the grand scope of all that had happened in the past fleeting moments, broken china hardly seemed important - there were many other broken things that needed seeing to. But at that very moment, the pieces of porcelain were the problem that presented itself to the Steward. Who was to say how many more might come to the surgery in the coming hours, and if more were to come, the surgeon would need to be free of movement and have everything in order, not worried about stepping over broken bits with sharp edges as she worked, or wondering where all her tools went. After gathering up all the pieces into a found rag, and making sure that all medical tools and other necessary accoutrements were retrieved from various corners of the room, Tudor left to return to the upper decks, wonder what other proverbial smashed tea cups there would be for her to help clean up.

Tudor raised a brow as she looked at the shop, content to observe rather then question the reason for their current location. She simply waited for him to lead the way into the shop. Curiosity filled her as to what importance this errand fullfilled in regards to his conversation about finding a surgeon, if any, so she followed eagerly as they entered, taking in the sights, smells and layout of the building.

Nodding at the Captains bidding, she quickly made her way on board. She took a moment to secure the few purchases she had made on her way back to the ship, pausing for a moment to make sure that her letters were still folded and stored on her person, not willing to leave them anywhere. After doing so, she grabbed the items that the Captain needed and hurried back to where he was waiting.

After finishing with the captain, and being off duty, Tudor had gone ashore. Knowing that the intentions were to not be in port much longer there were a few more tasks she had to see to before being at sea again. As she hurried through the streets, she let her thoughts linger on some of her past conversations Captain Brand - particularly the meeting where he suggested that she learn the skills of the Coxswain and be numbered among the Marines. It gave her much to think about. While over the past months there were times she felt the need to find a diffrent title aboard, she was glad that the Captain wanted her to remain Steward. But likewise, she was glad for the opportunity to learn more and perhaps prove to be of more use in the future, and being part of the marines seemed as natural as breathing to her. Contentment filled her. Ducking into a narrow allyway not far from the pier, she quickly found the small tavern she had visited on one of her earlier trips ashore. Not many from the crew patronized this particular inn, not many even knew of it. Striding up to bar keep, she put all thought from her mind but the business at hand. "I am waiting for a message from Port-au-Prince, bearing the name Smith. It should have arrived by the hand of man from a merchant ship named The Virtue." The man smiled at her, a knowing smile. "Merchant ship, indeed." He turned and opened a large wooden box behind the bar and retrieved a thick letter, sealed in blue wax the impression of a flourished crest impressed in it. Taking it from the man with one hand she laid down a generous tip for him with the other. "For your troubles and your discretion." She said, with a smile and a nod of her head. Breaking the seal she looked over the myriad of documents enclosed. The first sheet of parchment on the stack enclosed, she smiled to see a short note in an uneven, scrawled hand. Last time I play yur message boy. Yurs, Dan. He still couldn't spell for the world, she thought to herself, not sure whether to be amused or annoyed. Shuffling the papers she started to skim through the diffent writings. Pleased with what she found she folded them back up and put them in her pouch for closer review later. As it was, she did not wish to be away from the ship for long. Turning on her heels she retraced her steps, back to the Dog.

"I have been aboard the Dog only a short three months, and was not made Captain Brand's steward right away. Most of this time has been spent on the seas or in ports where we were so occupied that there was no time for idle chatter. To that, I am only recently arrived to the islands." She shrugged. "And I myself have a bit of a history attached to my time before arriving at this juncture, of which the Captain has never pried. I extend him the courteousy of doing the same." She looked at him, a fierceness in her eyes, as if daring Roldán to challenge criticize her actions or loyalty. It was not the first time that he had seemed to question why she bound herself to such an ill reputed captain.

Taking a moment to process the blunt statements and questions, Tudor looked at the lieutenant unflinchingly. "Well, to such a plain speaking, I can only respond in kind." She paused to take a small bite of food. "The most I can say is this. That if you and your crew do no ill by us, that the Captain would do no ill by you. But that being said, I will state clearly now, that I do not speak for Captain Brand in regards to where we will sail to or if we would make any agreements as escort."

Tudor laughed to herself quietly. "I never retreat - only advance, and perhaps advance to the rear when I need to regroup." She lifted her glass to him, then took a sip. "But please, do continue. I absolutly can give no insight into these reports until I know who speaks them, for every man has his own agenda."

Feeling on more familar ground Tudor looked squarely at her dinner companion. "Indeed, Captain Brand has a history. Just as I do. And I am very sure you do as well. In fact, as far as I am aware, every sentient being that has breathed air has a history of some kind." She gave a cocky smile. "But what event is it in my captain's history that has your Captain unsure of his credibility? For truth to tell I am very keen to know." She didn't take her gaze from his face. "For I know as much of his history as I do of yours - a basic summary of life and events that brought you to this place, as well as a few allusions and suspicions to more intriguing yet less important details. I must admit that I myself, and most of my historied companions, work on the belife that it is a man's current actions that is the measure with which to judge him by, not previous ones. But tell me, do, of what has been rumored and said, for I love to hear stories, be they fiction or biography." Her tone was not defensive, simply matter-of-fact. She had no wish to even try to deny that there was undoubtably many misadventures attached to Captain Brand. But likewise she had no wish to admit to what she did not know for sure. "Do tell me of your good Captain's concerns and I will do what I can to say whether or not they are founded in reason."