Ransom

Just a reminder...it's coming up soon. Got your "Weird, Weird West" garb yet? That's the theme this year. Hope to see you in Seattle in November.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR September 20 Boca camp, San Cristobal Island An eery quiet had fallen over the PFC camp. Helena and the other members of Alex’s group stayed together, as did the other crews. No fire danced cheerfully at the Bilge Rat. There was no singing, no fiddle playing. The campground was darker than ever, the ocean more vast, the island more remote. In defense, the PFCers had separated into tribes, staying among those they thought they could trust. After assigning volunteers to guard the spring and placing lookouts along the ridge, Alex had retreated to the Boca camp. Arthur, exercising his culinary skills, made sure dinner that night consisted of as much comfort food as their remaining fresh supplies would allow. Bill had opened a bottle of brandy afterwards, and no one refused an offered glass. Helena and Alex sat across from each other at the folding table, both sipping the expensive liquor. Helena was being especially cautious after her experience that morning, but the brandy soothed her unsettled stomach, and blunted the edge of fear knifing at her insides. One of the lookouts had reported seeing someone cross to La Perla, but as instructed, had contacted Alex. As of this moment, no one knew if the person was still there, or had crossed back while the guard was reporting in. The most disturbing thing about the sighting, was that the stranger appeared to be dressed like a pirate. In one respect, Helena thought, the sighting of the stranger was a relief. It meant neither she nor Alex were still under suspicion, a feeling that had haunted them both since the body of Tibbits had been found. She was grateful of Bill’s warning, or Rum Runner’s accusations would have blindsided her. The looks cast Alex’s way, before the group had discovered the little camp on La Perla, spoke volumes. As Rum Runner had insisted, almost everyone heard the threats the two of them had made to Tibbits the previous night. Both of them had good cause to hate the man. With no one else to blame, the collective finger had pointed at them. Now it could point at someone else. She took another sip of the brandy, letting its warmth slide down her throat. Alex remained quiet, staring at the glass lightly wrapped within his fingers, as if the liquor radiated warmth like a cup of hot coffee. For the first time since they’d met, she felt awkward around him. Although he’d assured her again that Sandyhad put him up the previous night, their bitter exchanges over the course of the day still hung in the air between them, and she fumbled for something neutral to say. He must have sensed her uneasiness, for he looked up, smiled and said, “This event has turned a little too pirate-like even for me.” Treading carefully, she asked, “Why did you join the PFC? I know you liked pirates as a kid, read all the books, but not everyone who enjoys a certain era in history attempts to recreate it in real life. They’re content with collecting memorabilia, or watching movies.” He sniffed. “What you’re really asking is, why do I run around acting like a kid?” “Partly, but I already know there’s more to it than just fun. Otherwise you’d have become bored with the whole thing. But you’re not really recreating the past, either.” The hard look he’d given her earlier that morning returned. “Helena, I’m not stupid enough to think you can bring back the past. Nor would I want to. I have no desire to abolish the use of antibiotics, drink typhoid-infected water, or bring back the plague. I like air conditioning and modern medicine, and I sure as hell wouldn’t give up my truck.” She smiled, knowing how much he liked his black truck with the skull and crossbones sticker in the rear window. He’d even named it Black Mariah, and referred to it as her, as if it were a ship. “What we’re attempting here,” he gestured to the campsite, lanterns and forbidden candles glowing in the darkness, “and at any of the events we hold, is to give people a hint of what life back then might have been like. A ... glimmer of life from another time. If we just wanted to have fun, we could run around with fake swords, halloween costumes, and all wear stuffed parrots on our shoulders. Instead we research everything we wear, every piece of equipment we use, because we want to get as close to the real thing as possible.” “I understand your dedication. I just don’t think you can even get close to what life was like for a real pirate.” “I can’t.” He looked exasperated at her inability to grasp the point he was trying to make. “People back then thought about their world in a completely different way. They feared God in a different way, and lived under a form of rule totally foreign to us. Their food tasted different, and the air they breathed smelled different. They put up with abuse and living conditions that would horrify us, and they regarded death as a day to day threat.” She tried to interrupt him, slow the tirade, but he was too intent on making her understand. “That’s the way life was back then. Let’s face it, you grow up seeing rotting heads on pikes as a warning to criminals, or watch carts loaded with plague dead being hauled away, it sort of deadens your sensibilities. It’s the way our time will be looked on by someone in the twenty-fifth century, assuming the planet lasts that long and we don’t nuke it into atoms. They’ll look at a 2006 Mercedes in the same way we look at a coach-and-four from 1706.” “You make the times sound pretty grim. What’s the attraction?” He leaned back in his chair. “The romance of it. The simplicity of it. The rare freedom the pirates had, compared to sailors on war ships or merchantmen, or everyday citizens, for that matter. They had their own set of rules, quite democratic for the times, to which they each adhered. That’s what I was trying to recreate here. Not the filth, or the savagery, but the camaraderie. The bonding together under adverse conditions.” He sat up, took a swallow of the brandy, and gave her a crooked smile. “Tough to feel a sense of camaraderie during rush hour gridlock, or talking on the phone to some computer while trying to straighten out an error on your credit card bill.” She tried to lighten his dark mood. “I thought that’s what guys did at football games, or sports bars. They bonded.” His smile softened to the one she loved. “I guess that’s true, but you can’t really say the conditions are adverse.” He gave a resigned shrug. “I just think people today are too disconnected from each other. They spend all their time watching TV or peering into a computer screen. There are drive-through banks, fast food, and instant messaging. Hell, you have people walking around with cellphone headsets on all the time, so they don’t even hear the real world. At least at a PFC event you interact with other human beings.” Helena had never seen him so serious. “Alex, this is the first time you’ve let me see past that boyish facade you hide behind.” The realization was painful. He gave her a rueful smile. “This is the first time I’ve had to deal with a murder.” It was even more painful to her that he made no attempt to deny that all he’d shown her for the last six months was a screen, hiding the true man. What other secrets were buried within him? What dreams did he have, that he felt he couldn’t share? They sat silent for a long time, and because the camp was so quiet, Helena could hear the chorus of frogs from the salt marsh, barely discernible over the rumbling surf.

I agree with Bo. I have always liked the smuggler's aspect of pyracy, and actually base my Ransom character more on a smuggler than an actual pyrate. I haven't done any real research on it, but I suspect there are fewer sites devoted to smuggling than pyracy, so you might look into that as a niche topic, as per Mission's suggestion.

I've only read one, titled The Dark Volume by Gorden Dahlquist. It was good, but needed editing, because at 400+ pages it was way too long. The story started to drag. I think it would have been better if reduced by about a third, and the story would have moved along better. Just my two-bits worth, though.

Got mine today. Love them. Patrick, you "crack" me up! And I think the Ransom card is amazing. I may use it as part of my sig. Also, to all. I'm having internet problems, caused by a bad DSL box. Can't get a new one from the server until Wednesday or Thursday. It sucks, but there you are.

I'm sure She does, and I'm sure you'll have a good time. (BTW, others might have just called it good Karma. )

Here is the description of how a young man killed himself while working with a black powder gun. Be glad this poor guy wasn't a member of your group...or, maybe it would have helped if he was, and he'd have learned proper safety, and still be alive. From the Darwin Award list...Where people take themselves out of the gene pool by doing something incredibly stupid. A cigarette lighter may have triggered a fatal explosion in Dunkirk, IN. A Jay Countryman, using a cigarette lighter to check the barrel of a muzzle loader, was killed Monday night when the weapon discharged in his face, sheriffs' investigators said. Gregory David Pryor, 19, died in his parents' rural Dunkirk home at about 11:30 PM. Investigators said Pryor was cleaning a 54-caliber muzzle-loader that had not been firing properly. He was using the lighter to look into the barrel when the gunpowder ignited.

It's easy to find him, Eyes. Just stand in line at the ice cream vendor. Or, look for a tall pirate in period garb with an ice cream cone in each hand!

It's just such an awesome design...still think we need patches for out garb of that one. I may hand-embroider one for my WWII land army coat. The Columbia's Revenge is looking pretty dang good as well. BTW, what are our colors? Black and white, like a pirate flag, or something different?

LOL That was kinda my thought as well. But, glad the geographical misunderstanding has been cleared up.

LOL Well, I don't think those were my exact words, but close enough. Glad you took the advice, though. Etsy makes it easy to set up a shop, that's for sure. And on that note, I have added new items to my own site, so check 'em out. As always, the link is in my sig. Ta very much!

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE September 20 San Cristobal Island From the shadows under the palms, Gray Dog watched the colonists as they crossed the isthmus. A blind rage engulfed him at the theft of the mast and oars from his boat. He wanted to strangle each and every one of the thieves until their eyes bulged from their sockets and they gagged their last breath. He wanted to punch, kick, and stab until his arms went limp and he was ankle deep in gore. If the colonists had any sense, they’d post guards. He would no longer be able to sneak between the two islands unseen. Without mast and oars, his boat was useless. He might be able to get those back, but he was truly trapped if they had scuttled his boat. He’d have to hide out until another ship arrived. Surely a supply ship had to arrive soon, or this colony wouldn’t survive. Having avoided the spring and the activity there, Gray Dog found himself thirsty again, with no access to water. He could attempt to reach it further down the ridge, but the terrain was steep and treacherous. The marsh was no good, either. It was too close to the colonist’s camp and the water would be too salty to drink. His feet ached and he suspected more than just sweat dampened his new short-hose, as his blisters burned hot as pokers. Hot, tired, and frustrated at his inability to find any trace of Renaldo’s gold, he slumped down in the sand, bracing his back against the trunk of a palm. He resolved to rid himself of the painful black shoes and go back to wearing his old ones. After dark, he would sneak to his camp, check on his boat, and then abandon La Perla for good. He pulled the new shoes off and tossed them away. As he’d thought, his hose were soaked with blood. Well, hell, most of the rest of him was bloody in one way or another. His hands were a mess, and his elbows and knees were scraped and bleeding from his having lost his footing among the rocks and fallen, which had also opened some of the half-healed scabs on his back. Added to that was the lump on his head where a rock had come loose and dropped on him, nearly knocking him out. To add insult to his injuries, he’d thought he’d found a part of the treasure. With the joy of expected gold, he’d come across a small wooden chest sitting in the shade of a large boulder. On top of the chest was painted a skull and crossbones, but not the death’s head design Renaldo used. He’d been cautious, not sure if the chest was bait set out by the colonists to trap him. He looked around and listened carefully, but saw and heard no one. Curiosity and greed got the better of him. To his fury and frustration, when he opened the chest he found no gold. Instead, he pulled and tossed about him a black neck-scarf with more death’s heads, a pewter tankard, a pair of earrings shaped like swords, several small bits of parchment decorated with what looked like tattoo designs, a narrow red and white striped sash with beaded fringe, a paper envelope which, when opened, held another slip of paper with writing, and, to Gray Dog’s mind, the only thing worth keeping—a small bottle with the bright parrot on it. He’d tied the rum bottle to his waist with the sash, pulled one of the small brass rings from his left ear and replaced it with one of the sword earrings, which he’d fancied, then abandoned the chest. All the while he kept wondering who would bother to hide such worthless trinkets. Between the apparent hostility of the land, and the disappointment over the false treasure, Gray Dog was sure the whole island was against him. It was as if Renaldo had laid some curse on it, that hid the treasure far better than any trap. He rested in the shade, taking sips from the rum bottle. Maybe it was as he’d first feared. He was in hell, doomed to look for the treasure for all eternity and never to find it. Even his notorious bad luck couldn’t be this bad. If God was all powerful, then surely so was the devil in his own realm. The colonists, the man he’d knocked on the head, the guard he’d killed, the mock treasure, all could be visions contrived to torment him. Even if he was dead, couldn’t the devil make him think he was still alive? If he wasn’t in hell, then maybe he should just give up, try and find a way to mainland Florida. It was what, ten, twelve leagues west? If he were lucky, he could retrieve his mast and oars and sail his boat. He might make it. He’d still be a penniless able seaman, but he’d be alive. He could wait for a ship, maybe sail back to England. Then he thought of the cold winters—aching joints, crawling hunger, pitiful tavern rooms. He was old for a seaman, and his abused body needed the warmth of the tropics to ease his many aches and pains. In the mild weather, even if you had to sleep rough, you wouldn’t freeze to death, or die of some congestion of the lungs. No, he could not go back to England. It would kill him. So he waited, drinking and dozing, until long shadows crept across the water, the air cooled, and the evening breeze stirred the palms. He rose unsteadily, and in his stockinged feet, hiked cautiously toward the spring. Yet again, his luck turned against him. Two men were posted, each with a cutlass. Silently, he retreated to his hiding place near the shore and finished the last of the rum, while he waited for night to smother the islands in darkness. Then he hurried across to La Perla, the salt water burning his blisters like acid, sure that watching eyes were boring into his back. He quickly put on his old shoes, checked the boat, which appeared to be unharmed, then stole back across the isthmus to the big island. He would have a better chance of avoiding capture on San Cristobal, where he couldn’t be cornered. Food and water were also going to be a problem. He still had his knife, and so far, no one knew what he looked like. If he kept his food hunting to the murderous hours between midnight and dawn, and if he were quick, he might be able to dart in, grab something, and if seen, be mistaken for a colonist. If someone did get in his way, well then, he thought, worse luck for them.

Which Lake of the Woods in the Northwest are you speaking of? There is one about an hour from us, in Grants Pass, OR, so if that's the one you mean, we're pretty close.

JT, do you really want to go there? LOL

I think at this point, no more exchanges will be done until event season is over...sometime around fall/Halloween. People are just too busy.

Hey, thanks, Mission, for finding that little trick. I've used it a few times lately.

Well, I happen ta love men without pants...in kilts, that is. I live a wee bit south of you, in So. Oregon. Welcome to the Pub. The more the merrier. We can always use another nutter who likes to wear odd clothes!

Alas, I have found that word to be rather illusive when it comes to artwork of any kind. But, since being artistic is in my DNA, I keep at it anyway. I suspect it is the same for you, especially when you are working on a labor of love.

Cost is why I like recycling broken bits of stuff, or finding costume jewelry at garage sales and redoing it into something new. And, now that people know what I do, they find things for me and send them my way. I do buy findings an the like, and crystals, but I try to wait until Michael's has a sale, or a coupon I can use before I go. My Etsy site is still in the growing stage, but I am selling things. The last item I put up on the site sold within an hour to a lady in Hawaii. That was kinda kewl. I made some nice business cards, so handing them out will help direct people to the site as well. I also realized I needed to lower some of my prices, which I did. And, I updated the shop description/introduction, because I had drifted away from vintage-looking things to more contemporary. I still do pieces with a vintage feel, but when I started working with wire, the vibe changed. I do intend to keep my pieces one-of-a-kind. I have to, considering how I get most of my material, and for me, that's also a selling feature. Bottom line, I'm having fun, and am currently getting stock together in order to have a Holiday jewelry party some time in October, and see how that goes, since there are no events even close to our area.

Ya know, I'm not pointing fingers at anyone, 'cause life is life, but...these cards are NOT High Art. You could do them in crayon if you wanted to. It takes maybe three or four hours to slap something fun together, and it's been two months. Plenty of time to take one day, one afternoon, or a couple of evenings to meet the deadline. It is a disservice to the artists who made the commitment and stuck to it. It is one of the reasons we state up front..."Don't sign up if you can't commit." Like I said, life is life, and stuff happens, but seriously, these cards are not meant to be fine art. They are not something you need to stress over, think about too much, or spend a lot of time on. They are meant to be quick, easy, and fun. That was the whole point from the beginning—a break from the art journals, which were much more involved, and took up to a year to complete the round. It just makes me sad to think of the artwork that those of us who completed the cards won't get to see.

Hope your birthday was grand, Rumba.

Outstanding work, as always, William. I like the little "sparky" skull as a tattoo. Maybe on the inside of the wrist? BTW, I had just watched Ariel and Trash last night. I love Trash. Makes me laugh.

I pop in once-in-awhile to read the journals. I think they are fun, and it's nice to read about, and see pictures from, events I'll never be able to attend. I'm with Brig. You need a "like" button.

Fletcher scowled at them, and shouted, "What a bunch of cowardly curs!"

One of the mutineers looked at his mates, cursed, and exclaimed, "Hell, no one said anything about us fightin' Frenchies!"