Major Thomas Beckwith

I, too, read the intro, and thoroughly enjoyed it. I'll be picking this one up as soon as it is released!

Major Beckwith arose and washed and shaved for the day. He mentally went over his duties for the day. He and one of his lieutenants were to take a detachment and ride to Fort Rupert to inspect the troops there, and discuss any pressing needs with the fort's officers. And of course, he was to have the honor of meeting with Henry Morgan and other government officials. He dressed and left his quarters, strolling along the upper decks of Fort Charles, looking out to sea. He felt his blood stir, and secretly hoped his meeting with Morgan would result in his being aboard a vessel of war, with the feel of the ocean under his feet...

"It is both my father's pleasure, and my own, sir. Tomorrow noon will be most agreeable, sir. Until then, I wish you good evening." Beckwith took his leave, and headed toward Fort Charles, as the hour was late. The streets were still lively with lads on shore leave looking to quench their thirst and slake their lust. As he neared Fisher's Row, he heard a loud, gruff voice behind him. " 'Ere, lookee, if it ain't a rich man's son, dressed like a dandy toy soldier, eh wot, lads?" This was followed by vulgar oaths and menacing movements from a group of several dock hands, armed with clubs and machetes. "What is the meaning of this?", Beckwith stormed. He pointed to a lad armed with a machete, the one who had spoken. "I demand an explanation!" "Well, yer honor, we jus' figgered ye had loose coin to donate. And, as yer just a dandy dressin' the part, we'll help ye ta give it over!" The man made a move towards Major Beckwith, raising his weapon. In an instant, Beckwith's cutlass was drawn, and, having fought many a battle aboard the confined quarters of an enemy gun-deck, quickly closed the distance between himself and his opponent. The thug hadn't expected so bold a move from his "prey", and swung his blade wide of his mark. It was just the error Beckwith had counted on. He parried a second attack, and swung his cutlass downward, catching the man across his ribcage. Shocked by the wound, the dock-hand paused, giving Beckwith an opening to hack into the man's beefy neck, severing his artery. The man fell to the ground, quickly bleeding to death. The remaining thieves hastily made their retreats. The ruckus had been overheard by the fort's roving foot patrol, who quickly arrived at the Major's side. "Corporal, do have two of your men fetch the coroner and some men to clean this mess." Major Beckwith calmly walked the remaining block back to the Fort, where he immediately retired to his quarters. He began to undress for bed, when he felt his hands begin to shake, as after every battle. He sat, and memories of past skirmishes flooded his mind. He could almost once again see the life leave the eyes of that French lieutenant off the coast of Africa. Or during the Battle of Solebay, where several Dutchmen fell to the bullets and bayonet of his musket. Dear Lord, the hole a lead ball could put into a man! Still half dressed, Beckwith fell into a fitful sleep, where he dreamed gunsmoke whirled about him, and saw the seas running red...

"Of course, sir..." Beckwith replied. There were ample stores at Fort Charles, more than would be needed, even if the Spanish WERE to attack. Morgan stood, bid his company a good evening, and made his exit. Beckwith turned to the man standing next to him, the same man who had made a fool of himself tripping in front of Morgan. "Come to Fort Charles tomorrow morning, before eight bells. You have the look of the sea about you, so I know you comprehend my meaning. I will outfit you with what weapons and supplies you find yourself needing. And, do take a bath, good fellow. I shan't care to meet with you in the company of His Majesty's men with you looking like the floor of a tavern, which, incidentally, you currently do. I wish you joy of your evening, sir." Beckwith nodded to lovely Colleen, back behind the bar, and made his exit. He headed over to High Street, avoiding the dock workers, vagrants, and a few drunken sailors, singing bawdy sea-songs at loud volume. He approached a certain house, and knocked quietly. The home's servant answered, and inquired to his business at this late hour. "I have urgent need to speak with the Admiral, my good man. Please tell him Major Beckwith calls on him." He was led into the parlour, as the man-servant walked down a hallway, and into the shadows. He returned a few moments later. "The Admiral will see you. Please follow me, sir." Beckwith entered the main living space, where he saw Morgan sitting near a table topped by a lit candle. One hand held a pipe, the other rested beneath a lap blanket draped over his knee. "Oh, it's you," Morgan said. "I'm not too surprised." "Aye, sir. I must apologize for calling on you at such an hour, but I think you will understand." Beckwith pulled a sealed letter from inside his coat, and handed it to Morgan. "Correspondence, from my father. I am not privy to its exact contents, but it is my understanding that it contains vital information concerning movements of Spanish troops throughout the Caribbean Sea. My father's business ensures his employees hear and see a great deal more than the common man might think." Morgan nodded, as if he had been expecting this secret dispatch. Beckwith watched as Admiral Henry Morgan broke the wax seal, pulled a packet of papers from the envelope, and began reading...

"Sir Henry, my sword is yours. I've led men in battle, both on land and at sea. It would be my honor to join you. My Marines also stand ready to fight. They are well trained in shipboard gunnery, land tactics, and are all excellent marksmen..." Beckwith looks over the few scraps of notes and charts Morgan has laid out. Hm, Portobello, Beckwith thought to himself... a fortune to be won, indeed. And glory for any who should risk themselves in this venture. A test of military skill, if ever there was one. And, a chance to finally prove his worth to his father.

"Admiral... we have not yet been formally introduced. My father, Sir William Beckwith, was a great supporter of your earlier campaigns. I have a letter of introduction from him. Sir William sends his regards..."

Sitting on the edge of lovely Colleen's bed, Beckwith buckled on his shoes and pulled on the shin-high leggings meant to keep the sand out of a Marine's shoes. Colleen stirred next to him. He wondered about the barmaid, one of the few women in town who was not a whore. "You've never told me, lass, how you came to be in Port Royal, all alone..." In a lilting Irish accent, Colleen O'Donnell explained: "Me da managed an estate in County Clare, and after me ma died, he had an offer to oversee a plantation in Virginia, in the colonies. We sailed from Galway, near to two an' a half years past, now. Our ship was damaged in a storm, and went down, me da with it. Meself an' a few of th' crew were blessed by th' Almighty an' saved by another ship, Jamaica bound. Tom Finne, th' owner of th' Three Crownes, took pity on me, an' gave me well-respectin' work. Someday, maybe, I'll get to Virginia. I was to be a maid for th' plantation owner's children. If ya don' mind me askin', Thomas, how does a Scotsman come to be in th' English service?" Beckwith stiffened. "My father found it more profitable to work with the English, rather than fight them at every turn. I find the same logic to apply. Prize money is abundant for officers of His Majesty's Sea Service. Perhaps I'll win my fortune in battle, and return home to Scotland one day. Until then, I'll serve honourably. That is all anyone needs know." Beckwith finished dressing, stood, and examined his uniform in the small mirror on Colleen's night table, a gift to her from Beckwith; he had taken it as a prize after he had led his men on a bloody boarding of a French warship. "Ya look fine, sir. Fine, indeed," Colleen pronounced, as she handed Beckwith his sword. Beckwith fastened the weapon to his frog, and headed for the door to Colleen's small, but neat, room. He paused, looking back. "The 'Crownes draws a lot of unsavory folk. Pirates and cut-throats. And word has it the Spanish may have spies about, planning an attack in retaliation for Sir Henry's exploits. Be careful, bonny lass. I'll call on you again, if it suits you?" Beckwith returned to the tavern, where he saw Morgan beginning to speak with several captains of the privateer ships. Beckwith joined the group, waiting to hear Morgan's plans, and awaiting any orders...

His blood stirred by Henry Morgan's words, Major Beckwith stepped from the church into the still, sultry night air. As he walked to the Three Crownes, he thought about the adventures lying ahead. Could he manage to be assigned aboard one of the English warships, to sail off into battle? All the drilling, all the practices; what good were they if one seldom put these honed skills to use? The Three Crownes was full of merry-makers, as was normal for this time of night. Beckwith caught the look of his sweetheart, Colleen O'Donnell, an Irish woman with sparkling green eyes. He paid for a round for the house, and raised his tankard in toast... "A drink for one and all, in memory of those who have fallen, and to English victory upon the sea! God Bless His Royal Majesty, King Charles!" Beckwith downed what would be only the first of many spirits that evening, although he kept in the back of his mind his duty to King and Country. He would not fail to be sober and at his appointed post in the morning.

It is an excellent resource. I've now read it twice. The thing I like, is that Mr. Little actually has tried out the techniques he writes about...

"The lovely Colleen can wait," Beckwith said to himself. Many good men, some aquaintances of his, had gone down with the Oxford. Major Beckwith stepped through the doors of St. Paul's, the first time he had been in a church in some time, and took a seat in the second row of pews, an honor he claimed due to his station. Beckwith looked about, on the faces slowly filling the church. Rich merchants, soldiers and sailors, and lowly labourers... all brought together by fate and tragedy. "An interesting place, Jamaica is turning out to be," thought Beckwith. As he took his seat, Major Beckwith caught a glimpse of the much heralded Admiral Sir Henry Morgan, terror of the Spanish Main. He must soon use his father's letter of introduction, and call upon the old buccanneer. "Very interesting, indeed..."

Sitting in his barracks room, at his desk, Major Thomas Beckwith, Royal Marines, sits and writes to his father, Sir William Beckwith, by candle light... Major Beckwith pauses, thinking of the circumstances which brought him to Port Royal, and to his current post as Commander of the Royal Marine Detachment, as well as Gunnery Officer of Fort Charles Battery. He thought back on his "dishonoring" a Lord's daughter in a London Inn, and his father's deal with Admiral Henry Morgan. If it weren't for his father's influence as a wealthy merchant, and financial backer of Morgan's exploits against the Spanish, would he now be sitting in this far English outpost in the West Indies? Likely not. And if it weren't for a sudden outbreak of dreaded Yellow Jack, which took the life of Fort Charles' Army gunnery officer, would he now have command of the fort's 38 guns? Perhaps, but not yet at his reletively young age of thirty years. Tired by the long day in the heat, Beckwith rubbed his eyes and set aside his correspondence. He stood, pulled on his scarlet coat, buckled on his sword, and exited his rooms. The private outside his quarters snapped to attention, and Beckwith returned his salute. Strolling across the parade ground in the center of the fort, he briefly inspected the neat stacks of iron cannon balls, noticing the corrosion just beginning to form. He'd have the sergeant of the guard form a detail to chip the rust, in the morning. Major Beckwith strolled up the stone steps and exited the fort, aknowledging the sentry posted at the gates. Beckwith stopped and stared at the small vessels anchored in Chocolata Hole, wondering what cargo they were off-loading, and where they would head next. Feeling thirsty, and craving companionship, he began the walk into town, passing Morgan's line, and St. Paul's. He thought briefly of the sailors killed in the harbour explosion, and removed his hat repectfully. Lovely Colleen O'Donnell would be serving tonight at the Three Crownes... Beckwith suspected he would sample her other wares tonight, as well. With that thought, he quickened his step...