CrazyCholeBlack

She stared at him for a long moment. His defeated posture more telling than the simple words he spoke. She bit painfully at the scabbed split in her lip. “No sir, you, I didn’t,” She faltered, unable to put her guilt into words. She closed the little space between them with a step. Her hand reached out wanting to lift his bright eyes to hers then hesitated, pulling back before any contact was made. “Please, let me explain.” The last was nearly lost as a bolt of lightening dodged across the dark sky, over lapped with the deep rumble of thunder.

Jane's hand jerked away from his arm, wrapping protectively around her already soaking coat. The coldness of his reply hurt more than the sharp wind that blew against them. “I said I was sorry.” Her voice could barely be heard over the howling storm. She shook her head, the impact of her choices collapsing around her. “I was a fool to leave.”

Hum, I always thought the carpenters were the ones to get pressed into Doctoring, not the other way around. Anxiously awaiting the rest of the pictures.

Jane knew her charade was pointless. The Anna Rae was unlikely to survive the storm secured to the docks. With the ship went any reason she had to continue pretending to be Charles Chole. The disguise was never meant to be a long term solution. It was her fear of change that kept it up longer than necessary. Her chest felt suddenly heavy as Striker bowed deeply before her. The move felt so final. She couldn’t tear her eyes away as he turned, striding purposefully towards the tavern door. The unbalanced stool toppled backwards as she hastened after the departing captain, ignoring the wondering looks from the crew. “Captain Striker” Jane caught his arm only a few steps outside the tavern entrance. Sheets of rain pounded into the thin layers of the suddenly uncomfortable work clothes, running in cold rivets down the back of her neck. “I, ah, um.” She stammered, unable to think of the words that would take them back to the intimacy of only a day earlier.

Nay Mr. Tar, that be Red Bull.

Again, I'm seriously easy to please. Taller. Every guy I've ever fallen for has bee 6 foot or taller. I'm taller & it's nice to hit a guy right about his shoulder height. Close cropped hair. Crew cuts are my weakness. Yes I have been known to stop total strangers just to do the bristle thing on a nice fresh hair cut. Simple clothes. Things like jeans & a t. Nothing fancy, nothing that looks like he had to *think* about what he's wearing. Lastly, spark. A sparkle in his eye, that little grin out of the side of his mouth. Does wonders for everyones looks.

“¡No aceptaré el fracaso!” Ulises roared between gritted teeth. His heavy arm pressed tightly against the crewman’s throat, the man’s face turned red with the effort of breathing. His hands scrambled for purchase, digging ineffectively into the furious Capitán arm. The other crewman lay behind them, a thickening pool of blood pouring from where a shot had ripped through his side. Dead eyes stared vacantly to the ceiling of the small room. The fools had let Striker’s woman escape. Rage burned in Ulises’ chest. He would see the girl gutted alongside the captain simply for the hassle she was causing him. Still he was certain she was the key to the Dane’s downfall. Ulises signed, dropping the man into a gasping heap on the floor. He kicked the still warm corpse at his feet as he passed. His sight drifted out the small window as an arch of lightening split the sky. Dark clouds filled the space above the city, curving over the horizon in a menacing manner. The crease in his tanned brown deepened. He had been so sure that luck was on his side only a few hours ago. Now it seemed everything was conspiring against him. “Me cago en Dios” he muttered. A lifetime on the water had taught him much about weather. The menacing winds, the swirling clouds, the sheets of rain, all indicated a severe tempest. This was the kind of storm that devoured ships without a care. He turned crisply, glaring at the crumpled man on the floor still struggling for air. “Vuelva al barco. Tómela alrededor del lado del Este de la isla. Espere tres días solamente. Entonces regresa al río y buscas para mi aqui. Comprende?”

The sudden clapping turned several heads around the rough table. Charles’ vision followed the others as a man appeared out of a dark corner, casually approaching the rowdy gathering. The stern figure was all too familiar. Charles swallowed hard, a shiver of panic shaking him to the core. His heart pounded loudly in his ears, his grip on the rough tankard tightened. The heat flooded his cheeks as the bright blue eyes locked on his own. Striker looked straight at him, looked straight through him. The recognition was undeniable. Charles was racked with guilt. Striker’s inquisitive eyes begged for answers, yet Charles couldn’t risk letting his masquerade slip around his crewmates. “Aye. Thank ye sir.” Charles could barely get the words out through his shaking voice. He lifted the mug to his suddenly dry lips, emptying the contents in one gulp, his gaze never dropping from Strikers. “Waitin’ out tha storm to are ye? Sit, ‘ave a drink on wot’s left o tha Anna Rae” The grinning face of one of the maintop men turned to Striker, gesturing with the full pitcher over the gathering.

“Ahoy Chippy!” “Lookie ‘ere. Mr. Chole has found ‘is way!” “Ben ta tha ship lad?” “Oi, cap’n got ye good thar didn ‘e” The voices ran together chaotically, echoing loudly in the startlingly quiet pub. He nodded at the rowdy bunch gathered round the rough wooden table. They laughed and jostled with each other, passing bottles of rum & pitchers of ale between them. A few coin hungry women leaned over the men or lounged in their laps. Charles pulled an unbalanced stool from another table, seating himself carefully to avoid falling. “Cap’n still in his cups when ye left lad?” One of the maintop men queried, his leathery hands busily roaming the soft curves of the woman on his lap. “Aye. ‘e’s gonna sinker fer sure when tha storm finally hits” Charles shook his head in disbelief. He had always known Fulton was a drunken fool, but even this was beyond him. Charles rubbed his temple in frustration, baffled by the captain’s sudden disregard for even his own life. “Well, wot bett’r place ta wait out a blow then someplace wif ale aye!” another crewman countered, raising his full mug to the cheers of the others gathered. The tavern keeper groaned as he set another pitcher of the thick brew in the circle of men. The graying man obviously wished the tavern was empty so he could focus on surviving the storm rather than catering to a bunch of sailors. “Favor us wif one o yer songs boyo” someone shouted to Charles, followed by a chorus of agreement. “Pass tha bott’l n’ I’ll think on it” He smiled, shoving one of the other men roughly on the shoulder. “Oi! A cup fer tha Chippy!” someone else hollered, pounding a fist on the cluttered table. A dented metal tankard was dumped unceremoniously on the tavern floor before being refilled with dark rum and passed to Charles’ waiting hand. The drink was emptied with surprising haste, any stray drops wiped on a torn sleeve. Work dirtied hands refilled the mug with ale, drinking deeply, letting the numbing drink take its hold. The nagging continued, off key lyrics sung in hopes of influencing his choice of song. Charles grinned at his crewmen’s persistence. His memory for songs was his one claim to fame aboard the ship. It was a talent that more than made up for his only passable carpentry skills. The table fell silent as the strong alto of Charles’ voice began to sing. “There's a lusty liquor which Good fellows use to take-a, It is distill'd with nard most rich, And water of the lake-a; Of hop a little quantity, And barm to it they bring too; Being barrell'd up, they call't a cup Of dainty good old stingo. 'Twill make a man indentures make, 'Twill make a fool seem wise, 'Twill make a Puritan sociate, And leave to be precise; 'Twill make him dance about a cross, And eke to run the ring too, Or anything he once thought gross, Such virtue hath old stingo.

aww, Captain, flattery will get you everywhere.

Charles wandered the streets absently as the day wore on. The sky was heavy with clouds, a demanding wind blowing from the ocean. He pulled the dirty grey coat tightly around himself as the gusts pushed at him. His mind was a chaotic jumble of thoughts. Striker, the Spanish, pirates, he couldn’t makes sense of any of it. All he knew was that the simple life he had become accustomed to since Joseph brought him onboard the Anna Rae had suddenly changed. He was wrenched out of his thoughts suddenly as an overloaded cart nearly knocked him into the dirt. Angry green eyes followed the horse drawn bed as it struggled under its heavy burden. Another followed quickly in its wake. Charles furrowed his brow, jostled where he stood by a throng of people carrying arm loads of personal possessions. Had the fire rekindled itself he wondered? Eyes turned upward as a bolt of lightening brightened the prematurely dark sky, jaw dropped in astonishment as he saw the growing storm for the first time. Sweat streaked palms were rubbed against worn slops, his heart racing. Something in his gut told him this was no ordinary storm. A boisterous roll of thunder jerked him out of his shock. Charles hurried through the tangled street, dodging the fleeting population as he reached the nearly vacant docks. The Anna Rae bobbed & weaved in her berth, shuttering with every forceful gust. He raced aboard the merchantman, stunned to find her a floating ghost. He stormed to the captain’s cabin, not bothering to knock before entering the stuffy space. “Fulton!” Charles hollered the crack of fear in his voice as another gust strained at the ship. “Wotta ye wan?” the slurred response came as the inebriated captain staggered from a dark corner. He stumbled as the ship pitched, catching himself on the edge of his desk. “Brin me more ruhm or ged out ye lout!” he bellowed suddenly, flinging the bottle at Charles. The carpenter ducked, the projectile shattering on the wall behind him. Cold green eyes glared at the drunkard, the final of his patience broken. “Yer a lousy drunk Fulton. Tha Anna goes down, I hope you go with ‘er” Charles spun sharply on his heel, storming from the ship with as much furry as the tempest around him.

“Very well gentlemen.” Triumph flooded Ulises’ chest. He could feel the hands of fate closing around Striker as he spoke. A satisfied curve lit his otherwise dark features. “I can be found here once the task is completed.” With out any further ceremony the Capitán rose. He nodded slightly to the matched faces before disappearing into the dimly lit Inn.

I always wondered why there were monkey's in a barrel. Of course! Because it was full of rum. I feel like six of these guys on a bad day.

I know I know! *waves hand wildly* It doesn't count if I saw Mistress Lilly's little oops a few posts ago though does it. It would be nice for the Archangel to be at Port Washington. It needs a much bigger pirate presence. Unfortunatly it's probibly not up to your standards from what I have seen. Still my crew of one will be there with bells on (figuratively).

But Sterling, isn't that exactly what etiquette is? Proper conduct that we observe without thinking. Things that we've had drummed into our heads and have drummed into our children's? We only have to think about it now because period eriquette isn't necessarily what we've learned in the 20-21st centuries.

“Guest” The word flashed in Charles’ thoughts as he turned from the rocking ship. Curiosity sparked in the back of his mind. He’d been so wrapped up in Captain Striker’s healing he had nearly forgotten that little tidbit. Why had Ioan called Killingsworth a guest? It didn’t seem like the proper term unless there was something else he had been hiding. Charles wandered across the broad dock to where one of the Anna Rae’s crew sat contemplating his pipe. The grey haired man raised the white bowl to him as he approached. Casually Charles leaned against a tall barrel next to where the older sailor stood. “Mr. Mercer. Ye been sailing fer a good long while. Yer tha kind ta know a thing or two aye.” ”Aye lad?” The wind swirled around the man, shifting in sudden gusts, sending the thin tobacco smoke in random circles above his head. “Ye ever heard o a ship call tha,” Charles screwed his face as if trying to remember the name. He didn’t want to give away more than the man needed in order to find his information. “Ray, Rakehell?” Bushy eyebrows knitted together, the wrinkled grey head shaking in disbelief. “Oh Lord boy, ye didn go gettin yer self mix up wif them pyrates did ye?” “Oh? Oh no sir. Jest heard tha name is all. Curious like. So I thought ta ask around. Ye heard o her?” “Aye lad. I heard o ‘er. N betwinst you ‘n me,” Mercer leaned forward, a conspiratorial whisper in his voice “I heard ‘er lady cap’n tried to buy off Admir’l Morgan wif a fancy French cannon. But he won’t have nothing ta do wif them pyrates. Oh No sir. ‘E’s a good man that Sir Henry. Won’t let none o them scallywags go takin oer tha city. Ye can’t go buyin’ yer way inta Port Royal, hear!” He ended his rant loudly, several eyes on the dock turning at the outburst. “Aye a good man. Thank ye sir” Charles clasped his crewman on the shoulder before leaving him to his tobacco.

Charles groaned, rubbing his blurry eyes. He had spent the better part of the evening prior chasing every stray spark that had fallen on the Anna Rae. His lungs ached at every breath from the acrid smoke. Captain Fulton had stubbornly refused to move the ship until every last crate was stowed. The task took twice as long as it should have. The crew was constantly stopped by wind tossed embers that threatened to set the entire ship ablaze. By the time the last crate had been secured, the main fire in the city had faded, the evening winds stilled. Charles cursed the foolish captain. The drunkard would do anything for a few extra coins, never mind the risks to ship or crew. Charles stood from his frayed rope hammock in the small room that served as both sleeping area & workshop. His hands reached over head, grasping the familiar beams as he stretched to his modest height. Squinting into the shadows he rummaged for well worn shoes, finding them buried under a random collection of tools and wood shavings. “Westing!” Charles bellowed, kicking at the sleeping lump huddled in a corner among odd scraps of wood, “’ey! Tell tha cap’n if ‘e feels like burning down tha ship ta find someone else ta patched ‘er up again aye. Now,” Charles yawned deeply “I’ve got me a pocket o’ coin n’ I plan ta spend it before we leave.” With that Charles slipped out of the stuffy space and found his way into the open deck. The wind had picked up sharply, pushing any lingering smoke inland. He took in a deep breath of the moist sea air. It felt good filling his lungs with the sweet scent. He loved sailing; it was the captain’s erratic, drunken behavior that he couldn’t stand. He rubbed his jaw where Fulton had caught him the day before. Sharp teeth bit absently at the red split in his swollen lip. It hadn’t been the first altercation Charles had with the captain. He knew he could only push so far without risking more than just a solid flogging though. The constant fear of discovery was the only thing that ever stopped him. As he walked towards the gangplank his green eyes wandered the choppy waters of the bay, searching for the polished galleon he knew wasn’t there. He cursed himself for leaving Striker’s side, cursed himself even more for thinking he had any other choice. Something in his gut told him that he was nearing the end though, at least of his time aboard the Anna Rae.

Cows Ransom, it really should fling cows. Hummm, wonder what it would do to that ship sitting why out over by the Hope River.

Well I was going to suggest something to do with her hands (needlework etc) but hanging onto a fellow would work too. Kass, what do you mean by "don't pull the neckline over the shoulders"? You mean off the shoulders right? Great pic Foxe.

oh oh, I love guessing games. *ponders all the great stuff that Kass could be working on*

I'd be happy to blend. Though I can't managed to blend in daily life. Don't know I'd be any better back then either.

oh I look forward to it. Have a title etc? I've been thinking about the instinctive response that we (well, I) have in any situation and trying to think about how that response would have been the same/different were I from the period. Little things like holding a door for someone, hat removal, bows etc. I was reading the list of etiguette rules set out by George Washington (after GAoP) and that's what got me thinking. There were a few things in his list that didn't even occur to me as "to do" and some that I remember learning from childhood. and Red Cat, that's an interesting point. I've always seen it as pyrates were stepping out of one society and joining another. But some of the social rules they were raised with would certainly filter through without them even noticing. Like me, I can be the biggest dreadlocked hippie but I still say thank you when a server fills my water glass at a resturant. Heck most of the time I don't even notice I'm doing it. I figure if I know proper etiquette then I can make the choice about what parts I let slip.

yes Kass, but it does no good if you don't find any *pictures* of the ladies that should be wearing those mantuas now does it. I could probibly reconstruct each of the mens coats in my sleep but have yet to see a picture of the front of your dress, hint hint.

I've been wondering about etiquette during the GAoP. How similar is it to modern etiquette, what important details are different? Good resources? Big mistakes to avoid? Anyone care to discuss or am I the only one that thinks of these random things during my daily life?

Now how'd ye get the words right out o me mouth there Matt? Either way, wellcome to tha pub Scarlett Morgan. Tis nice ta see more o tha land locked pyrates around. Though I supose I'm more in the river pyrate designation me self, tis nothing like being on the big saltys thats fer sure.