The Watch Dog

[Silkie McDonough]

Aboard the Watch Dog

When the call went up for the Starboard watch to ease the ship away from the docks Murin McDonough slowly drew in a deep breath; she should be with her crew. Not that the captain would allow her to work, he had relieved her of duty until her hand was healed. It itched without pain; a sigh that her mother had told her long ago likely meant it was healing. She gazed at the void that was her hand outlined by the light filtering through the thin cracks around the door. Bringing it down to her lap she rubbed gently over the bandage covering the wound with the thumb of her right hand .

She was remminded of the ugly scar that had been branded into the palm of John Sterling’s hand, “M” for murdering a slaver who had been abusing a slave, would that they had simply branded Aiden for the murder of the English soldier who had been abusing him. She hugged herself and rocked with the sway of the ship. John was English, his father a man of title and wealth, Sterling had “birth right” even though it was grudgingly accepted as his, Aiden had been Irish and had no rights. No. Again she halted her thoughts, it was not that simple. Murin leaned forward rubbing her forehead and eyes with her right hand trying to push away the thoughts that clouded her reason. She was learning that this war was fare more complicated than it had seemed in Ireland, that the line between friend and foe was not always clear. Those men who were loosing their lives for this war were pawns fighting at the behest of leaders who were controlled by greed, men who somehow placed themselves above others with power that was paid for with the lives of the unknown whom they considered unimportant people. Aiden, Finn, and any number of the men from the prison were expected to give their lives …for what, for protection, from what, oppression?

Even the men of power that touched her life directly, Captain William Brand and Captain John Starling had to bow to these warring powers. Why? Miss McDonough thought on the two captains. If times were different, if their lives had been played out otherwise she was sure the two would have been friends. John was English only by birth but he sailed to provide for himself, his family and his crew. William, who sailed to provide for himself and his crew, was no longer English but had he been given a choice? She wondered about Captain Brand’s life, the rumors that surrounded him and what set him on the side of the French. Did he have an allegiance to the French or was he simply was against the English. She pondered that thought for a moment. It was clear that he and Captain Lasseter served none save the WatchDog and her "fleet". Was this allegiance to the French a necessary evil rather than a preference, perhaps the lesser of two evils? Miss McDonough was suddenly vividly aware of how small her world had always been. No more. She vowed that if she were allowed to live beyond the next few days she would learn all she could of the world.

[Red Cat Jenny]

Near St. Pierre

Pinaud examined the fine crystal of the goblet he had just drained. It's cut and color were an intricate design, held just so with his smallest finger extended. But his thoughts were far from the appreciation of the vessel's beauty and deeper within the intricacy of his own design.

His own plans, which were crafted with as much skill, concentration and attention to detail as the artisan who worked the patterns deep into the crystal of the glass he held. The plantation owner now absent from the room, could not possibly know that it was only the appearance on the surface he had seen, which covered more than he would ever care to know. Fontainelle's face turned sour and he toasted Martin Garaud, now gone from the room, in a most unhealthy manner. "Long life Monsieur Garaud...for as long as you are useful"

He drained the tiniest dregs left in the glass and turned to stare out at the harbor below.

[Maeve O'Treasaigh]

“Maeve?” The chirurgeon turned from the gunport window to look at Briar. “Have you seen Mandrake? I haven’t seen him. Is he running about the ship?”, she inquired.

Miss O’Treasaigh’s face fell slightly and she clasped her hands together tightly in front of her. “No”, she explained slowly, looking BriarRose in the eyes, her own full of apology. “It was the Captain’s decision not ta take the cat onto his ship, and I didn’t argue the point seein’ as how it’s his ship… and thought it a small accession ta make for the price of escape and freedom”. Treasure looked up from her book, taking silent interest in the conversation. Maeve could feel her eyes on the both of them now. Miss Kildare’s face was suddenly alight with indignation. Her mouth fell open several times, Maeve thought to argue, but finally, she said nothing as she sat down on a pair of stacked crates in the surgery.

After a time Briar finally said one word. “Why”, she asked, looking at Maeve with slightly watery eyes. Maeve’s feelings of guilt grew deeper in that moment. “Awe Briar I’m sorry. I didn’t think it a very serious matter what with only knowin’ the little thing for a handful of days. You weren’t here ta ask…and as I said, he's the Captain and I didn’t feel it appropriate ta argue over such a thing with him what with him bein’ ma new employer and all…”, her voice trailed off. She wanted to put an arm around her friend but thought that maybe she would need a little space.

Miss Tribbiani spoke up. “If it helps”, she ventured carefully, “there are several cats already on board, and most are friendly. I also have a dog, Argus, that the Captain was kind enough to allow me to bring aboard”, she said. BriarRose face seemed to darken more at her words. “ He’s currently on probation at the moment… I could lose him at any time”, she added quickly as she realized that having the Captain allow her pet on board and not Miss Kildare’s would wound the woman all the more. “He’s a good pup and will be a friend to you too if you let him”, she finished, smiling hopefully.

Miss Kildare managed a wan smile at Treasures words, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Though her displeasure was not leveled at Miss Tribbiani, she couldn’t bring herself to give the woman more than that. After a moment, she stood, not voicing her thoughts allowed. “Well…we still have a lot of things to unpack and arrange”, she said quietly, and began again to do just that.

[BriarRose Kildare]

BriarRose turned away from the two women and continued to unpack their belongings. She was a bit upset by the loss of Mandrake, but realized it was for the best. She had more important things to concentrate on at the moment. As she was unpacking a trunk of books, she felt Maeve’s hand upon her shoulder. “I am sorry Briar for needing to let Mandrake go.” Briar turned to her friend and spoke, “It tis alright Meaeve. Perhaps once we reach our new destination I can find me another pet.” Smiling now with a mischievous glint in her blue eyes she continued, “You never know, mayhaps next time it will be a monkey.” Maeve laughed at her friend knowing full well Briar’s dislike for such filthy creatures. With that, BriarRose laughed also as she turned to stack the books neatly upon a wooden shelf

[Pew]

Aboard the Lucy

Preston watched for a time as the longboats headed to shore. He opened the logbook at the binnacle and noted the missing members of the Lucy's crew.

"Coipman, Black, Howard, Aretinson, Millet, Leigh, unaccounted for"

He waited a moment longer for the ink to dry. As he looked to larboard, several small craft made their way towards the Lucy.

"Patrick, fetch 's th' spyglass eh?" Preston asked slowly. The young boy retrieved it and handed it to the Ship's Master. He drew the object to his eye and watched carefully.

"MISTER BROCKE" Preston called without removing the glass.

"Aye sah!"

"I'd like y'r best shot atop th' mainmast, an' two more in th' bow, we 'ave vessels on approach."

"Aye sah!"

[Dorian Lasseter]

The Admiralty House

St. Pierre

Martinique

Captain Lasseter was not about to start this evening off with a duel. He counted to five in his head before speaking and was glad to see Mister Flint was keeping silent as well, even after the way Monsieur LeClerc had answered him, with just a shrug.

“Juge Richet… we have business with you before the rest of my officers arrive. Might we seek your audience alone?”

The Judge blinked and a slight smile played on his lips.

“Gaston, Lieutenant LeClerc, please find yourselves comfortable in the parlor.”

His nephew gave a short bow and did as asked, the Lieutenant stood a short time and looked at the Captain and Master-at-Arms, sizing them up it seemed.

“Lieutenant LeClerc, s'il vous plait…”

The tone of the Judges voice was not a pleasing one, and LeClerc bowed his head and walked slowly out, never taking his eyes off the two men.

“You must forgive the Lieutenant, he… the conflict has effected him.”

Dorian remained silent until the servant closed the doors to the office.

“These are troubled times Juge Richet, And I understand the effects of war on a man. I’ll take no offence, this time. Now-“

Richet cut off the Captain, his whole demeanor changing from the affable host to the official.

“You have come to me with some business, no? I am pleased you come to the point quickly, no prancing around I see.”

He had moved to his desk and taken some papers from a pile on his desk and placed them in front of himself as he sat. Captain Lasseter noticed they were the letters he had written for introduction to the Judge.

“Aye Monsieur… to th’ point… but first a thank you for receiving us openly.”

Dorian took the bottle of wine from his satchel and presented it to Richet who upon reading the label raised his eyebrows.

“Excellent vintage Capitaine… Mercy… Mercy Beaucoup…”

Dorian bowed at the graciousness of the man. Standing tall he also changed his demeanor.

“I come to your port in search of some men, as you already know from my letter of introduction. Understand I am not seeking help, just cooperation. I would think the garrison would take up the cause of finding these men, but I believe if they searched actively they might cause the men to seek deep cover. By no means do I wish to usurp any authority, as in truth, I have none outside the boundaries of my ship. Mister Flint, my Master-ta-Arms and the dozen marines of the Lucy would do a subtler method of finding these men. This will not be likened to a band of Vikings raiding a town, causing mayhem in search of treasure. As a point of fact, if we do not find whom we are searching for by noontime tomorrow, we are to believe they made good an escape from the island, and cannot further remain, poking haystacks with pitchforks. Soon the Frigate to which the Lucy is consort shall arrive and hopefully more knowledge of recent happenings gathered. That is all I ask, some cooperation in capturing these men.”

Richet let Dorian talk all the while paying rapt attention. When the Captain had finished, the Judge slowly nodded, looked again at the papers and back to Dorian.

“You ask more than you think, Capitaine… You sent a letter to the Commandant also. He will wish to make a show of hunting these… Dutchmen, oui? Commandant Depaul is already requesting that I and the other Juges send for more men and assemble the milice to beat the countryside for these Dutchmen. He will not be happy to turn over that much control to you and your men. I would hold you to your honour and allow it, but it is not all up to me, don’t you see… I will recommend that Lieutenant Martin and his men accompany your marines since they are already engaged with you. I do not know if I can do more.”

Dorian looked at Bill, who did not show much emotion weather he liked the proposition or not. While the words rolled around in his head, Dorian took a sip of his brandy. If this was the best he could expect, so be it.

“Mercy, Juge Richet… I hope that is what might be accomplished, that kind of cooperation. I am only concerned with the capture of these men, weather by my own or those of the garrison matters not. “

A knock at the door halted their dealings and a young French marine officer was allowed in. He saluted Richet, handed over a parcel, saluted again and marched out. Richet opened it immediately after reading the script on the outer cover. He read quickly and furrowed his brow.

“It seems I was right about the Commandant, he has already acted after a fashion. He has turned out his men to search all the shipping in the port, to see if they have any passengers that might be these Dutchmen.”

This did not sit well with the Captain, nor with Mister Flint and it showed on their faces.

[William Brand]

August 4, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog

"A veritable Salūqī on the water." William mused aloud.

"Sah...?" Jim warren returned from where he stood with the Steward and Coxswain, for not only was the Ship's Master unfamiliar with the Arabic breed of hounds, the word veritable struck him as archaic.

William laughed a little to himself. "Nothing, Mister Warren. Carry on."

Jim did exactly that, and continued his interaction with Mathew Campion and Tudor Smith. He plied them on their understanding of the various instruments employed for charting and navigation. Jim fully expected Mister Campion to be the better navigator of the two, but in this he was mistaken, for tudor held her own when it came to understanding. Jim was surprised, but kept his curiosity in check. However, Mister Campion was very forthright about the matter and made repeated attempts to lure Miss Smith's past away from her.

William just listened on from his place at the rail while watching the passing topography of the island alter under his gaze.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Saint Pierre, Martinique

Upon reaching the shore and walking through the town of Saint Pierre, Mister Tucker, the Boatswain took charge of the group and began searching the town for a shop that would fit their needs. He kept a hand on his pocket where the pouch of specie lay. Monsieur Doublet walked at his side, pointing and telling ‘Lucky Tuck’ the English equivalent of what the signs read. Mister Wenge and Miss Ashcombe walked behind and were hemmed in by Misters Jameson and Whiting. In short time they came to an establishment that catered to what could be described as the ‘gentleman sailor’, the clothing in the window were cut sailor fashion, yet with a finer fit and finish. Doublet translated the signboard that hung above the door; Henri Tayleure, established 1683. Tucker confidently stepped forward and grasped the doorknob and pushed the door open and walked in to the establishment. Four of the six entered, leaving the two marines of the Lucy standing outside the door, looking all the more like sentries to the shop.

At the Admiralty House

Judge Richet noted the looks on the faces of the privateer captain and his master-at-arms.

“A moment, gentlemen… I shall see what might be done.”

Dorian gave a shallow bow and he and Mister Flint stepped out of the office. As the servant closed the doors, Captain Lasseter saw the Admiralty Judge writing, his quill fairly vibrating across the page and a determined look upon the man’s face. As they walked towards the parlor, Dorian raised an eyebrow to Bill.

“I think there be some folks at loggerheads ‘round here… Judge Richet is more displeased with this Depaul then he let on. I believe I’ll be countin’ on Richet as an ally fer th’ moment…”

Bill Gave a noncommittal nod back. As they entered the parlor they both noticed someone missing. Lieutenant LeClerc was not there. The Judges nephew stood as they approached and gave a weak smile. Captain Lasseter entertained the notion and smiled back before speaking.

“Monsieur, where is Lieutenant LeClerc, if you know?”

Gaston wrinkled his brow and began to shrug his shoulders.

“il a été appelé à la garnison…?”

Dorian heard a growl start in Master Flint’s throat. He waved Bill off and smiled at Gaston, bowing his head as a thank you before turning away. He walked across the parlor, Bill in tow. Once they were near the door he stopped and turned to his officer.

“I wish I had not sent that letter to the Commandant, had I known the reaction he’d have. Now this LeClerc appears ta be involved and I likened him not a wit.”

He sighed a heavy sigh and closed his eyes a moment. Looking back at Mister Flint he smiled.

“And these be our allies… “

[Silkie McDonough]

Aboard the Lucy

Ben felt at ease as he slid the turks head over his beefy hand. He had relaxed while his mind was preoccupied with the winding of the cord into the decorative knot work. His chosen task complete his mind again roamed about the ship. Scanning the deck he could not ignore the French soldiers watching over the ship and her crew. This “friendly” port thus far had been anything but. Again he questioned his decision to abandon his loyalty to the country of birth. He reminded himself that when the Lucy departed this port they would have the freedom that had lured him away. He hoped that other ports would be more welcoming.

As Quigley's thoughts focused on the next length of line in his hands he felt a presence watching him. He looked up, the man before him stood a head taller than him this was no surprise, Ben was not tall. He was clean shaven. The hair on his head was straight, thick and dark brunette. Few wisps of straight hair moved about his head with the sea breeze, the length of it, tied at the nape of his neck with a soft leather thong. He was dressed in clothes only a few days old, as were the others in the crew that had been granted freedom recently. Ben recognized the man from more than his clothes. They had faced each other in one of the unsanctioned after dark fights a few of the guards at the Port Royal Prison had force inmates into.

The two had stood in the courtyard facing each other the brightness of the full moon like daylight to men kept in the dark of the prison. Ben knew, as did everyone within the prison, that winning meant a slightly better life within prison but both refused to initiate the fighting. Quigley had made it a practice to never throw the first blow and clearly nor would this opponent. The guards pushed the two at each other several times tauning them, attempting to goad the two into a fight. Neither would let their anger rise. The guards became exceedingly irritated, the bets they had made were being argued over. Their demands becoming louder and more physical. Ben and his intended adversary became almost docile in their determination not to allow these guards, these men who held the power, these men who carried weapons, who controlled life within this prison the satisfaction of a match between equals. The battle they had wagered on, bet high stakes on, would not happen. After over twenty minuets of unsuccessfully attempting to force the men to brawl the guards, furious at these prisoners whom had in the past proven themselves skillful at defending themselves, lead them back to the cells. Whipping, kicking, pushing them to the ground, forcing them into the walls and tripping them down the stairs to the lower level. Neither raised fist towards each other, they would deftly avoid as many as the blows the guards lay upon them but still, they would not raise a hand to each other.

They paid dearly for that night, kept for a few weeks in the bad air of the darker, damper lower cells. Feeding upon whatever unknown substance was spooned into their bowls, drinking the foul water provided them as punishment. If the guards did not hunger to see them fight again they may have been left there. Had either a lesser constitution he would likely have perished there. Each had several bouts after that night with other inmates. Ben would laugh often thinking back on it, even the bruises and cuts administered by the guards had not dampened his mood afterwards. He heard light laughter in the darkness that night and knew it had been his intended opponent.

Francis Thomas Roundtree held out his hand and smiled at Ben. “Roundtree.”

“Quigley” Ben Replied a broad smile splitting his face, the two grasped wrists as old friends whom had been long apart.

[William Brand]

August 4, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog

Eight bells of the Afternoon Watch. First Dog Watch begins.

Eight bells rang aboard the Watch Dog and William was content to send down no more orders than a change of the watch. The Starboard watch gathered to their rum rations while the Larboard watch scattered to their duties. William noted that several men of the prison looked worn, they being conditioned to the idleness of incarceration, but complaints were not heard from any apart from a groan here or there in their efforts.

Simon Dunwalt took some of the able seamen in turn and questioned them like captives on every tool and procedure. He gestured at every part of the great guns with the end of his unlit pipe, an affectation so near to Petee that William smiled.

This smile was short lived, for an outcry came then from the Starboard rail. Moses MacTigue had caught his hand up in a line as it played out and the flesh had been cruelly stripped from a finger. It proved to be a bloody injury, though not an uncommon one for hands.

Larboard Watches on Duty

[Dorian Lasseter]

Admiralty House

Saint Pierre

Just as Mister Flint was about to speak, a bell was heard. Both men of the Lucy watched the one servant head back into the office of the Judge and close the door behind him. Moments later he reappeared with a folded and wax sealed letter and hurried off down the hall. They looked at each other and back to the door, wondering what might happen next. Dorian took a wet of his brandy and swirled the rest in the glass. What seemed like minutes passed and Monsieur Richet himself opened the doors of his office quickly, looked about and spied the two men. He smiled a firm smile and briskly walked towards them. He was all business. He held out a freshly penned document.

“Capitaine, Monsieur Flint… I give you this authority… You will have Lieutenant Martin and his men at your disposal to find this Dutchman. You have the authority to search – within reason- anywhere in Saint Pierre. Present this to the Lieutenant, who should be just outside, and gather your men. Time is of the essence, I invite you back for supper tomorrow and you may tell me what you have found.”

Dorian took the document and glanced it over, noting the seal and ribbon attached at the bottom. He bowed to the Judge who returned the gesture.

“Mercy Juge Richet, I appreciate your candor in all this and we shall be honoured to return the next evening.”

“Oui, until then I bid you Adieu.”

The Judge bowed again and smiled a genuine smile and returned to his office, leaving Captain Lasseter and Master Flint in the hallway alone save for a servant near the parlor. Dorian held up the parchment to Bill.

“Time is of th’ essence…”

“Aye Sah!”

They headed down and through the main doors and just as the Judge said, there stood Lieutenant Louis Martin. As they approached the Lieutenant snapped a salute to Captain Lasseter.

“The coach is waiting, and I have already sent a man down to the wharf, we shall have a boat waiting to bring our men ashore, sir.”

Dorian stood a moment and blinked twice.

“Very good Lieutenant, let us be away.”

“Oui, Capitaine.”

[Red Cat Jenny]

Le Magasin De Henri Tayleure - St Pierre, Martinique

"The Shop of Henri Tayleure"

As they stepped into the shop, the men spread about combing through tables laid with stockings, breeches and shirts. On the right of the shop were coats long and short resembling the one worn proudly by the tailor's form in the window. Nearby on pegs, belts and sacks covered one wall.

Just beyond lay a small dressing table with a framed glass and men's wigs, plain in style, sitting upon forms.

The shop smelled of wool and the wax used to bring the impressive shine to it's fixtures and planking. Miss Ashcombe settled in a chair to wait for the men, some of whom had already made their way to the dressing room. She hoped there would be enough time for her to make her own purchases. Glancing at the clock above the clerks desk every so often while they went about the business of selecting clothes suitable for the evening's visit. She resolved not to worry herself and instead let her eyes wander over all the acoutrements of a sailor and ocassionally out the shop window to the others beyond.

[Pew]

Aboard the Lucy

The few longboats on approach turned out to be nothing more than merchants and fishmongers peddling their wares to a new craft in the harbor. A sight it must have been to attempt to sell the day's catch to a compliment of sailors with muskets bearing upon you.

The craft came and left with nary a good being purchased save for a rumpled sack of fruit and a fresh breadfruit cake. Preston sampled the cake amidships as Patrick Godfrey fetched him a mug of rum to wash down the dry dessert.

He passed it on to Loren Brant, who in turned passed in on again, until nearly everyone on watch had a sampling. Most tastes were met with approval until Tjaak Cuylemburch spat it onto the deck and cursed it's cook in his own language. Muttering something in Dutch he hurried below deck. The crew laughed; apparently the cake did not meet muster for the Cook's Mate.

Preston noted the craft briefly in the logbook before watching the small boats make rounds o the other vessels anchored just offshore. His eye moved to the cloud cover rapidly approaching the town of St. Pierre. Small wavelets and some crests began to appear atop the harbor closer to shore as the wind gained strength.

"Mister Brocke."

"Aye sir."

"Have th' men fetch th' tarred canvas an' rig 'er up. I have a feeling we may b' seeing a bit o' rain this eve."

"Aye sir."

____________________________________

Navigation Log of the Lucy:

Direction: At anchor, bow facing E

Speed: At rest

Wind: Easterly gusts, two points off the bow

[Silkie McDonough]

What had she done?! Murin McDonough would have been pacing if the size of cable tier would allow it. As it was she would take just three steps before reaching the limits of her prison. Her thoughts shot around inside her head bouncing off the confines of the dark room. How could she have been so foolish? She hadn’t betrayed the captain the crew or France despite all appearance but she could not prove that. What guarantee could she offer but her word that the enemy would not pursue them? Every ounce of the composure she had mustered in captain Brands presence had melted from her as she was left with her own thoughts. She began to shake in fear. What have I done? What have I done! She would never bring harm to the Watch Dog but who would believe her? Perspiration beaded on her forehead. May the gods protect me! she crossed herself, as Catholics do, in contradiction to the words that flitted through her mind.

She stopped abruptly. John! Oh God! Had Captain Brand inform the French authorities of his presence? Was he safe? She should have kept silent, let the knowledge of John Sterling’s presence in Martinique stay behind with him, told no one. Had she done that she would be the only one concerned about any of this. She would not need to worry if John was still free in Martinique due to her divulging it to others, not have to worry what wrath captains Brand and Lassater would face from the French, not worry that their view of her had been tarnished and would not be locked in this blasted room! Her shoulders dropped with the weight of her thoughts. Oh God.

Suddenly the clatter wood against wood pierced her relative silence and startled Miss McDonough when her foot kicked the bowl from her afternoon meal into the door. She gasped and dove after the sound. Grasping in the dark her fingers just missed it flipping it once again in the dark. Panic rose in her. She pulled the bowl to her as if holding it tightly had silenced it. Dropping to the floor she crossed her legs before her and began to rock back and forth. Unruly curls clung to the beads of moisture around her hairline the air in the room becoming heavier. The womans anxiety rose and her thoughts continued their downward spiral. Any credibility she had with the captains was gone. She had worried since she had been brought aboard the Watch Dog that somehow she did not measure up to the men, that she was not pulling her weight and she had worked hard proving herself, now it was all for naught. Little would be remembered of that after this, it was in comparison, very unimportant. She crossed her arms in front of her hugging the bowl to herself and continued to rock starring into the darkness on the inside of the door. I’m a dead woman …dead. Did I survive these past year’s of hardships only to be hanged from the yardarm for treason?

Murin McDonough rocked in the darkness; time stood still dread closed in on her. Her mind begged to escape but could not free itself from the darkness and began to turn in again on her black thoughts. Even as she sat in the cell in Ireland awaiting whatever arbitrary decision the magistrate might have made she did not fear for her life for there she was a woman and that alone allowed some leniency but here, on the Watch Dog where the captain viewed men and women equal in their work she would not be afforded the same. Not that it much mattered if the verdict was treason she would pay as any for that crime. With no thought given, her hand rose to rest at her neck.

[William Brand]

August 4, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog

The threatening clouds were observed equally aboard the Watch Dog, and while William and the recent prisoners of the fort did not seem to mind the inevitable change of weather, Marinus Olyslaeger had had his fill of the stuff with so much recent rain and he said so. Hans Leerman reminded him that it was 'better to have rain than no wind', and got an elbow for his imparted wisdom, but in good humors.

In the galley, Jack Roberts was taking his first full reprieve from the Bosun since coming aboard, and with the changing of the watch, he was making himself know to the cook. This introduction served several purposes, for it most certainly placed him nearer the finer things of the ship, but it was Jack's nature to be openly favorable to his fellows, and as he and Lazarus proved to be of very similar temperaments, and as both of them came from good English stock, they conversed about the place with ease while Lazarus passed out rations.

Tudor stood hard by and watched this interchange with only a passing interest as she attended to the duty of overseeing the distribution of rum. This duty was unique of late, for she had noted a politeness not known before among the crew. Of course, this formal gratefulness existed only among the new recruits, and would probably fade over the next few weeks, but she was glad to see so many offer Lazarus a thankful smile or a word as they went in turn past the galley door.

It was while she attended to this daily duty that she felt the unique uneasiness of being observed. As Steward, she was used to being watched, generally under the auspicious eye of the Captain himself, but this was different. Content to do her work and do it well, she seldom paid attention to the peripheral or trivial happenings of the day to to day, but she now felt that she had found herself under the glass of an observing 'enemy'. It was a strange feeling to be sure, especially aboard the Watch Dog. It came like a prickling of goose flesh and she would have dismissed it altogether, but no imaginings of her own had proceeded it, so she could not easily explain it away. Not being particularly superstitious herself she was tried to set it aside, but even as unreal as it seemed it was too real in the moment. She turned her head to find the source of this unexpected and disconcerting twitch on the hairs of her neck to find Harry Saltash smiling at her from his vantage point on the deck.

Harry Saltash stood part way down the deck of the frigate on the Larboard side. He was busy securing lines at the gallows under instruction from Mister Badger. He was standing in profile, but his face was turned toward Tudor and he looked at her with a familiarity that Tudor liked not at all. There was something in the eyes more than the subtle smile, and the look was not improved by his looks, for he was not fair. In that moment he looked like an unfamiliar and unfriendly dog in someone else's yard.

Tudor returned his gaze with the even look of one who has faced down her share of men and monsters. Saltash was new enough to be unaware of Tudor's place, for while he knew that she was the steward, he had not seen her storm the Maastricht. Harry had been aboard the Heron at the time, and was not witness to her bravery. It was this steely look of calm that she rewarded him with, but he seemed more pleased by it than rebuked.

"Mind y' work there, Saltash!" Jacob yelled, interrupting the strange interchange. Jacob yelled almost directly into the man's ear, but Saltash did not jump as most were wont to do.

Slowly, casually, Harry Saltash returned to his work, as did Tudor, but not before she marked the man in her mind.

Larboard Watches on Duty

[Maeve O'Treasaigh]

Two figures suddenly bustled in through the door of the surgery. Simon Dunwalt led a grimacing Moses MacTigue into the presence of the chirurgeon and her companion. Maeve was honestly surprised to have yet another injury so soon but recovered herself quickly as she moved forward immediately to address the two men.

“What’s happened here”, she asked calmly. It took effort, but she’d realized early on that rising to the emotions and panic felt by those in the situation never, ever helped.

“A rope injury ma’am”, Simon volunteered, even as Maeve carefully took Moses’ hand to try and inspect it through all the blood. Before she could turn to ask, Briar said that she would fetch a bucket of water right away. Treasure stood up quickly from where she was and offered her place for Moses to sit down as the cabin was still crowded and unorganized with personal items and the items the captain has generously bribed Maeve with. As Dunwalt led the injured man to sit down, Maeve inquired after his name. “Moses MacTigue”, he offered through gritted teeth. The chirurgeon began asking Moses questions about the injury and how it had happened. He explained as she searched for and found some rags. Miss Kildaire was back in an instant with a small bucket of fresh water which she placed, without comment, next to Maeve and the injured man.

“Alright now, let’s have a look at that hand”, she said, taking Moses’ hand carefully and wiping away the blood with a sopping wet rag. The extent of the injury quickly became apparent. The skin on the index finger of his right hand was completely torn from the second knuckle and bunched up around the tip of his finger. He proved to be a good patient, allowing his face to register pain, even as he held relatively still while she worked. The next part would prove more challenging. Behind her, Treasure and Briar looked on, unintentionally crowding her, so she gave them tasks. “Briar, could ya find and bring my suturin’ supplies ta me? And Treasure, please look in that box over there”, she said pointing, “and bring me the bottle of rum in it”. Both ladies kindly acquiesced.

“Well Miss?”, Moses asked. “’Ow bad is it? M’ I goin’ ta loose it?” Worry surfaced through a mask of controlled pain. The chirurgeon shook her head. “No sir, ya won’t be losin’ the finger. It’s just goin’ ta be tender for a good long time and won’t be pretty anymore is all”, she said with a reassuring smile. Maeve turned to Simon then. “If ya don’t mind, I’ll need ya ta help keep ‘im steady while I’m stitchin’ him up alright?”. It wasn’t a question that she expected him to answer. She simply expected him to comply, and he seemed willing enough.

Treasure returned with the rum which Maeve offered to Moses and encouraged him to drink generously. Briar came over to her side with the needed supplies. Maeve smiled at her friend and then rolled her eyes up meaningfully towards Treasure, who again stood behind her, hovering. Without a word, Briar implicitly understood her and rose, asking Treasure to help her finish unpacking their things.

Maeve prepared her needle and thread slowly, not to torture her patient, but to give the rum time to enter the man’s systems. She spoke lightly, asking Moses general questions about himself; and while she wasn’t truly interested in the answers, it allowed her to engage with her patient in such a way that she had an easy excuse to look into his eyes and wait for them to begin dilating. From experience, she knew then that the alcohol was doing its trick and it was time to start. As she began to manipulate ravaged skin and tissue and start the first stitch, Maeve also began to hum a tune.

[Pew]

Aboard the Lucy

Preston measured the weather and wrote slowly in the log. He also gauged the wind beginning to cause small tufts on the water. Gusts strong enough to have the pages flutter, gave him cause to retreat to the Ward Room where he completed his entry.

He took a moment to gently blow on the ink. 'Ironic' he thought, as he could hear the wind wrap through the rigging.

Preston turned a page back and read the morning's entry, "Currently ashore, Dorian Lasseter, William Flint, Christopher Tucker, Jenny Aashcombe, Alder Wenge, James Whiting, Robert James, Jean Doublet..." A gentle knock at the door drew his attention away from the tome.

"Sah, Cap'n Lasseter on approach."

"Oh?"

"Aye sah."

____________________________________

Navigation Log of the Lucy:

Direction: At anchor, bow facing E

Speed: At rest

Wind: Easterly gusts, two points off the bow

[Dorian Lasseter]

Saint Pierre

Martinique

Two bells of the First Dog Watch

The carriage ride to the wharf was mostly quiet, Captain Lasseter taking time to read the Admiralty Judges fine script and making sure what was written was indeed what Monsieur Richet had told him. Further more, it was shown to Lieutenant Martin, who acknowledged it without question. Upon reaching the wharf, the cutter they came to and from the Lucy was waiting, along with the Lucy’s boat. Dorian thought about those men and the woman of the Lucy whom were in the town now fitting themselves out for a dinner this evening that was not to be. He thought to send word but to where? They would have to be met at the Admiralty house and told of the change later. The Lieutenant, Master Flint and Captain Lasseter boarded the cutter and were soon sailing in a stiff breeze out to the Lucy. One of the boats crew about lost his hat as it gusted unexpectedly. Dorian turned to the others.

“Looks ta be a fine, wet evenin’ ta be huntin’ men…”

Bill gave a gruff laugh and Lieutenant Martin bowed his head in acceptance. With the briskness of the wind they made it to the side of the Lucy quickly. No sooner had the small cutter bumped alongside the ship, the Captain had leapt to the ladder and was on deck, Master Flint on his heals.

“Flint, assemble th’ Marines, cutlass, pistol, and musket. I shall return in a moment.”

“Aye Sah! Marines to me!”

Dorian dove into the wardroom, off came his hat and coat, followed by the baldric carrying his Mortuary sword. He hung it on a peg and stepped to his other weapons. He took up his heavy cutlass, unsheathed it and eyed the blade, tested the balance. He was about to sheath it when he paused. Laying the blade on his sea chest he took up the French officers’ cutlass given him by Master Whitingford. It had no scabbard, but was just about the same dimensions as his heavy cutlass. He tried it in the scabbard and it did fit, not perfectly, but it would do. Over his head went the baldric and he grabbed up his coat and hat, just then noticing the Ships’ Master sitting at the table, watching his Captain. Dorian stopped and nodded.

“Preston… Change o’ plan… we hunt fer den Oven now… Our marines paired wi’ those o’ Lieutenant Martin. Arm th’ rest o’ th’ crew – Oh damn me, come along on deck.”

Larboard Watch on Duty

[Pew]

Aboard the Lucy

An evil grin grew fiendishly at the corners of the Ship's Masters smile.

"But o' course Captain."

[Dorian Lasseter]

The Captain shoved his hat on his head and shrugged into his coat as he exited the Wardroom. As he made his way to the waist, Lieutenant Martin was addressing his marines, now lining the starboard rail. Dorian didn’t catch every word, but the Lieutenant told his men they were to give full cooperation in regards to joining the Lucy’s marines in their search. He even went so far as to hand over full command to Captain Lasseter. Opposite side of the deck were those marines of the Lucy, now armed as commanded, Bill Flint standing at attention facing the ranks. Dorian walked past the ranks of marines, the Lucy’s to Starboard, Saint Pierre’s to the larboard. Stopping in the bow he turned to address the company. Master Whitingford had accompanied him and now stood to his right. Captain Lasseter went on to describe who they were after, his appearance and mode of dress when last seen plus a description of the two men who freed him from the prison at Fort Royal. Lieutenant Martin translated all to his marines. Dorian put forth the mode they would search the town and countryside, squads of four marines – Two of the Lucy’s’ and two of Saint Pierre’s’. They would fan out at the far reaches and ‘beat back’ to the shoreline, meeting at the wharf by noon tomorrow. If den Oven and his conspirators were found, they were to be brought to the Admiralty House. Lieutenant Martin cocked his head and gave a look to Captain Lasseter as he translated the order. If there was trouble, an alarm was to be raised and help would come. Asking if all was understood, All responded in a positive manner.

“Very well, into th’ cutter and assemble on shore.”

The French marines dressed ranks and were headed over the side, The Lucy’s waited at attention under the scrutiny of Master Flint. Turning to Preston, he motioned him over to Bill.

“Mister Whittinferd, Flint… Once ashore I believe Flint n’ m’self will join Lieutenant Martin and his sergeant as we’ll search a section o’ the town, checkin’ in at th Admiralty house on th’ hour. We’ll send a runner from there ta th’ Lucy with whatever word we might have, Preston feel free ta do th’ same if anything comes yer way.”

Three Bells of the First Dog Watch

[Pew]

Aboard the Lucy

"Aye sah!" Preston stuck out his hand and surprised Dorian, but he quickly returned the gesture. Bill Flint did the same. "Mind y'selves now," the Ship's master added as the men made their way over the side. Preston watched as the longboat eased away from the Lucy.

The Lucy gently scended and pitched as the wind increased, causing the crests of large wavelets to break upon the once glassy harbor. Nosing herself into the wind the Lucy sat low in the water with a full resupply from the Ville du St. Louis. Even with her nearly fathom and a half of freeboard, the spray from several waves could be felt on deck.

The sky had become deep grey even in this early evening hour. Preston instinctively looked westward and could still see the bright yellow and orange hues from the sun gradually making their departure from the day. Earlier, the clouds above had once looked like the large sheep Preston's uncle had grazing just outside of Boston, but now they had turned to a heavy sheet covering the island. At once, Preston heard cannon fire just onshore. Several others heard the same and moved quickly to the rail. Seconds later the sky was lit with a bolt of lightening striking somewheres inland. He immediately looked to see the crew making their way ashore slowly, also watching the goings on above. Preston held his breath and let it out slowly.

____________________________________

Navigation Log of the Lucy:

Direction: At anchor, bow facing E

Speed: At rest

Wind: Strong Easterly gusts, 7-10 knots, dead ahead

[Dorian Lasseter]

Brenton Coles sat on ‘Morrigan’, the number three gun on the Lucy. He paid little mind to what was happening, more intent on picking splinters out of his calloused left hand with his shiny new sailors’ knife. He was not by nature a lazy man, but after being imprisoned at Fort Royal he felt he deserved some time to relax. He was assigned to the Starboard watch and was off duty, so it mattered not doubly so to him what he was doing. No commands had been given to the able crew, so he ignored the hustle and bustle of the marines, content to be a free man, able to earn some kind of wage onboard a fine ship. Though the weather was turning ugly and sending sea spray across the deck, he paid it little attention outwardly.

[Red Cat Jenny]

Miss Ashcombe paid for her modest purchases with the coin provided by Mr. Tucker. A simple chemise, skirt and stays in hues of crimson and rose, stockings and shoes which were better than the one pair she posessed and a finely made hat with matching ribbon and small plume. She had admired the hat but set it back on it's stand as it was too costly. Jenny did not want to appear frivolous with another's money no matter how generous. The manager happened in at that moment, a plump and jovial woman who after a brief conversation decided to alter the price a bit. The proprietor happier to add an additional sale to the day's take than not. As the clerk handed her the package, a distant rumble echoed along the rooftop. The weather promised to turn soon. Jenny smiled at the woman as she accepted neatly wrapped parcels and hastened back to the men waiting at the doorway of the little shop.

[William Brand]

By the late 17th century, maps of the period were discarding the phrase "Here there be monsters". Enlightened men were slowly discovering all the corners of the globe and shining the light of reason everywhere they went, or at least reason as they defined it. The dismissal of monsters is a futile thing, for they exist among us and ever have. The making of these monsters happens almost daily in back rooms and on battlefields. It is not an art. It is seldom beautiful. Some bloodthirsty creatures are born naturally to it. Some come to be monsters by another road.

For the sake of our story, and to understand one such monster, we must retrace the road that Tawny took.

The Making of Tawny: Part One.

In addition to being attractive, intelligent and of profound cleverness, Aingeal had always been a pragmatic woman. She understood early on that she had been born into a man's world. Her place, as a woman, was well established by the customs, traditions, bigotry, and backwards thinking of the day. She accepted this as well as any other woman might, but with a calculated coldness that would slowly turn the sweet wine of her youth to a subtle vinegar in her old age. Unlike some women of the day, she had been born into a modest portion of wealth, and a document affixed with all of the proper seals of government and church had provided her with a little bargaining room. She had been born the only daughter to a titled man of property, which allowed her access to education, reputation and even speculation. As her father had managed no other children by wife or mistress, she remained the sole heiress to his modest holdings and passed into her young womanhood well established in beauty and dowry.

Being clever as she was, she had managed to escape marrying young. Knowing her father's desire for a male heir, she had often poured honey in his ear, explaining to him regularly that he should wait to see her wed while attempting bed to bed to make himself a son. She often reminded him that as his fortunes grew, so should she be allowed to grow untouched, thereby securing a greater dowry over time and increasing her opportunity to marry while he dreamed on fathering a boy. By flattery and reason she escaped the bridal bed well into her later teens while her father escaped further and further into self delusion about his never to be son.

Then her father died.

Robert Parsons had never enjoyed the best of health, and one night while attempting once more to make a son, he slipped from bliss to heart failure and exited the world with only a daughter to count the coin he had left behind. His one thought in that moment of lust and death comingled was to discover that he finally understood how powerful an heir he had got for himself and that he should have secured his daughter better against the fortune she would soon lose hold of.

What Aingeal thought when she learned of her father's passage is too complicated to write down in so few words, but she was overheard to whisper a quiet thank you. Those servants of her household that overheard this phrase misunderstood it altogether and took it to be one of cold rebuke, as if Aingeal were grateful that he should be gone, but not so. Aingeal was in fact genuinely stricken, for her father alone, steeped in the traditions of patriarchal power as he was, had been a good man and mindful of her ambitions. With him gone, Aingeal was now alone against the debtors, suitors and crafty coin seekers that would soon come calling to her almost daily.

Over the next few weeks she was visited by every money lender, loan-seeking adventurer and country Casanova to be had for a hundred miles in every direction. Every one of them came with the fixed notion that she should accept their offers at face value, she being a woman, and that she should be gushing and grateful of them. Each fool who crossed her threshold came armed with the self assurance of a man in a man's world who had come a courting to the weaker sex. And never were more men sent again from a place at a jog, their egos bruised, confused and dashed upon the cobbles. Never were more men verbally dismissed with a look of consternation and confusion so firmly fixed upon their hairy faces. They came with easy expectation and fled red-faced in humiliation. After a time, the bell upon her door grew silent, and it seemed that Aingeal had indeed secured her place in the world.

Then Cormac Tenille arrived in her life.

He entered her sphere of existence with little or no ceremony. She was one day traveling by the seaside when a loutish fellow verbally accosted her in public, and unfortunately for that man, Cormac Tenille was near at hand and he lent himself as her rescuer. So brave and adamant was he, that despite Aingeal's defiant disregard for all things male, she instantly warmed to him.

Cormac, unlike most of the men she had met in recent days, was a poor man. As the modest owner of several small fishing boats he was not without some money, but by contrast to the other suitors and herself, he was a pauper. Though a simple man, he kept in his employ some two dozen men. He was a plain and honest man, devoted to God and King. His appetites, ideas and ambitions were equally plain and honest and it was to this modest man above all others that Aingeal found herself drawn.

Now apart from being her one time protector, Cormac made no true effort to seek after Aingeal, for as he saw it, she was above him in station. She was of a different class. She was like some otherworldly creature. He was therefore surprised when he found himself in her presence for a second and then a third time. This surprise turned to flattery when he realized that she was making up reasons to be seaside. He was further flattered to find her in attendance at the modest church where he worshipped. Whereas before she had never been apart of his life, she now seemed to find excuses to be in places that no woman of her position should be and he knew, that more than his imagination and beyond his previous expectations, she truly liked him.

They courted and were married.

Aingeal was of a mind that things would remain exactly as they had been. She had fallen in love with a selfless, modest and caring man. He was kind and simple and she liked his genuine personality. He demanded nothing. His cares were pragmatic. He was a creature of land and sea and laughed easily. Everything about him was comfortable and reassuring. Now that they were married, and given her very comfortable fortune, all seemed well.

Unfortunately it is often the case that people in love fail to see the outcome of their affections in relation to the world around them. Aingeal had married Cormac, the simple man. What she had failed to remember, despite years of experience and her previous care and caution, was that Cormac, simple or not, was a man. By the definition of the day, this alone should have given her pause. Whatever else Cormac might have seemed to be to her, a man of the 1600s understands full well the rules of his place.

No sooner had Cormac and Aingeal married, then Cormac assumed the absolute title of husband. Aingeal did not notice this unspoken ascension as he did not seem to change all at once, but once he was bound to her under the eyes of God and the laws of England, he became the ruler of his house. Cormac had become her husband, and by doing so he fell as easily into the role of usurper as any other man might have, and she would soon understood the role of man and woman better than she had ever known it before.

In the late 17th century, Man was absolute. Man was the sole proprietor of all that lived and breathed upon the Earth. So fixed was the idea that Man was the head of all government, religion and family, that even the few women of power who left their mark upon the world found themselves eclipsed by Man. Man was everywhere. Man made history, dominated history, and recorded history. A man would no sooner willingly let a woman be at the forefront of any noble endeavor than he would castrate himself. Matriarchal power might appear in novelettes, poetry and plays of the day, but it had no real presence in a man's world.

As for Cormac, whatever he had felt regarding her station before was gone. She might have been above him and unattainable before they had married, but once they had wed, she was to debase herself before him and honor him above all else. His position as a man was absolute, not because he was cruel or devious, but because his place as a husband was a written truth upon the minds of all men of that day. It was his place. As husband, bread winner, and protector, he was the sovereign of his own house. He accepted this role at once.

The first few weeks were as they had been, apart from some subtle differences. After a rewarding and generous honeymoon, the lovers had returned to their new home near the sea. Cormac had already taken control of her finances, which Aingeal allowed willingly, finding no threat in his desire to purchase a new house for them both. She was delighted to be near the sea. She even enjoyed the more domestic routine of her new life, spending much of it in creating a new home for them both. As the weeks past, she noted how he was ever encouraging her to remain at home. He would flatter her with subtle praise on all things domestic. He would encourage her to pursue only the trivial ambitions of the country wife, and at first she was obliged to do so, for it was new to her in many ways she enjoyed the novelty of it. She didn't even mind that he spoke to her from time to time in a way more commanding than equal. She reassured herself that it was good and proper that he should feel respected, for she imagined him feeling the same way about her. After all, while Cormac toiled all day at the docks and at sea, she toiled alongside him in marriage at home and in the gardens. She convinced herself therefore, that as they shared an equal roof, equal comforts, equal food and equal halves of the same bed, that somehow they would remain equal in all things temporal and philosophical.

Not so.

They were some three weeks into their marriage when Cormac altered the equality of their life forever. Their bed, which had been equally shared and enjoyed, suddenly became an alter for something else. Aingeal had been toiling particularly hard to make their home agreeable and beautiful for them and others, and as Cormac had decreased the number of servants in her life, it had been a long day. She had come to bed weary with a need for sleep , but Cormac expressed a need more absolute. She denied him, promising some other occasion, and as they had always been of a similar mind in regard to all things passionate, she thought this quiet refusal would be enough. Cormac did not see it that way, but as the intimacy was not altogether disagreeable, she allowed it, or more to the point, she imagined that she allowed it.

Life went on this way. Sometimes sweet. Oft times laced with sinister ironies and the despair of realized social definitions. Aingeal tried to ignore the casual alterations to her once perfect power. She tried to accept the terms of her new place in the world. Cormac was not unkind in most ways, but Aingeal would not allow herself to be altered. The freedoms enjoyed under the auspicious but generous care of her father had spoiled her perceptions, despite social definitions. Her perceptions were further soured when she was reminded of another absolute truth she should have remembered from her father.

Men want sons...

[Pew]

Aboard the Lucy

"Brenton, mind the lanterns, set them alight," called Cutthroat over the steadily rising wind. Brenton huffed and sheathed his knife as he collected the lights. While not on watch, Cutthroat noticed the man paying no mind to anything else aboard. Several of the crew had rigged the canvas tarp over the waist, yet he had not raised a finger. Cutthroat despised laziness regardless of your duty's call.

Charlie Goddon had noticed the exchange and jumped in to help Coles. He was determined to keep his nose clean as well as his mates from the Bullrush since his altercation formerly in front of Mister Pew. John Kingsman had just finished securing the larboard cannon with an additional lash as Charlie called to him.

"Johnny, give 's hand eh?" asked Goddon of his shipmate. Kingsman finished strapping the Revanche to the gun'le but missed the double hitch Cutthroat had shown him. Nicholas Johnson saw that and caught him.

"Mind that knot boy 'r it's er arse." Cutthroat scowled, crossed his arms and waited until John tied the knot correctly. Johnny completed his task and helped Brenton and Charlie light the lanterns and set them aboard.